Is that a yours of that much too long? Uh, I presented it here. Very kind. Very kind. That's a great thing about this. You get the European press group up there. She's a lot of shirts. Is the president really in this? Probably. That's a good one. Yeah. But a lot of... He said it was outrageous things. Did you think so, Larry? Yeah. They don't make a good appearance. That fellow that asked the question, who was one of the Indian persons? That's right. Oh, he was a lobbyist anyway. Talk about a proper canvas. That guy. He's no reporter. Also, two of the Soviets differed over... What was it something about SDI? It's the same group. I'd like to have to dig it out. I want to have time to... I want to hand over for one night, and then I'd stay the next week and get it on. I hadn't been back there since the Hawaiian mission, actually. 75. But they were really hurting. Everybody wants that. 9.15 at night. A little trouble getting to sleep. It would lead to sleep. But I think fairly well. Switched over here. Now even have a little set of tablets that you take. There. Year that you stayed for 12 hours before death on here. 8 hours before death on here. One and a half hours before death on here. I did that thing. I'll bet you have somebody in the staff who schedules all this. I found the answer was to set 9 o'clock for this time. I'll get that to begin with ASP. You want to take a walk? You're going over to my place. You thought it just didn't come that way, did you? The three of us left on the cover. We didn't think it was going far without my coat. How about that?   She'd have me in a fur hat if she could. Would you like to? I think they distorted what everyone has said so far. But I have addressed it. I'll tell you. I read the clips this morning, particularly the Washington Post. As far as I'm concerned, they're for Gorbachev. They're not for us. They're not for our side. They were chosen side. They're going to get shot. All the way back to the first press conference, where I started with the Russian line and so forth. No one ever prints that I was asked a direct question. Could we believe the Russians? And I said, well, all I can do is quote you their own words. They have said there is no immorality in anything that furthers the cause of socialism. And that they reserve one of themselves the right to lie, to do anything that would further socialism. That is not a sin. That was my answer. And now, over the five years, it's been down that I came into office and rushed right out to denounce the Russians, liars and so forth. But I tell you this, we ought to have one of these sometime, choose a place and borrow the press. Tell them they'll know what happened when they came home. That's why the economics summit started, but they didn't stay that way. I know. That's what we did. And when we got through, then we said, all right, this is what we're going to say to the press. But they were totally... But I just said, who is this senior White House advisor? For example, outright plain lies. I don't know if there was a phone call to the plane. I certainly didn't know the one. But the lie that I was... Yeah, it's a tight pull. The lie that I'm playing, that I was curious. And where that started. One way for us. One film as well. Two groups. Five more words, Mr. President, and finish your set. Saving them all for Corbett. That tough. And Mr. President, the administration official yesterday suggested that I did announce the set. I've changed your mind on that. I'm wondering if that individual is not the figment of someone in the press of imagination. You're annoying. You suggest that letter does no damage or doesn't affect the summit in any way. Is that what you're saying? You said it. I hope you've been briefed already about it. I've learned some others about that and that there is no foundation in anything that you've been set about. Lights. Thank you. Thank you. Are you okay? The light was hit in the glass. Well, not as a residence. And the light. There's older families which don't have any hopes for the summer and the summer. In fact, I could too. Thank you very much. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I seem to be the only one here that's doing that four-day thing that the doctor worked out the diet, the alternating feasts and fast and so forth. I've been doing that and I have to tell you, it wasn't a little later, but because one of the things I was supposed to avoid caffeine on that, but yesterday was the last day and I have to say it must have made a difference. I got up, I woke up, put me away at 9.15, which was fairly close to getting on there time. Part of it is getting yourself on the meal schedule before you get here. So I said, I kind of compromised a little later than we normally had dinner and said, it's time to be 8.30 there at time here when we had dinner on the plane.  Oh, some post-formercy. Okay. Sir, for the making of this restoration. This is the architect. Here would be... It's where I thought we should stay right where we were over there. You could go buy a nice face on the shop. Same shop. It's good.


In this paper, we explore three different types of divergences alpha-dash, beta-dash, and gamma-divergences and examine their similarities and differences. We demonstrate how each type of divergence can be derived from another, as well as how they are related to other measures of entropy, such as Salis and Renyi entropies. These divergences have applications in many fields, including machine learning, data mining, and information theory. This article was authored by Andrei Chihaki and Shanichi Amari.


