time we are sailing on it that we must soon come to the end of its
navigation, we go on more than a hundred miles before we come to the
place where we stop and turn back. The trip up the Ocklawaha requires
all the hours of a day and a great part of a night; and this night trip
is like a journey through fairyland. On the highest part of the boat is
a great iron basket, into which, as soon as it becomes dark, are thrown
quantities of pine-knots. These are lighted in order that the pilot may
see how to steer. The blazing of the resinous fuel lights up the forest
for long distances in every direction, and, as may easily be imagined,
the effect is wonderfully beautiful. When the fire blazes high the scene
is like an illuminated lacework of tree-trunks, vines, leaves, and
twigs, the smallest tendril shining out bright and distinct; while
through it all the river gleams like a band of glittering silver. Then,
as the pine-knots gradually burn out, the illumination fades and fades
away until we think the whole glorious scene is about to melt into
nothing, when more sticks are thrown on, the light blazes up again, and
we have before us a new scene with different combinations of illuminated
foliage and water.
It often happens that during the night our little steamer crowds itself
to one side of the river and stops. Then we may expect to see a splendid
sight. Out of the dark depths of the forest comes a glowing, radiant
apparition, small at first, but getting larger and larger until it moves
down upon us like a tangle of moon and stars drifting through the trees.
This is nothing but another little steamboat coming down the river with
its lighted windows and decks, and its blazing basket of pine-knots.
There is just room enough for her to squeeze past us, and then her
radiance gradually fades away in the darkness behind us.
[Illustration: FORT MARION--VIEW FROM WATER-BATTERY.]
We travel thus, night and day, until we reach Silver Springs, which is
the end of our journey. This is a small lake so transparent that we can
see down to the very bottom of it, and watch the turtles and fishes as
they swim about. A silver coin or any small object thrown into the water
may be distinctly seen lying on the white sand far beneath us. The land
is high and dry about Silver Springs, and the passengers generally go on
shore and stroll through the woods for an hour or two. Then we reembark
and return to St. Augustine as we came.
It must not be supposed that St. Augustine contains nothing but
buildings of the olden time. Although many parts of the town are the
same as they were in the old Spanish days, and although we may even find
the descendants of the Minorcans who were once its principal citizens,
the city now contains many handsome modern dwellings and hotels, some of
which are exceptionally large and grand. Hundreds of people from the
North have come down to this city of orange-scented air, eternal
verdure, and invigorating sea-breezes, and have built handsome houses;
and during the winter there is a great deal of bustle and life in the
narrow streets, in the Plaza, and on the sunny front of the town. Many
of the shops are of a kind only to be found in semi-tropical towns by
the sea, and have for sale bright-colored sea-beans, ornaments made of
fish-scales of every variety of hue, corals, dried sea-ferns, and ever
so many curiosities of the kind. We may even buy, if we choose, some
little black alligators, alive and brisk and about a foot long. As to
fruit, we can get here the best oranges in the world, which come from
the Indian River in the southern part of Florida, and many sorts of
tropical fruits that are seldom brought to Northern cities.
If St. Augustine were like most American cities, and had been built by
us or by our immediate ancestors, and presented an air of newness and
progress and business prosperity, its delightful climate and its natural
beauties would make it a most charming place to visit. But if we add to
these attractions the fact that here alone we can see a bit of the old
world without leaving our young Republic, and that in two or three days
from the newness and busy din of New York or Chicago we may sit upon the
ramparts of a medieval fort, and study the history of those olden days
when the history of Spain, England, and France was also the history of
this portion of our own land,--we cannot fail to admit that this little
town of coquina walls and evergreen foliage and traditions of old-world
antiquity occupies a position which is unique in the United States.
CATCHING TERRAPIN
BY ALFRED KAPPES
In the shoal waters along the coast south of Cape Henlopen, terrapin are
caught in various ways. Dredges dragged along in the wake of a sailing
vessel pick them up. Nets stretched across some narrow arm of river or
bay entangle the feet of any stray terrapin in their meshes; but these
require the constant attendance of the fisherman to save the catch from
drowning. In the winter, in the deeper water, the terrapin rise from
their muddy quarters on mild sunny days and crawl along the bottom. They
are then taken by tongs, their whereabouts being often betrayed by
bubbles.
