
‘by Floridians Indian River. 







































































































Terms, Five Dollars a Year. t 
Ten Cents a Copy. ) 
NEW YORK, THURSDAY, NOV, 20, 1873, 
Volume I, Number 15. 
{ 103 Fulton Street. 

THE CANVAS-BACK DUCK. 

N sharp November, from afar, 
From Northern river, stream and lake 
The flocks of noble canvas-back, 
Their migratory journeys make. 
The frosty morning finds them spread 
Along the flats of Barnegat, 
Where grows the valisneria root, 
The duck-grass with its bulbous thread. 
But chief where Chesapeake receives 
From Susquehannah, brackish tides, 
By calm Potomac and the James, 
Feeding at will from morn till eve, 
Mid those aquatic pastures green, 
The ribbon’d grass and bulbous root 
Where slant the yellow sedges lean. 
By myriads there the wild fowl come 
To taste the rich, delicious fare, 
The red head and the canvas-back 
The widgeon with its plumage rare, 
The ruddy-duck, the buffer-head. 
The broad bill and Canadian goose, 
Loymg o’er placid shoal or cove 
Their winnowing pinions to nnloose. 
Through all the day, dispersed around 
They swim and circle oer the bay, 
And at the eve, in gather’d flocks 
To mouth of creeks they take their way, 
Where some a wakeful vigil keep, 
Others at anchor float asleep. 
And when the winter keen sets in, 
And frozen is the river’s face 
To its salt confluence with the bay 
The flocks seek out their feeding place. 
And where across the ice, a pool 
Of open water they discern, 
The hungry flocks t‘eir flight suspend 
And toward the friendly pasture turn; 
And tyere the lurking fowler waits, 
(Amid the ice-blocks hid from sight) 
With heavy gun and deadly aim, 
To thin the numbers that alight. 
—3- yi 
Wild Life in Slorida. 
A SEMI-TROPICAL PARADISE. 
NUMBER THREE. 
Isaac MoLELuan. 




N Florida, eighty miles due south of St. Augustine, lies 
I an immense lagoon of salt water, called by the old 
Spaniards Rio d’Ais, by the Indians Aisa Natcha, and 
Called by whatever name it 
may be.it is the most wonderful portion of that wonderful 
State. Wonderful for its bland and genial climate; won- 
derful for its birds, beasts, and fishes; wonderful, above 
all, for its people, who live in such a state of indolence as 
causes a Northerner to shudder. Situated mainly below 
the frost line, many tropical fruits reach perfection beneath 
its burning sun. The lime, lemon guava, banana, pine- 
apple, citron, and, of course, the orange, in perfection. 
The climate here is peculiarly adapted to the needs of the 
consumptive, and he can live here for years in apparent 
health after other climates have been tried in vain. 
People who have tried California, Minnesota, and the 
various resorts in the Old World, have pronounced Indian 
River in advance of themall. The difficulties attending a 
trip here, and the insufficient accommodations, have pre- 
vented its advantages—its natural advantages—from be- 
coming generally known. The steamer up the St. John’s, 
from Jacksonville to Salt Lake, a distance of two hundred 
and seventy-five miles, and a portage of six miles will bring 
the traveller to the banxs of Indian River, at Harvey’s, or 
Sand Point, where boats and guides may be hired down the 
river to Jupiter. one hundred and thirty miles further. The 
cost of transportation from New York to Sand Point will 
be about sixty dollars. The visitor had better camp, and 
bring with him such articles of need asa camper-out ap- 
preciates. An outfit may be purchased at Jacksonville 
at a trifling advance on New York prices. It was thus 
that I prepared to enjoy the pleasures of Indian River. 
The middle of March found me waiting at Harvey’s for a 
favorable wind down the river. | 
‘ . 