Hello viewers, it's Kaye Felix here and I welcome you to my YouTube channel Kaye Felix Inspire. I'd like to say a very big thank you to all of you for the support and the contribution you are giving to this channel. If you are new to this channel, please do not forget to subscribe and hit the bell icon so that you get notified whenever I post new videos. Stay tuned for more details in this report. Thank you very much colleagues and good afternoon to our viewers wherever you are catching us from. We have an agent monitor that we want to address this afternoon. It is concerning a miscarriage of justice, concerning the petitions that are being undertaken in Petauke over the Lusangazi just ended by elections. I'm sure the Zambian people remember that we had as patriotic front a candidate in the name of Patrick Banda that the UPND through the political advisor to the president Mr. Levingoma used to differentiate our candidate by having him arrested at the polling station. The day at the nomination center, the day that he was going to file in his nomination. And I happen to have been the one leading the delegation of central committee members to escort that candidate. That illegality and injustice was presented to the local government tribunal through a petition against denominations. A tribunal led by the Lusaka resident magistrate Mr. Chiwili was convening. We had of course some concerns looking at the composition of that tribunal, but we still gave it a benefit of doubt. The decision that was made out of that tribunal did not agree with it, it didn't make sense. Actually the court were stripping themselves of the powers by making a ruling that a matter that is already before court, the police can still go and re-arrest somebody or can go and arrest somebody when in fact the matter is already in court. It was shocking, but we know that now the judiciary has been invaded. What is of concern now is that we have since proceeded to petition the election in Lusaka and there are two petitions going on there. The miscarriage of justice emanates from the fact that the same tribunal has been reconstituted to go and hear the petition against the election. Even when they know that they had already decided to consider the facts, which facts may be recast in the petition against the election, how can you have the same court that already came up with the verdict on the issues that were raised by patriotic front candidate as well as Mr. Patrick Banda. Sit again in Petaoka and expect them to come up with a just decision and vacate their own decision that already made. It is basically meant to miscarry, to have justice miscarried. It is an abortion of justice. We call upon the chief justice. Your office every day is raising concerns from the citizens. How can we have the same tribunal seat in Petaoka to hear a petition against an election for which they had the opportunity to hear in terms of the petition against the nomination? We don't expect that that tribunal will be objective. It is against the principles of the judicial system, the principles of justice. It is against many ethical issues that we can talk about in terms of adjudicating on matters of such nature. We expected a different tribunal, but we are also aware, zooming from where we are standing that there was a meeting up to last yesterday morning to reach some judicial officers including some police officers from Petaoka that met here together with the political advisor to the president giving instructions in terms of what they expect to happen in Petaoka. We want to warn those major streets, the major street, the resident major street and those civil servants, one from NPA, the other from Ligo Ed. If you proceed to hear that petition without declaring conflict of interest, we are going to proceed to go and report at JCC. Even if we don't get justice from JCC, there is always time for people to account for their misdemeanor. It may not be today, it may not be tomorrow, but time is ticking and 2026 is coming. Misaka in the Ichrem has been a good teacher to us that you can actually go and dig matters even of 10 years ago and follow them through. Whatever is happening, we are recording what is going to happen in Petaoka over the petition. First of all, the miscarriage of justice started with the fact that this is almost towards the end of the days provided in the constitution for which a petition is supposed to be held. The petition was lodged in on the 11th of November and it is expected that those petitions should be heard within 30 days. From 11 November to today we are remaining only with 8 days before the close of the time. So, why was the tribunal delaying? They want to make sure that the time remaining for all these issues were raising to be raised to be very short. So that I can say like they have said over Kwacha, over Kabushi that we are out of time. Therefore, let's just proceed without hearing us properly. We are calling on the judicial expression of justice. Can you show your integrity on this matter? Disband that tribunal and set a fresh tribunal that will hear that matter. Thank you very much.


The lessons learned from the resilience of hospitals during the Covid-19 pandemic include the importance of strengthening coordination and leadership capacities among hospital managers and health authorities, improving communication strategies, strengthening organizational capacity and adapting resources and strategies, such as procurement and infection risk management. This article was authored by Christian Darjanayas, Neuriel Keeland, Duramein Kulibali, and others.


