688 
FOREST AND STREAM 
December, 1918 
* 
H AVE you ever seen tfee great lantern of a new day swung 
from the horizon line of the Florida East Coast, as Old 
Ocean, brilliant green and flushed with amber, rolls ma¬ 
jestically through pearl-like keys and fuses with the quiet waters 
-of Biscayne? 
Have you stooped, in a small boat, and laved your face in 
•these sparkling waters, and sniffed the salt goodness of them 
into your nostrils, and ruffled your hair in them, until you 
panted for breath? Have you stood erect, a new man, in a 
•wonderful world all your own, and offered a sort of silent 
Sportsman’s Prayer to the god of Ponce de Leon’s realm; 
where Nature, in a strange mood, spilled out 'a cornucopia 
of fish, until the sun-lit tide throbbed with them and their multi¬ 
colors tinted the very floor of the transparent Bay? 
It is a land of sweet forgetfulness, indeed. Northward, the 
snow is flying. You have stopped off at the Larkins dock to get 
a New York paper, perhaps, and you glance at the weather man’s 
daily message. Snow is falling there, in the canyons of the busy 
city... .there is promise of a blizzard. The suggestion is dropped 
that there is a scarcity of coal. For a brief moment, you shiver, 
and then, drawing a deep breath, turn to Garysfort Reef, prim, 
and as clean as a bathed baby, silhouetted against the gorgeous 
sky. The gulls and the restless, hungry cormorants are flashing 
before your vision. A stray cluster of pipers, chattering away 
for dear life, go like marine minstrels to the golden seclusion of 
Black Water Bay. And the sea murmurs and the palms ashore rub 
their serrated arms together, and—and someone aft is frying fish 1 
It’s bass, and it whets your appetite keen, for Hendry, the best 
guide to be found in all the ’Glades, knows how to cook fish. 
It is on a morning such as this that we find our Adventurers. 
The boat had rocked them through a tranquil night, cradle-fash¬ 
ion, and when Dawn came, they were up and ready for another 
day of progress. While Mr. King wanted to see John Jr. enjoy 
the unparalleled fishing, there could be no prolonged loitering. 
His was a mission of Duty, rather than Sport. His maps and 
charts and leather-bound diary and the spraddle-legged survey¬ 
ing instrument in the cabin, all gave constant reminder of the 
John W. King, Civil Engineer, Explorer and Everglades 
Expert, accompanied by his son and a Native Guide, Argyle 
Hendry, Undertake a Hazardous Trip up the West Coast 
of Florida and Into the Unknown Chokoloskee and Big 
Cypress Region. They Chart Strange Areas and, quite 
Unexpectedly, Discover the Lair of the Egret Pirate. 
