486 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Jan. 9, 1890. 



A FLORIDA RETROSPECT. 



TUST seventeen years have gone to rest since I intro- 

 tf duced myself to the land of flowers, oranges, alli- 

 gators, Ponce de Leon and the Fountain of Youth. True, I 

 had often read of these things in a very disinterested way, 

 but never dreamed that I should ever set foot in the 

 "Italy of America," until my curiosity was aroused by 

 reading the letters of a medical gentleman, whose '-sands 

 of life were fast running out," and who had made a 

 pedestrian trip from Ohio to that land in order that, by 

 the way or at the thither terminus, he might find sand 

 enough to replace that which had slipped away from him. 

 He found it in plenty. His experiences and observations 

 were given to the public through the columns of the Cin- 

 cinnati Commercial. They fired my soul. I wanted to 

 go and surfeit my visual orbs with banana plantations, 

 whose myriads of satiny fronds, "like an army with ban- 

 ners," responded to the caresses of the balmy zephyrs, 

 and wafted delightful odors upon every breeze. I would 

 gaze entranced on the laden orange groves, trees of which 

 had been known to bear, according to our M. D., " ten 

 thousand oranges apiece. But say five thousand. This 

 at a cent apiece, and they are now selling at two cents on 

 the tree, and seventy-five trees to the acre, makes a grand 

 total of three thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars 

 per acre ! There is a gold mine in an orange grove." I 

 did not know any better and thought that ten acres at 

 the utmost would fill all my needs. Then there were 

 bananas and pineapples, besides deer, alligators and 

 other game, and fish galore. Result, I went, I saw 

 (though not all I had been told of) and was captured, like 

 thousands of others. 



It was not ages ago by any means, though we have had 

 electric lighting, cable roads, phonographs, telephones 

 and such things since, but the railways were anything 

 but satisfactorily efficient south of the Ohio River. "We 

 were behind time long before we reached Nashville, and 

 continued getting more so as we dove into the bowels of 

 the Old Confederacy, until what with hot boxes, break 

 downs, belated freights, burned bridges and missed con- 

 nections, we were a generation or so behind when we 

 jolted into Savannah, in those days, and for years after- 

 ward, passengers were not whirled at the rate of forty 

 miles an hour by the Way cross route from Savannah to 

 Jacksonville, but were taken away out toward Texas 

 until far enough into the turpentine solitudes to flank the 

 Okefinokee Swamp. Then they jibed and bore away 

 toward Jacksonville at twelve miles an hour and were 

 shaken up until they lost their identity. At Jacksonville 

 railways ended for southbound travelers, who took the 

 anything but palatial steamer to destination on the 

 coffee-colored St. Johns, broad and magnificent to Pa- 

 latka and crookedisnonameforit the rest of the way. At 

 Jacksonville I fell in with two or three others bound for 

 the Promised Land, and finding that our chronic lateness 

 had caused us to miss the only decent boat on the river, 

 which ran but three times a week, rather than delay we 

 went aboard the Lolly Boy, a gorgeous floating palace 

 about twenty paces long and nearly as wide, and began 

 to plow the waters of the noble river at the dizzyiug 

 rate of three miles an hour'. One of my companions was 

 from Virginia, and had much to say of a "Majah Mawks," 

 Avho had, as a land agent, secured certain lands for him. 

 It was not until some months afterward that I recognized 

 in the land agent Major Marks, with whom I became 

 well acquainted. He had the reputation of being as keen 

 as a brier; and of course he couldn't have been buncoed 

 in New York city a few months since, as some one was 

 reported by the papers who hailed from his county, bear- 

 ing his name and identical initials. Perish the thought ! 