Though the sand that lined the many bays was white as 
snow, and the palms, with their columnar trunks and dark 
green fronds, made graceful pictures, I was tired of gazing 
upon the same ones day after day, and finally persuaded 
my boatman to visit the upper portion of the river before 
descending. A nor’west wind had driven the water upon 
the opposite shore two days before, and left his little boat 
high and dry, with fifty feet of sand flats intervening be- 
tween her and navigation. But the wind again hauled 
south’ard, deluging the western shore with returning waters 
and enabling us to get under way. As this wind was con- 
trary for a down river trip, we headed for a different quar- 
ter, purposing to visit the largest orange grove in Florida, 
so said to be, and the best. Ten miles sailing in a north- 
easterly direction brought us to the landing. Did you, 
reader, ever inhale the fragrance of a cluster of orange 
blossoms? You remember the exquisite penerating per- 
fume. Well, add to the cluster tens of thousaxds more— 
the efflorescence of two thousand trees. The subtle odor 
enveloped our boat ina cloud of incense, evoked by the 
sun and wafted to our senses by a gentle breeze. A mile 
away we were made aware of the existence of the grove, 
yet hidden from us by a circling belt of palms. Two thou- 
sand trees, in long straight rows, their glossy green tops 
flecked with immaculate blossoms, a carpet of emerald 
spangled with snowy stars. In the centre of the grove we 
found the residence of the proprietor, Captain Dummitt, a 
log cabin with palmetto-thatched roof. Think of a log 
cabin in the garden of Eden! But this is but one of the 
worthy Captain’s peculiarities. There is a mystery sur- 
rounding him which he never vouchsafes to break. Even 
in his cups—I should say buckets—never a word is uttered 
regarding his seclusion from the world. Known far and 
near as a hard drinker, he is ever the same well-bred gen- 
tleman, be he drunk or sober. 
He and Tom R. once started down the river to perform 
some work at the lower grove. Before setting out he gave 
Tom $20 to purchase provisions with. Aforesaid provi- 
sions are purchased according to his, and, may be, the Cap- 
tain’s fancy. Whiskey, $17 50; hard tack, “jest to chaw 
on, you know,” $1 50; pork, $1. Two bottles of whiskey 
Tom adds on his own account. The Captain also laid in a 
choice stock. Thus armed they set sail, burning with an 
unquenchable ardor for work. 
“There’s old Bob; ’twould be kinder mean to pass him 
without a smile,” says Tom.” 
“That’s so; let’s land.” 
They land; they ‘‘smile;” the smiles broaden into a grin, 
and the proposition to call the entire male population of 
that section and have ‘‘a reg’lar time” is hailed with uni- 
versal acclamation. Times, that is “Teg’lar times,” are 
much in vogue.on Indian River, to the great absorption 
and waste of Time, the old father. It was rather up hill 
work drinking the old Captain drunk, but the Southern 
people are always earnest in a worthy cause, and he was 
finally deposited upon a heap of oyster shells ‘‘dead gone.” 
In the morning he said to Tom, “I presume I was a little 
intoxicated last evening.” 
“You were just that, and the dog gondest, too, that I 
ever see!” 
“Well, it’s no use working with whiskey around; pass 
us the bottle.” 
“Tt’s all gone!” 
“Gone! then we’d better be sailing for Sand 
Tm d——d if I'll work without whiskey.” 
This was related to me while I camped near the grove at 
night, and I give it as I think of it, trusting the reader will 
pardon the digression. j 
Twenty-five years ago Captains C. and D. found the 
grove while hunting. A judicious grafting of the wild trees 
procured in a few years bountifulreturns. The crops have 
sometimes been euormous—seven hundred thousand ina 
single year. Over half a million of the largest, juciest 
oranges in America! Camping there that night, it was 
noon the next day before a fair down-river wind came 
along. When it did come astorm came with it, and we 
departed, acceompanied by the flash of lightning and the 
Point, for 