The method shown in the drawing is resorted to only in the spring and in
water not over a foot or two in depth. Turtles will rise at any noise,
and usually the fisherman only claps his hands, though each hunter has
his own way of attracting the terrapin. One hunter whom I saw when I
made the drawing uttered a queer guttural noise that seemed to rise from
his boots.
[Illustration: CATCHING TERRAPIN IN THE SPRING.]
Whatever the noise, all turtles within hearing--whether terrapin or
"snapper"--will put their heads above water. Both are welcome and are
quickly sold to the market-men. The snapper slowly appears and
disappears, leaving scarcely a ripple; and the hunter cautiously
approaching usually takes him by the tail. The terrapin, on the
contrary, is quick, and will descend in an oblique direction, so that a
hand-net is needed unless he happens to come up near by. If he is near
enough the man jumps for him. The time for hunting is the still hour at
either sunrise or sunset.
"LOCOED"
(_A story of a Texan girl._)
BY EDWARD MARSHALL
John Fredding had laughingly taken his sister Martha as a partner in his
Texas saddle store. She made a good partner although she was only
thirteen years old. There were other women on the ranch (the saddle
store was only an adjunct of the big cattle-ranch itself), but the
grandmother was very old, and the servant-girl was Welsh and would not
learn to speak more English than was required in the daily routine of
housework.
Not far away was the town of Amarilla (pronounced Ah-ma-ree-ah). There
were plenty of women and girls there, but Martha knew none of them well
except the preacher's daughter, Scylla. Martha and Scylla were great
friends. They saw each other as often as Martha could get time and
permission to ride in to Amarilla. Scylla could seldom visit the ranch,
for she was an invalid. When she had been a very little girl, a horse
had kicked her. She was ill for many weeks, and after the doctor had
told her parents that she would live, he had added that she might never
have full use of her right side again. It was partially paralyzed.
But Martha was seldom lonely. For in the daytime there was always
something to do around the ranch or store. She had her pet calf to
attend to, for one thing. He was given to her by a cow-boy who bought a
saddle from her brother one day, and who cried that evening when Martha
played "Home, Sweet Home" for him on her guitar. The calf was in several
respects remarkable. In the first place, he was almost black--an unusual
thing among Texas cattle. In the second place, he was not quite black,
for he had a white spot on his forehead shaped almost exactly like
Martha's guitar. That was why they called him "Gitter." In the third
place, Martha had taught him several tricks. He had learned to low three
times when he was thirsty, and twice when he was hungry; he would stand
on his hind legs and paw the air with his front legs for a moment when
Martha cried, "Up, Gitter!" and he would lie down and roll over on the
grass when she commanded "Down, Gitter!" She had a cat that would climb
up on her shoulder whenever he got the chance, and a clever dog that
liked the cat. She had two horses, also. One of them was an ordinary
"cow-pony," but the other was a big black Spanish horse who seemed to
love Martha as well as she loved him. When she was on his back he never
varied his long, swinging, graceful gallop by jumping or shying, but if
any one else rode him, he was apt to make them hold fast when he went
around corners. His name was "Dan." Martha thought almost as much of the
cow-pony, though, as she did of Dan, and called him "Texas," after the
great State she lived in.
Her brother, too, did many things to make her happy. In the long winter
evenings he often read to her for hours, or taught her new airs on the
guitar, of which he was a master; and sometimes, when summer came, they
took long rides off on the prairie together. These occurred when there
was a band of cow-boys camped near by, and John generally combined
business with pleasure by talking with them about cattle and saddles.
But that did not detract at all from Martha's enjoyment of the rides.
She always carried her guitar swung over her shoulder by a strap when
she went out with her brother to see the cow-boys.
[Illustration: "SOMETIMES WHEN SUMMER CAME THEY TOOK LONG RIDES ON THE
PRAIRIE TOGETHER."]
The little girl's life was a queer one, but then, she was a queer little
girl and among queer people. For instance, there was "Mister Jim," who
came up to the store every few weeks to lay in supplies. Mister Jim was
one of the men who were hired to keep wild animals out of the Canon. The
Canon was a favorite place for Amarilla's excursions and picnics, and
was very beautiful; but it communicated with other canons into which
picnics could never penetrate, and in which there were wild beasts of
many kinds. To prevent these unpleasant visitors from wandering where
they were not wanted, men were stationed at various places to shoot
them. Mister Jim was the one nearest to Martha's home, and he was
Martha's stanch friend. He never went to the ranch without some gift for
her--the soft pelt of an animal he had shot, the gay wings of a strange
bird, or some crystal or stone he had found in his explorations of the
Canon. Martha returned his admiration. He lived in a cave, and that
interested her--she thought she might like to try it herself some time.
