eled for hundreds of miles over the flat, monotonous,
arid sands of south Florida, where green grass and fresh garden
vegetables were unknown, frequently remarking that if we owned these
localities and hades, we would give away the former and live in the
latter place. But when we retraced our steps, and reached the rich
highlands of the northern counties of Marion, Bradford, and Clay,
found the earth covered with green grass in winter, the trees
beautiful with blossoms and luscious oranges, the air fragrant with
rare flowers, and resonant with songs of birds, saw the planters
shipping thousands of crates of fruit and vegetables, and finally
arrived at the far-famed Silver Springs, it seemed as if we had found
Ponce de Leon's fountain of immortal youth.

The crystal clear waters of this wonderful spring, or more properly
called lake, gush in immense volumes seemingly from the very centre of
the earth, spreading out until wide and deep enough to float a great
navy, and are so transparent that multitudes of fishes are seen
disporting among marine plants and shells plainly discernible hundreds
of feet below.

Here we embarked on a comfortable steamer, and sailed nearly
twenty-four hours down the incomparable Ocklawaha River, through
scenes that are indescribably picturesque; under arches of gigantic
trees covered with sombrely beautiful Spanish mosses and trumpet
creeper vines, where all day long are heard the ecstatic songs of
mockingbirds, and where flutter the plumages of all the colors of the
rainbow.

[Illustration: The Indiscribably Picturesque Ocklawaha River of
Florida.]

Swiftly the golden hours fly, as we float over this marvelous river;
softly the dusky boatmen chant their love songs, the fires from their
"fatwood" cauldron on the upper deck illuminates the stately trees,
and the strains of the poet, Butterworth, come plaintively to our
mental hearing.

"We have passed funereal glooms,
Cypress caverns, haunted rooms,
Halls of gray moss starred with blooms--
Slowly, slowly, in these straits,
Drifting towards the cypress gates
Of the Ocklawaha.

"In the towers of green o'erhead
Watch the vultures for the dead,
And below the egrets red
Eye the mossy pools like fates,
In the shadowy cypress gates
Of the Ocklawaha.

"Clouds of palm crowns lie behind,
Clouds of gray moss in the wind,
Crumbling oaks with jessamines twined,
Where the ring-doves meet their mates,
Cooing