My father has been doing furniture for a very long time and a lot of his language comes from the French Art Deco, which was around the 20s and even before that. And I love its aesthetic. I find it very clean, very crisp. There's a huge interest in material and scanning the world for some of the most precious and prized materials, which I think as we have evolved as artists, myself I'm not pursuing it to that extent, but I liked that it was based in form, it was based in tactility, it was based in material. And I strive for that a lot in my work. I was introduced to clay probably older than most people in high school, and I really enjoyed its malleability. It didn't really fight you very much, so I think that's why a lot of people at young ages are attracted to it. It's easy to manipulate. But I also love that it transforms, it goes from something so malleable, so soft, and it goes through a process that creates kind of the antithesis of that. It becomes hard, immalleable, and maintains form. So I like that contradiction a lot. I'd consider myself first and foremost a formalist, meaning I really try to apply my aesthetics to the form. But I think when you're dealing with ceramic in particular, it becomes a very functional object. Something like this was very much a good amalgamation between the two, form and function, something that I think looks very unique, but also lends itself to an ergonomic function for drinking out of. So absolutely, it's a combination between the two. And I think things naturally evolve from there. They start one place and end in another, and I'm not sure that I'm conscious of why that is, but it's a process that's inherent in art and necessary.  I create things as I see them, and I hope that it connects with the larger audience, and I think it does. But I hope that they are... I hope they observe the craft that's been implemented, and I think that craft requires a lot of execution, and that's what I strive to do. I strive to have an idea, meditate with it, and then build it. And that's often really difficult to do, and I think that in a world that manufactures objects so well, it's hard to see how people on an individual scale are capable of doing the same thing. And when it's executed to that extent, I think there's a lot of value in that, and I hope that people can pick up on that, because a lot of people are really good at it, and it's a hard world to compete when you're competing with machines that can do it better than you can. MECA has facilitated a very open learning environment, meaning there is a curriculum, there's a core value that the school wants you to learn by. But it also gives you an immense amount of freedom to be independent and to think in terms that aren't necessarily about curriculum, they're not about grades, they're not about fulfilling requirements, it's about expressing yourself to the best ability. If that means that you go outside of the assignment or you talk with your teacher and you discuss maybe something that's more conducive to what you want to say with your work, there are 100% behind that and willing to work with you, so that's huge. When you have support, you have community, and people are on your side, that's a good recipe for success. Eventually I'd like to start making work and selling it and start a business. How I'm going to do that, I don't know. How it will evolve, I'm not quite sure, but in the meantime I'm very happy with the direction my work is going in and I hope it connects with people. Portland is such a supportive community, so I feel that this is a good place for my ideas to evolve and I think they'll be received well. So that's good.


It's no secret that the military runs on its stomach. And that's why the Army was at the 2013 Association of the United States Army Annual Meeting and Exposition with some samples of new MREs. Specialist John Tay Randolph knows first hand about the importance of MREs. It's our life out there, pretty much, so I like blood. With the new MREs, the Army is looking to fuel the soldier and make it taste great as well. Probably only eat the main protein and one juice, and that's it. And everything else, I leave out. I don't care. But now, with these, I think I might eat it all.


Common modal usage, using simple tenses and modals to state facts, present. Lions live in Africa. Water consists of hydrogen and oxygen. Past. Dinosaurs roamed the earth for millions of years. My grandmother passed away last March. Modal. Mr. Jones can juggle. He couldn't swim at age ten. To express opinions.  The internet is more useful than the library. That was delicious. I thought she gave an excellent performance. I think it was a beautiful concert. Gambling should be banned in the U.S. You must really like ice cream. You should have left earlier. To indicate actions which occur every day or on a regular basis. I get up at 7.30 every day. My father drives to work on Tuesdays. When I was in high school, I got up at 6.30. My mother rode the bus until she bought a car. I have to be at the office at 7. They used to take the subway with frequency adverbs. Jerry always comes to class on time. At camp, she usually ate breakfast before 7 o'clock. You should never be late for work. Using modals in various situations. Requesting. Can you help me? Could you help me? Will you help me? Would you help me? Would you mind helping me? Asking permission. Can I help you? Could I help you? May I help you? Would you mind if I helped you? Possibility. I may need some help. I might need some help. I will need some help. I would need some help. Hinting. I can use some help. I could use some help. Other. I can help you. I could help you. I may help you. I might help you. I will help you. I would help you.