She considered his clothes very grand and impressive. In the Canon he
wore a leather suit; but when he visited the ranch he was always
dressed in black velvet trimmed with gold braid, and wore a high,
pointed hat wound with red ribbons like those of the seldom-appearing
Mexican cow-boys, only much finer.
But the "loco men" were Martha's favorites. There were three of
them--Big Billy, Little Billy, and One-eyed Saylo. Why Saylo was called
"one-eyed" was a mystery, for he had two of the very best eyes for
spying the hated loco-weed ever known in that region. Loco-weed grows,
when unmolested, to a height of sixteen or eighteen inches, and its
queer leaves shine and sparkle in the sunlight like silver and crystals.
Its effects on horses or cattle that happen to eat it are worse than
deadly. One good, big meal of loco-weed will ruin an animal forever.
A locoed horse, once locoed, is locoed until he dies. Apparently he may
recover wholly, but he is not a safe animal to ride, for at any moment
he may stagger and fall, or go suddenly mad. A locoed horse is almost
certain to show it when he becomes heated by rapid traveling or hard
work. The great danger from locoed cattle is, that they will begin to
tumble around in the midst of a herd and frighten their fellows into a
stampede.
As it can work such ruin, in order to avoid the danger of having their
animals locoed, the ranchmen, in those regions where the weed is
plentiful, hire men to search for it, cut it down, and destroy it. Of
these men who make their living in searching for the dreaded loco-weed
and destroying it wherever found were Big Billy, Little Billy, and
One-eyed Saylo.
One summer night John told Martha to get her guitar, while he saddled
Texas and his own pony for a ride. In a few moments they were galloping
over the prairie on their way to a cow-boy camp about three miles away.
When they reached it, they found all the five men, but one, rolled up
from top to toe in their tarpaulins, and asleep on the prairie. The one
who was awake welcomed them in effusive cow-boy style, and then with a
"Wake up, you-uns! Yar's John Fredding an' 'is little woman!" kicked
each of his sleeping companions into consciousness with his foot. They
were all glad to see John and Martha, for they knew them of old.
In the twinkling of an eye the smoldering fire was livened into a cheery
blaze, the visitors' ponies were picketed, and the men were grouped
around Martha and the fire. For a little while John talked business
with them; but, before long, one of the men arose and, deferentially
taking off his broad hat to Martha, asked her if she wouldn't give them
a "chune." The music of her guitar was indescribably sweet, there in the
little oasis of light in the prairie's desert of darkness, and for a
time the men sat silently, with their hands clasped about their knees,
enjoying it. Then she struck into a rollicking cow-boy song, and they
joined in shouting it out. It is a favorite among the cow-boys of
southern Texas, and begins thus:
I'd rather hear a rattler rattle,
I'd rather do a Greaser battle,
I'd rather buck stampeding cattle,
Than
Than to
Than to fight
Than to fight the bloody In-ji-ans.
I'd rather eat a pan of dope,
I'd rather ride without a rope,
I'd rather from this country lope,
Than
Than to
Than to fight
Than to fight the bloody In-ji-ans.
After that came "I'm Gwine Back to Dixie," and "'Way Down Upon the
Suwanee River," and then John said it was time to start home again. Loud
were the protests of the cow-boys, and when John and Martha went, the
whole party went with them except one man, who was left to watch the
cattle. They were "full of sing," as one of them put it, and it was a
jolly ride back to the ranch. When it was finally reached, the cow-boys
gave them a "send-off" that could have been heard a mile away. They
shouted and yelled like the wild "In-ji-ans" they had sung about, and as
they wheeled around to gallop back to camp, they fired all the charges
in their revolvers into the air as a parting courtesy. Then there was a
mad scamper of horses' hoofs, the yells grew fainter, and the cow-boys
were gone.