When at last we reached Mellonville, a little village on 

 Lake Monroe, I at once sought out Col. B. F. Whitner, 

 who lived at a little settlement called Fort Reed, three 

 miles inland, and whom I had written for information 

 before starting. He was a true type of a cultured, Chris^ 

 tian Southern gentleman, formerly a planter and sur- 

 veyor of note in Madison county, and like the hospitable 

 nobleman he was, took me, a stranger, into his home 

 while I was there, and with his lovely wife— now, I am 

 sad to say, an invalid — treated me like a son. He has 

 crossed to the other shore, but so long as memory serves 

 us will we keep his memory green. His beautiful place 

 was located on the shores of Silver Lake, along the im- 

 mediate edge of which a fringe of hundreds of bananas 

 was growing, and as I stood in the path leading from the 

 house to the boat landing, on the evening, as it happened, 

 of the full moon, with the orange grove around me and 

 the lake gleaming between the majestic banana leaves, 

 while the southern moon shed her effulgence through the 

 balmy air on that January night, I needed not to apolo- 

 gize for brimming with enthusiasm. After looking 

 around briefly J purchased a poverty-stricken bit of sand 

 on Golden Like near by, < n which Cul. Whitner killed a 

 six-toot rattler while surveying it; and in just a year 

 from that time, with my household gods and goddesses, 

 in which latter were comprised my wife and baby daugh- 

 ter, I totk possession of my "Araby the Blest," and began 

 the dire conflict with paimetlo and scrub oak roots, and 

 the entomological creation of that section of our glorious 

 republic. I chose the spot because it was adjacent to 

 school, church, stores and excellent neighbors, and not 

 with any reference to its adaptability to orange culture. 

 At least, that conviction, though perhaps but dimly recog- 

 nized then, was afterward, continues to be, and will con- 

 tinue to be to my last breath, stamped on my conscious- 

 ness in fast colors. I don't mean to intimate that the 

 average of Florida land was like my "gold mine." Some 

 was worse, if possible, and much was infinitely better*. 

 Pine woods land or sand, "high pine land," was of dif- 

 ferent degrees of fertility or barrenness as you please, and 

 what was called the best, might be for horticulture or 

 agriculture, infinitely better and then be none too good. 

 It had to be fertilized once every year and yearned for it 

 all the time. What I mean is that the average pine land 

 upon wbioh so many millions of orange trees have been 

 planted would not make an orange grove unless the roots 

 were given something to feed upon. The soil or sand 

 gave them nothing worth mentioning except a bed for 

 their roots. Then there was the "flat woods" land, 

 deemed too utterly worthlessfor any use, and "high" and 

 "low hamak," the former the choicest land in the State 

 for orange culture, and the latter rich, but too low and 

 wet for cultivation, but excellent in which to hunt tur- 



keys and fight mosquitoes. However, I found that I was 

 not the only one who had come a long distance to pur- 

 chase a sand bank. 



There were black bass, called trout here, in the lake in 

 front of my door, and in the reaches of forest and dwarf 

 palmetto around, there were coveys of quail, from which 

 I drew rations occasionally, also plenty of rabbits: in fact 

 they were much too numerous. They watched me 

 through the fence as I planted sweet potatoes, and after- 

 ward raised potatoes faster than I could. I had an 

 idiotic idea that I could frighten them away by stretch- 

 ing a line lengthwise the rows, about 2ft. high, and from 

 this at intervals suspending two or three empty cans to- 

 gether, here and there, and from this line running a line 

 to my bedroom window. Then, whenever the baby 

 waked in the night, which about that time was of tener 

 than seldom, I'd jerk the lanyard and the artillery would 

 jingle-jangle all down the line. The first night' or two 

 it worked nicely and was effective, and then the cotton- 

 tails, on better acquaintance, would sit up during the 

 performance of the orchestra, as the neighbors called it, 

 and enjoy it with great gusto, after which they indulged 

 in refreshments again. 1 bought my potatoes that sea- 

 son, for I could hardly afford to sit up o' nights to watch 

 my potato rows, but I made the bunnies suffer, and with 

 their aid and that of the quail and bass, reinforced the 

 larder beautifully. 



