155 
The 
W. LIVINGSTON LARNED 
WRITTEN FOR FOREST AND STREAM 
Your hunter of the frozen lands 
May scoff at Florida for sport; 
May want his mittens on his hands 
And game of quite another sort. 
But there is something in the way 
That Southern sunshine blesses you, 
That seems to glorify each day, 
Beneath the skies of opal-blue. 
Lagoons lie steaming in the sun, 
Strange rivers wind into the green; 
And where the salt-creek courses run, 
They wind about some magic scene. 
Old Ponce, brave braggart of the seas, 
Found youth eternal hereabout, 
And it’s a home for honey-bees, 
Who think their stock is running out. 
With dog and gun, fare forth, some morn, 
Into the tropic wilderness, 
See Dawn, in Eastern palm-trees born, 
And Nature, in her bridal dress. 
A bark * * * a sudden whirr of wings, 
A wild-cat, springing from its. lair, 
Yes * * * everything that snarls or sings 
Is hidden in the silence there. 
The sportsman drowses o’er his gun, 
The angler snoozes with his rod, 
And orange-blossoms greet th’ sun 
Or shower, wax-white, on the sod. 
A land of perfume and of dreams; 
A realm, enchanted * * * fairy-sweet, 
Where game comes jumpin’ out o’ streams, 
And falls in clusters at your feet! 