When John went into the house he found two letters which had been
brought up by some passing friend from Amarilla. One of them was from an
old schoolmate of his, who had become a professor in a Northern college,
asking for some loco-weed, to be added to the college botanical
collection. The other was from Scylla's father, saying that if it would
be convenient he would bring his little daughter out to the ranch in a
few days for a long-promised visit to Martha. This second letter sent
Martha to bed a very happy little girl.
Several days passed before Scylla arrived at the ranch; but when she did
come there was great rejoicing. After she was comfortably ensconced in
her wheeled chair on the porch, she held a mimic reception. John and
Martha did the honors, and every human being within call was introduced
to the little invalid. In the store there were a dozen leather-decked
cow-boys, and Scylla felt quite like a queen as each one scrambled up to
her, and with his broad sombrero in one hand took her tiny fingers in
the other as he turned red and tried to say something polite. Nor did
her impromptu court end with that. After the introductions were over,
all the visitors sat down on the porch or the grass before it, while
Martha exhibited her pets to her friend. Gitter, the calf, was put
through all his tricks, the cat was placed in Scylla's poor little arms,
where he purred contentedly, and the dog chased sticks thrown by whoever
could find any to throw. After Gitter had been led away, Martha came up
from the stables with her two horses--Texas and Dan. Big black Dan was
inclined to frisk a bit and jump about at the unusual scene; but
little Texas worked his way right into Scylla's heart by marching
steadily and straight up to her, despite Martha's laughing pulls on the
lariat looped about his neck. With ears pricked forward, he made
friendly overtures to the new-comer on the spot. He poked his nose into
her lap and rubbed it against her hands and ate sugar from her fingers.
[Illustration: MARTHA RIDES DAN OVER THE HURDLE.]
"Oh, I wish I could ride him!" said Scylla.
"He never was so cordial before, not even with me," said Martha.
Then she suddenly thought of something, and after intrusting her horses
to one of the cow-boys, went and talked it over in whispers with her
brother, Scylla's father, and the doctor, who had been discussing
politics together on one end of the porch. After this mysterious
conversation had lasted a little while, Martha danced back to Scylla, so
happy that she "just _had_ to hop."
"Oh, Scylla!" she exclaimed, "you _can_ ride him. Your papa says so and
the doctor says so and Brother says so. John is going to fix up one of
my saddles for you with an extra strap to keep you from falling, and
Texas likes you so much he will be gentle and careful as he can be, I
know. And the doctor says he thinks it will do you good, if John and I
keep close by you all the time, so there won't be any danger."
The following days at the ranch were very pleasant ones for Martha and
her visitor. In the morning after the work was done--Martha always did
some of the light house duties--they would watch with never-flagging
interest the great herds of cattle as they were driven on their way for
shipment from Amarilla, and gossip as girls do. Sometimes the cattle
passed quite near to the house, but oftener they were half a mile or
more away on the prairie--sometimes so far that the great herds seemed
to be mere black blots moving over the dun brown of the Texas grass.
Every afternoon the two girls went riding, escorted either by John or
one of the men employed about the ranch. John had fixed one of Martha's
saddles so that poor little Scylla could not fall, and Texas seemed to
bear his tiny burden with more than ordinary care. At first they rode
very slowly, and for only a few moments at a time; but Scylla gained
strength daily, and by the end of the second week had improved so much
that she could ride for an hour without great fatigue, and Texas was
occasionally allowed to start his gentle gallop.
It was as they were returning from one of these rides that Scylla's
sharp eyes spied the figure of a horseman rushing out to them from the
ranch. He waved his hat and yelled, firing his revolver between whoops
and generally conducted himself like a madman. Martha recognized him at
once.
"It's One-eyed Saylo," she said. "He always acts like that--he thinks it
wouldn't be showing proper respect to a lady unless he wasted half a
dozen cartridges and showed off his horsemanship."
Saylo acknowledged his introduction to Scylla with great ceremony, and
then told John that he had come to bring the loco-weed for the college
professor. By dint of much searching and hard riding he had gathered a
gunny-sack full of it.
Then, as they rode slowly toward the ranch, he told John how the cattle
in the whole region seemed to be getting "panicky." All the cow-boys he
had met had had the same story to tell. It was only by the most careful
handling that they were able to keep their herds from stampeding.