The St. Johns was only a few miles away on one side, 

 and Lake Jesup, a body of water twelve or fifteen miles 

 by four in extent, the same distance on the other. To 

 either water we made frequent excursions, and were 

 always sure of fish or game, for in the bordering hamaks 

 or prairies were turkeys, gray squirrels, deer, and an oc- 

 casional bear or wildcat. Picket Point, a spot in the 

 St. Johns near its junction with the lower end of the 

 lake, so called from pickets being stationed there in the 

 Seminole war, was a favorite picnic ground, having large 

 clusters of palmetto trees for shade, and here frequently 

 a number of families would come for a pleasant day, A 

 folding boat was usually taken along, and in an hour's 

 trolling the bottom could generally be covered with fine 

 bass, which afforded the desired "fish dinner." Alliga- 

 tors were very numerous there in Jesup and were hunted 

 for their hides, which netted the slayer a dollar or more 

 each; and speaking of 'gators reminds me that once while 

 trolling for bass my hooks, that happened to be very 

 strong, caught in a 'gator that happened to be swimming 

 across the river just below the surface, when the hook 

 came along, and before it broke away there was the live- 

 liest kind of a circus. 



It was a common thing to see large schools of bass 

 breaking water and leaping here and there, and fre- 

 quently the boat would pass directly through one of these 

 schools, the oars striking among fish on either side. On 

 one trip I hooked a large gar, a trifle over 5ft. long, and 

 when I succeeded in getting him on a bar I was forced 

 to beat his life out with a piece of drift wood before I 

 could release the hook. 



These occasional days off served to break the monotony 

 of digging around orange trees, grubbing out oak and 

 palmetto roots, or reclaiming bits of swamp, besides help- 

 ing out the table wonderfully, for the beef of those days 

 was not calculated to tickle one's ribs, but to weary his 

 patience and jaws, and had almost as much flavor as a 

 dish of fried scrap iron. Cow's milk was nearly as scarce 

 as goat's milk, and there wasn't a goat in the country. 

 If a pint could be got from the average Florida cow, 

 after the measly calf had a pull, it was cause for a day of 

 thanksgiving. Very frequently the cow produced the 

 calf in the swamps and had little or nothing to let down 

 to it. Then the buzzards did the scavenger act. Or if 

 the lacteal supply was forthcoming, the calf was too weak 

 to get to it and the end was the same. By one who has 

 seen the herds of cattle on the prairies, or in the swamps 

 searching for nourishing food and running almost like 

 deer from the presence of man, the condition of Florida, 

 beef will be readily ruiderstood. The local butcher, who 

 slaughtered the bovine shadows, came around twice a 

 week, usually, in his little old greasy wagon and blew 

 his conch shell at the gate, and we took what we could 

 get, meekly, and ruminated until next the conch sounded. 

 Two or three times, I think, we tasted fresh milk during 

 our stay at our first home. That was sufficient. The 

 foreign element in the bottles instigated rebellion in the 

 inner man. During our eight or nine years of Florida 

 life, two gallons, possibly three, would cover all the fresh 

 milk we used, anri much of that was the gift of a kind 

 neighbor at Twin Lakes. But we spent a small fortune 

 on the condensed article, as I suppose Floridians do per- 

 force to-day. The great bulk of vegetables was bought 

 in cans in those days and we had no ice. There was no 

 railway south of Jacksonville and Cedar Keys, and sup- 

 plies of all kinds were considerably dearer than at the 

 North. Now a network of railways, quicker time, more 

 demand and better supply, ice, refrigerator cars and 

 "Chicago dressed," longer experience and better adapta- 

 tion to the needs of that latitude make life much better 

 worth the living. But notwithstanding the utmost that 

 can be said in favor of Florida, her admirable winter 

 climate and attractions for tourists and certain classes of 

 invalids, it was and is my opinion that the influence of 

 her climate on permanent residents is debilitating and 

 enervating. Some of my friends there vigorously combat 

 this idea, I'll admit, and I'm content not to argue the 

 question. Perhaps the thousands of Northern settlers 

 and tourists have unconsciously carried the breath of 

 winter and ozone of the mountains in sufficient quantities 

 to change the conditions during recent years. 



