d never seen red
cedars before. One, in St. Augustine, near San Marco Avenue, I had the
curiosity to measure. The girth of the trunk at the smallest place was
six feet five inches, and the spread of the branches was not less than
fifty feet.

[Footnote 1: I speak as if I had accepted my own study of the manual as
conclusive. I did for the time being, but while writing this paragraph I
bethought myself that I might be in error, after all. I referred the
question, therefore, to a friend, a botanist of authority. "No wonder
the red cedars of Florida puzzled you," he replied. "No one would
suppose at first that they were of the same species as our New England
savins. The habit is entirely different; but botanists have found no
characters by which to separate them, and you are safe in considering
them as _Juniperus Virginiana_."]

The stroller in this road suffered few distractions. The houses, two or
three to the mile, stood well back in the woods, with little or no
cleared land about them. Picnic establishments they seemed to a Northern
eye, rather than permanent dwellings. At one point, in the hammock, a
rude camp was occupied by a group of rough-looking men and several small
children, who seemed to be getting on as best they could--none too well,
to judge from appearances--without feminine ministrations. What they
were there for I never made out. They fished, I think, but whether by
way of amusement or as a serious occupation I did not learn. Perhaps,
like the Indians of old, they had come to the river for the oyster
season. They might have done worse. They never paid the slightest
attention to me, nor once gave me any decent excuse for engaging them in
talk. The best thing I remember about them was a tableau caught in
passing. A "norther" had descended upon us unexpectedly (Florida is not
a whit behind the rest of the world in sudden changes of temperature),
and while hastening homeward, toward nightfall, hugging myself to keep
warm, I saw, in the woods, this group of campers disposed about a lively
blaze.

Let us be thankful, say I, that memory is so little the servant of the
will. Chance impressions of this kind, unforeseen, involuntary, and
inexplicable, make one of the chief delights of traveling, or rather of
having traveled. In the present case, indeed, the permanence of the
impression is perhaps not altogether beyond the reach of a plausible
conjecture. We have not always lived in houses; and if we love the si