ADVENTURES IN 
COMRADESHIP 
(Continued from page 7) 
see little of him... for a long, long 
_while. And it was then I knew how 
much I loved him and how precious 
were the fleeting hours of his real 
Boyhood. 
Tomorrow—tomorrow, he would be 
a MAN! 
My “little son” had gone! And I 
had deliberately wasted my golden op- 
portunity. No power under heaven 
or earth could bring back the lad of 
sixteen again ... the companionable, 
receptive, idol-worshipping lad of six- 
teen. Henceforth, I was to be summed 
up at my true face value. No deceit, 
no subterfuge, no deception, would be 
possible. It was to be Man to Man! 
Only mother would remain to smile 
tolerantly at my self-deceit, and allow 
me to live in the fool glamour of my 
own estimate of my _ own  self- 
importance. 
* # k x 
Sonnyboy had heard echoes of my 
trips into the Everglades, and it was 
his great ambition to see this vast, mys- 
terious area now fading from its once 
majestic estate, because of the inex- 
orable work of the drainage canals. 
And you find us... on this crisp, 
sunny morning, en route to the last 
dredge at the terminus of work, on 
the famed Tamiami Canal. Miles out 
from the city proper, at its beginning, 
having motored (in a domesticated, 
rented Ford car) through lanes of 

TT 
SNAKES THERE WERE 
WITH THE TENDENCY IN THE DIREC- 
IN PLENTY— 
TION OF COTTON-MOUTH WATER MOC- 
CASINS, AND, UNDER THE SAWGRASS— 
HEAP MUCH PLENTY RATTLERS 
Page 35 



SONNYBOY AS “CAPTAIN” OF A MIAMI SAILBOAT AND READY FOR ADVENTURE 
IN PIRATICAL WATERS 
pine and palm, and across barren 
stretches of open country, we stop the 
machine for a moment and allow 
Sonnyboy to take his first real look at 
“The Everglades of Florida!” 
Disappointment is written upon his 
face. He has expected so much more 
... as you who take the same view, 
for the first, will surely experience. 
Interminable flat, marshy ground, 
reaching to the horizon, to left and 
right . . . in the center, two strangely 
incongruous ribbons, also extending to 
a pin-point, in perspective—one an 
immaculate, white roadway of up- 
thrown liquid limestone, now hardened 
from exposure, its ten foot drop to the 
floor of the Everglades and to the 
canal, on the opposite sides, jagged, 
boulder-like, as if vomited from some 
mighty voleano ... the other ribbon, 
a ribbon of dark green water, tinged 
with sullen brown, never wider, at any 
point, than twenty-five feet, save 
where rains have caused a seeping out, 
at low places, to the Westward, back 
into the wilderness which gave it 
birth. 
Sonnyboy comments on the accuracy 
of those two ribbons .. . their mathe- 
matical straight lines, until they are 
wholly lost in the early morning haze. 
“Headed for the other Coast and the 
Gulf,” I explain, “and the surveyors 
and engineers want to make it by the 
shortest possible route, naturally. 
Think what it will mean to the State 
of Florida, Son! Heretofore, in order 
to travel from Miami to Tampa or St. 
Petersburg or Fort Myers, it has been 
recessary to back-trail up the coast 
and across, by railroad or poor roads 
or through a tortuous Lake Okeecho- 
bee make-shift. When the Tamiami 
Trail canal is finished, it will mean a 
wonderful route across the southern- 
most portion of the state, from one 
coast to the other. And then we shall 
rediscover White Water Bay and the 
Ten Thousand Islands district and 
Caxambas, and catch our finest tarpon 
up the Chokoloskee—not that these 
things are not being done now by the 
more adventuresome, who start from 
the Gulf side, but a new accessibility 
will be realized.” 
“But it’s all dried up out there 
now,” observes Sonnyboy, shading his 
eyes from the brilliant, burning sun. 
“Not so farther out and inland,” I 
reply, “the Tamiami was started years 
ago. We are where the first dredge 
dug up its first dipper-full of muck 
and marl and limestone. The under- 
_taking is one of the most formidable 
ever attempted in the annals of engi- 
neering—but people haven’t realized it 
as yet. It has been too close to them 
—too quietly and unobtrusively accom- 
plished. When the canal was first 
started, all of the land out yonder was 
under from three to six feet of water 
—and fresh water, too, clear and 
sparkling. Gradually it seeped into 
the wide trench awaiting it, and, bit 
by bit, mile by mile, the area was re- 
claimed. We bagged a wild-cat last 
week on a hammock across there, 
which was once entirely surrounded by 
water—luxuriant with tropic verdure 
—a little oasis, untraversed. Now, as 
you know, a good lady runs a violet 
farm under the cool shadows of the 
cypress and myrtles.” 