It was during my residence at Fort Reed that I had my 

 first experience in deer hunting at night. A friend in- 

 vited me to go with him to the ranch of a friend down 

 on the Wekiva River, some eight or ten miles distant, 

 and I gladly accepted, for I had never witnessed this pe- 

 culiar method of sport, though I had read and heard 

 mueh about it. From the tales told of the number of 

 deer in the country, I anticipated having something to 

 show for trouble when we returned, but although we 

 wandered through the darkness with our little spot of 

 light, stumbled over logs and palmetto roots, stopping 

 now and then to replenish the bag of lightwood knots or 

 moisten our throats from a pool or spring, we bagged not 

 a deer — only one poor little grinning possum. For three 

 nights we roamed the woods, shining a pair of eyes at 

 long intervals, but getting only a shot or two at long 

 range at deer that had evidently been there before. My 

 enthusiasm oozed a way little by little, until I was bank- 

 rupt, and we returned home. 



For nearly two years I wrestled with leathery beef, the 

 grubbing hoe and the general situation, only to see my 

 little orange grove, which I had set in the sand and 

 watered with tears, wasting away and covering itself 

 with scale insect before my distorted vision, when there 

 came a man who was, as I had been, pleased with the adja- 

 centness of things, and who wanted the place worse than 

 I did, far worser; so amid a shower of blinding tears I 

 gave him possession of my love and purchased a better 

 piece of sand at Twin Lakes, four miles back of Sanford. 



It was here that I renewed my experience in fire-hunt- 

 ing under more favorable circumstances. I found that 

 the deer came from the swamps at night in the fall to 

 feed on the black jack acorns fallen from the trees scat- 

 tered about in the pine woods. Not fancying the fire pan 

 and lightwood business, I sent to New York city and 

 purchased a lamp with miniature headlight that would 

 shine a deer's eyes at a hundred yards; and rigged a con- 

 trivance to wear it on my shoulder. I well remember 

 the first time I used it, on a bright starlight night in Sep- 

 tember, when I left the house at about 8 o'clock, ad- 

 justed my lamp, took my Parker and a half dozen buck- 

 shot shells, passed through the grove, climbed the fence 

 and entered the pine woods. I drew up the gun two or 

 three times, changing the angle of the light so that it 

 would show clearly what I aimed at, and began my 

 tramp. How quiet everything was. There was scarcely 

 air enough stirring to show me when I was going up 

 wind, but I had noticed during the day the direction of 

 the wind, and so was enabled, with the aid of the North 

 Star, to shape my course. As I turned my shoulders 

 from side to side, so as to cover as much space as possi- 

 ble with the light, the shadows darted right and left, and 

 tree trunks flashed into view and disappeared again in a 

 very uncanny way. In a pond off to my left the frogs 

 were holding a very noisy concert, in which the tenors 

 had it all their own way. A rabbit scuttled off with a 

 faint rustle in the wire grass, a little bird flew up from 

 his grassy hiding place, and down in the swamp an owl 

 saluted the night with his Hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo-ahl My 

 ears and eyes were keenly alert as I picked my way as 

 carefully and noiselessly as possible, wondering if I was 

 to be so fortunate as to shine a pair of eyes that night. 



I came ere long to an undulating bit of ground, and 

 as I passed up a little slope and looked over, there, just 

 at the right shooting distance, was a pair of eyes sure 

 enough, but down near the ground. I stopped and stood 

 at a ready. For a second the eyes remained stationary. 

 Then they rose, were motionless a second and dropped 

 again, and I knew it was a deer feeding, I waited until 

 they rose again, and holding a little under them, so as to 

 strike the neck, pulled. What an awful roar broke the 

 silence and went rumbling away into the night, giving 

 place to silence greater by contrast than before; and 

 what a stream of fire shot into the darkness, and how 

 pitchy black it was again. I listened. Not a sound. 

