THE SOUTH 



IN SUMMER. 



TRIP in summer due south for 

 a thousand miles, making no 

 pause until the blue waters of 

 the Mexican Gulf mirrored 

 back upon my vision the blue 

 of the southern skies, passed 

 the comprehension of my 

 friends. The secret of the 

 journey lay in my long repressed desire to visit the 

 south in siiuuner, when it might be seen, so to speak, 

 under normal conditions. The northern visitor to 

 the south in mid-winter does not see it under normal 

 conditions. He has, to some extent, the feeling of 

 going into an artificially prepared climate, like that 

 induced by entering a florist's shop on a winter 

 day. There, " the warm, sweet smell of the 

 jasmine flower," the closely confined air of the 

 house, artificially heated and heavily laden with the 

 volatile odorous principle of the flowers, is not in 

 the least illusory, does not for a moment tempt one 

 to believe that he has stepped into a summer land. 

 So Florida in winter (I name Florida only as a 

 synonym for all the south which is included in the 

 region of "winter resort") produces no illusion. 

 Through the medium of the Pullman car we step 

 from December's snow and storm into the land of 

 flowers and palm trees with scarcely more ado than 

 from the city street into the florist's shop. We 

 know well that winter is outside, waiting for us 

 again with his grim clutches. To-morrow the calen- 

 dar will say that spring has come and we shall go 

 back to the north where winter still lingers in the 

 maiden's lap, blowing his shrill breath to chill our 

 unaccustomed blood. 



To go south in summer is a different thing. Now 

 these effects of heat, of glaring sunlight, of hot 

 shimmering waves of air in place of winds or 

 breezes, are all legitimate. They belong here to 

 the place and the time, and to the place for all 

 time ; we will see them at their best. 



A journey due south for a thousand miles, from 

 the fortieth parallel of latitude, through the eastern 

 central portion of the United States, brings few 

 startling changes of landscape. A few hills — no 

 mountains unless one travels as far east as the 

 Carolinas — long stretches of undulating levels, the 

 same flowers by the roadside, the same trees in the 

 woods, the same crops in the fields. Thus it is for 

 the first day. When the Ohio river is crossed, per- 



haps the aspect of the landscape becomes less trig 

 and trim. There are not so many thrifty villages, 

 and farm fences, and buildings have a less intimate 

 acquaintance with paint and whitewash. The farms 

 are larger though, the buildings more extensive, 

 and there seem evidences of a larger, freer and 

 more generous existence. 



Tobacco fields are so frequent that they impress 

 one as a "feature," and hemp to some extent takes 

 the place of corn. There are, too, wider stretches 

 of meadow and pasture. It is the sign of the blue- 

 grass country. Farther along, black faces begin to 

 be more frequent than white, and mules are seen in 

 place of horses, and there are more saddles than 

 wheeled vehicles. A few new forms of vegetation 

 appear : magnolia trees, mainly in the yards and 

 in village streets, cypress vines with their starry 

 flowers clamber over fences, almost hiding them in 

 a green, feathery mantle : and as far as the eye 

 can reach the line of the railway track is yellow with 

 sneeze-weed. This, a fellow-traveler assures me, 

 was one of the gifts brought to the south by the 

 federal army. When I saw how it usurped every 

 vacant place — the wayside and village green, and 

 fields that were " layin' out," I bethought me how 

 "one woe doth tread upon another's heel, so fast 

 they follow." Weeds in the wake of war ! another 

 chapter in the story of " how weeds travel ! " The 

 evil is hardly less than that of the invading army. 

 We are in Alabama, the land of rest ! Now it is 

 king cotton instead of king corn that covers all the 

 fields. ' ' Not so very different from a jimpson weed, " 

 says one. 



Next come the pine forests, and as we enter their 

 domain we leave behind us the last of the beeches 

 that we shall probably see until we turn northward 

 again. Thus, one by one, trees and vegetable forms 

 with which we are familiar disappear, and strange 

 growths take their place. It is a long way through 

 the pines, but the pine forest never tires, though it 

 is always the same. Through its sombre isles the 

 wind whispers — but not of sombre things. It tells of 

 health and healing, and bears hope upon its wings. 

 This is the region of the long-leaved pine, and, as 

 the train stops, we step out and gather a handful of 

 the long needles or leaves and measure them. One 

 is eight, another nine, ten, thirteen inches long. 

 No wonder they are beginning to utilize this splen- 

 did fibre, weaving it into matting and carpets. But 