By this time the little cavalcade had reached the ranch. After Scylla
had been lifted from the saddle and carried to her seat on the porch,
Martha, full of the irrepressible good spirits of a healthy girl, had a
long frolic with her big black horse. She took his saddle off, and let
him enjoy the luxury of a long roll on the grass, and then she made him
do all his tricks. First he shook hands with great dignity--"just to
show that this was friendly fun," Martha said. Then she replaced the
saddle, clambered to its easy seat, and put him through his paces. He
walked, slow and stately, with much self-consciousness, as a real
Spanish horse should; he trotted, he loped, he paced, and went
single-foot, greatly to the admiration of the three spectators. Martha
kept her seat with perfect ease and grace.
Two posts near the house Martha had turned into the uprights of a
jumping-hurdle with bars which could be placed at various heights. Over
these bars that afternoon, Dan, with Martha sticking to his back like a
burr, jumped many times, surpassing, to the delight of both girls, his
previous best record.
John, in the meantime, was busy in the shop, where One-eyed Saylo had
followed him to gossip with the workmen about the all-absorbing topic of
saddles and bridles. Martha had finished her fun, led Dan away and
picketed him, and was sitting by Scylla's side talking about that happy
day when health and strength should have come back to the preacher's
little daughter, when the men came out again. The gunny-sack of
loco-weed was lying at the side of the porch, and both girls watched
John and Saylo with interest as they shook out and examined its
contents.
"So they all want some of this stuff to look at an' study, up No'th, do
they?" said Saylo, and added: "I reckon we-all wouldn't be so
over-flowin' with grief ef they'd take all th' loco thar is in th' State
o' Texas."
Just then the Welsh servant blew loud and long on a great tin horn, and
they all went in to supper. Saylo and John had picketed their ponies,
Saylo intending to ride in to Amarilla that night, and John having in
view a visit to the camp of cow-boys four or five miles away. Martha had
tethered Texas near the other ponies, because he was "such a sociable
little beast."
It was nearing sundown when supper was over. One-eyed Saylo vaulted into
his saddle after elaborate good-bys and went off toward Amarilla in a
wild canter, and John prepared to start off on his saddle mission to the
cow-boys. His pony and Texas stood with heads hanging dejectedly down,
close together, as far away from the house as their long lariats would
let them go, when John, carrying on his arm a new saddle that he wanted
to try, went toward them. As he walked away from the house he called
cheerily: "Come, Mattie,--want to go along?"
"Oh, no; I'll stay here with Scylla to-night," she answered.
"Why can't she go too?--it's too nice an evening to stay at home. I'll
ride as slow as you like, and it isn't far."
Both girls were delighted at this.
"Isn't he good to poor little me!" Scylla exclaimed to Martha as John
fixed her on Texas's back.
Martha ran around, brought Dan, and in a very few moments they were
riding leisurely toward the setting sun.
* * * * *
The evening was perfect. As the great, clean-cut disk of the sun dropped
slowly below the far-off edge of the prairie, the breeze that had been
busy all day rustling the prairie-grass died away, and the silence was
so complete that they all stopped involuntarily "to listen to it." They
had ridden until they were three or four miles from the ranch, when
they paused again, this time to hear the crooning of far-away cow-boys.
They were between two great herds of cattle. One, on the left, was half
a mile away; and the moon, which now shed a great white light over the
prairie showed it only as a black mass. Those cattle had been "bedded"
for the night--that is, two cow-boys had ridden around and around them
driving them closer together so that they would be easy to watch, and
much less likely to be restless. The other herd was a little nearer, and
the cow-boys were bedding it as the trio from the ranch approached. The
camp-fire flickered between the riders and the herd, and its flaring
light seemed to make the cow-boys and cattle nearest it lurch back and
forward in and out of the gloom while their changing shadows danced
fantastically over the prairie. Here the three riders paused again to
listen. Closer by, the cow-boys' crooning would have sounded harsh and
unmusical, but at this distance it shaped itself into a plaintive, minor
melody that was very pleasing. For many moments they waited and enjoyed
it in silence. Then suddenly a quick gust of wind and a low, muttering
rumble of thunder made them turn quickly and look at the sky behind
them.
A bank of dead black clouds was rising on the eastern horizon.
John stopped, gazed at it ruefully for a moment, and said:
"There's a big thunder-storm coming; but we can get home all right
before it strikes us. You girls ride slowly back. I'll rush to the camp
and tell the boys to stop in in the morning. I'll overtake you before
you've gone far."
With that he was off at a brisk canter toward the herd.