 Slipped auother cartridge in. Stepped forward a few 

 paces, turning my light. No eyes; no movement. Moved 

 forward again a few paces, wdien something light-colored 

 attracted my attention lying on the ground, and a few 

 steps more found me looking down at a handsome doe, 

 that gasped pitifully once, and with glazing eye lay dead 

 without a struggle. As I stooped down, alone with my 

 first deer shot at night, with the silence of the forest 

 around me, and looked into those beautiful eyes, I con- 

 fess that for the moment I regretted having taken the 

 innocent life, but exultation at my success came with a 

 rush as I drew my knife and prepared the quarry for 

 carrying. In less than an hour from the time I left the 

 house I was back again, the deer strung up and I betook 

 myself to rest. That was the first of a goodly number of 

 deer shot at night within a short walk of my house. I 

 thought at first that prowling around through the woods 

 and palmetto thickets, or by the edge of bays with a fire 

 pan, alone, with an occasional stumble that threw the 

 coals among my back hair, in danger of stepping on a 

 rattler and not knowing which way to jump, with hoot 

 of owl and pipe of frog for company, as I strained my 

 eyes to catch the first gleam of eyes from out the dark- 

 ness, was very monotonous and tiresome business; but 

 with my lamp and pipe and various voices of the night 

 for company, I grew to love the sport exceedingly. 

 Sometimes a neighbor accompanied me. and when tin d 

 we built a fire if the night was chill, and sitting by it, 

 with pipes alight, enjoyed a pleasant chatty half hour. 



My orange and lemcn trees wpre growing apace under 

 the encouraging influence of cultivation and commercial 

 fertilizers, brought from New York at $40 a ton, notwith- 

 standing the disheartening influences of scale insect and 

 poor soil. I could see that they grew and that was a 

 gain on the other place. My guava bushes were bearing 

 and much enjoyment and jelly we got from them, if I 

 did have to roof them all over with palmetto beams 

 every winter, and have them frozen sometimes in spite 

 of it. Watermelons and sweet potatoes throve and com- 

 prised about everything I raised for the table. A few 

 banana plants waved (heir plumes in the breezes, but an 

 occasional frosty nigl t prevented much enjoyment of 

 fruit. I had a little garden plot inclosed by a light fence 

 to exclude rabbits, possums and chickens; and in the in- 

 closure I spent some of the most agonizing moments of 

 my life trying to persuade Lish potatoes, peas, beans and 

 such things to do as I had known them to do elsewhere; 

 but it came within an ace of being a pitiable failure. 

 Night after night after the blazing sun had left Florida 

 in a wilt, I "toted" water from the well to my sufferinsr 

 cabbages and hesitating tomatoes, and the insatiable sand 

 sucked it all in and sizzled for more. My sweet corn 

 grew about three feet high, with stalks as large, may be, 

 as a chicken's leg below the hock; and made a pitiful 

 attempt to put out ears, but gave up the useless attempt. 

 From a little collection of pineapple plants we enjoyed a 

 frequent treat, and by the way, no one has a faint idea 

 of the possibilities of a pine unless he has eaten it 

 thoroughly ripe from the plant. Picked when nearly- 

 ripe and hung up in the house, it fills the premises with 

 an aroma that sends the inhaler to the seventh heaven of 

 olfactory delight, and he goes one story higher when 

 the nectar reaches the palate. 



My gardening experiments were on what is called good 

 pine land. In the hamaks fine vegetables were, raised 

 without trouble, and orange groves throve, and their 

 thriftiness and beauty made a pine woodsman's mouth 

 water. But it was only here and there at wide intervals 

 that hamaks suitable for orange growing were to be 

 found, and then good health demanded that the owner 

 fcCpitf inued on Pace J#hJ] 