heavy rolling of thunder. After rounding Black Point our 
little craft drove straight on, heading with the river south 
southeast, passing Sand Point, Joyner’s, Jones’ Point, and 
all the other points on the western shore, six miles of water 
intervening. We draw near the western shore, and sail 
along its high pine covered banks, driving before the fu- 
rious wind with only the jib set. Night comes and finds 
us still sailing. “The moon struggles feebly with the clouds 
that threaten to conceal her, and reveals the Captain still 
at the helm. The waves beat against his back as he sits in 
grim silence, enduring their buffetings with far more pa- 
tience than my infrequent questions. It is late at night ere 
he comes to anchor in Elbow Creek, and finds a slight shel- 
ter from the tempest. Thankful that, though wet, I could 
not get wetter, as the rain had ceased, I crawled'under the 
sail, wrapped myself in my blanket, and fell asleep. The 
Captain never slept aboard, so ne waded ashore and “turned 
in” on the beach. The usual sleep of the camper-out was 
granted me, long and unbroken, and I was only awakened 
in the morning by the fall of an oar. 
Elbow Creek, with its fantastically worn coquina banks, 
is selected as the Indian River terminus of a canal to unite 
the St. John’s and this lagoon, Lake Washington being the 
end of navigation on the St. J ohn’s, six miles away. 
Though I don’t take stock in the company, I doubt not its 
utility if navigation on the St. John’s will warrant its being 
kept open all the year. A sail of five miles across the 
river brought us to a jutting headland of coquina, support- 
ing a scanty soil covered with a rich growth of beautiful 
palms, tall century plants, and Lisal hemp. Two crescent 
shaped bays, one facing north the other south, curved in- 
land, their shcres a firm, snowy sand. Landing I soon dis- 
covered a small grove of orange trees, being guided to them 
by their fragrant blossoms. Here I discovered the only 
evidence of civilization I had seen this side of the river, 
an object that once must have caused joy in the household, 
and sadness for its loss. A piano, covered with a few 
boards, its legs shattered, and its keys rattling in the wind, 
stood where once had been a home. It was the old story 
of war’s desolation and ruined fortune that accounted for 
this lone memento of better days in a forest five miles from 
the nearest house. 
At this place is the southern end of Merritt’s Island, 
which parts Indian River, the portion east, between the 
island and the coast, being known as Banana River, and 
that west retaining its old name. Cape Canaveral is not 
far distant, where lives the best man on the river, Captain 
Burnham, keeper of the lighthouse there. From the light 
house down I counted six wrecks, thrown upon the shore 
in a September gale, Making a fire from driftwood, we 
soon had flapjacks and potatoes enough for our inner man. 
It was here that I received a lesson in cleanliness I shall 
not soon forget. I had omitted to plovide myself with a 
dish cloth, a while the Captain was cursing my heedless- 
ness, I went Off for some Spanish moss in lieu thereof. 
What was my surprise upon returning to find the plates 
dry, and apparently clean. 
“Where did you find a cloth?” 
“Oh, I took my handkerchief!” 
Now, the ’kerchief was the Captain’s only article in that 
line; a very dirty and greasy bandana, which, besides doing 
duty in a nasal way, was frequently applied to his watery 
optics, making its cleanliness a matter of doubt. When I 
remonstrated with him he declared I was ‘‘the dirtiest cuss 
he ever see,” and enquired sercastically if I thought he was 
afool. The cause of his wrath, I afterwards ascertained, 
was not my objections, but that I had overlooked the fact 
of his washing it, which he had done in the drinking water 
bucket. The native goodness of his character was made 
manifest that night, when, after keeping silent al] day, he 
extended his hand with the remark “‘he guessed ’twas all 
right.” 
“Abdut fifty-five miles from Harvey’s is Turkey Creek 
where is the only banana plantation of any extent on the 
river. The huge plants, with their broad green leaves and 
curiously formed fruit and flowers, were beautiful and pic- 
turesque. They contrasted favorably with the stunted, 
frost-bitten plants I had seen on the St. John’s in Deceme 