1. In the Flatwoods. 2. In approaching Jacksonville by rail, the traveller rides hour after hour through seemingly endless pine barons, otherwise known as low pine woods, and flatwoods, till he worries of the sight. It would be hard, he thinks, to imagine a region more unwholesome-looking and uninteresting, more poverty-stricken, and God-forsaken in its entire aspect. Surely men who would risk life on behalf of such a country deserved to win their cause. Monotonous as the Flatwoods were, however, and malariaous as they looked, and wastes and stretches of stagnant water flying past the car window in perpetual alternation, I was impatient to get into them. They were a world the like of which I had never seen, and wherever I went in eastern Florida I made it one of my earliest concerns to seek them out. My first impression was one of disappointment, or perhaps I should say, of bewilderment. In fact, I returned from my first visit to the Flatwoods under the delusion that I had not been into them at all. This was at St. Augustine, whither I had gone after a night only in Jacksonville. I looked about the quaint little city, of course, and went to the South Beach, on St. Anastasia Island. Then I wished to see the pinelands. They were to be found, I was told, on the other side of the San Sebastian. The sun was hot, or so it seemed, to a man fresh from the rigors of a New England winter, and the sand was deep. But I sauntered through New Augustine, and pushed on up the road toward Moultrie, I believe it was, till the last houses were passed, and I came to the edge of the pine woods. Here, presently, the roads began to fork in a very confusing manner. The first man I met, a kindly cracker, cautioned me against getting lost, but I had no thought of taking the slightest risk of that kind. I was not going to explore the woods, but only to enter them, sit down, look about me, and listen. The difficulty was to get into them. As I advanced, they receded. It was still only the beginning of a wood, the trees far apart and comparatively small. The ground covered thickly with saw-palmetto, interspersed here and there with patches of brown grass or sedge. In many places the roads were under water, and, as I seemed to be making little progress, I pretty soon sat down in a pleasantly shaded spot. Wagons came along at intervals, all going toward the city, most of them with loads of wood, ridiculously small loads, such as a Yankee boy would put upon a wheelbarrow. A fine day, said I to the driver of such a cart. Yes, sir, he answered, it's a pretty day. He spoke with an emphasis which seemed to imply that he accepted my remark, as well meant, but hardly adequate to the occasion. Perhaps if the day had been a few shades brighter he would have called it handsome, or even good-looking. Expressions of this kind, however, are matters of local or individual taste, and as such are not to be disputed about. Thus a man stopped me in Tallahassee to inquire what time it was. I told him, and he said, ah, a little sooner than I thought. And why not sooner, as well as earlier? But when, on the same road, two white girls in an ox cart hailed me with the question, what talent is, I thought the interrogative idiom a little queer, almost as queer, shall we say, as, how do you do? may have sounded to the first man who heard it, if the reader is able to imagine such a person. Meanwhile, let the morning be fine, or pretty. It was all one to the birds. The woods were vocal, with the cackling of robins, the warble of bluebirds, and the trills of pine warblers. Flickers were shouting, or laughing, if one pleased to hear so, with true flickerish polyxity. And a single downy woodpecker, called sharply again and again, a mockingbird near me, there is always a mockingbird near you, in Florida, added his voice for a time, but soon relapsed into silence. The fact was characteristic, for, wherever I went, I found it true that the mocker grew less musical as the place grew wilder. By instinct he is a public performer, he demands an audience, and it is only in cities, like St. Augustine and Tallahassee, that he is heard at his freest and best. A loggerhead shrike, now close at my oboe, now farther away, was practicing his extensive vocabulary with perseverance, if not with enthusiasm. Like his relative, the great northern, though perhaps in a less degree, the loggerhead is commonly at an extreme, either loquacious or dumb, as if he could not let his moderation be known unto any man. Sometimes I fancied him possessed with an insane ambition to match the mockingbird in song, as well as in personal appearance. If so, it is not surprising that he should be subject to fits of discouragement and silence. Aiming at the sun, though a good and virtuous exercise, as we have all heard, is apt to prove dispiriting to sensible marksmen. Crows, fish-crows, in all probability, but at the time I did not know it, uttered strange, hoarse, flat-sounding cause. Every bird of them must have been born without a pallet. White-eyed shoo-inks were at home in the dense palmero scrub, once they announced themselves unmistakably by sharp whistles. Now and then one of them mounted a leaf, and allowed me to see his pale yellow iris. Except for this mark, recognizable almost as far as the bird could be distinguished at all, he looked exactly like our common New England tohi. Somewhere behind me was a kingfisher's rattle, and from a savannah in the same direction came the songs of meadow-largs, familiar but with something unfamiliar about them at the same time, unless my ears deceived me. More interesting than any of the birds yet named because more strictly characteristic of the place, as well as more strictly new to me, were the brown-headed nut-hatches. I was on the watch for them. They were one of the three novelties which I knew were to be found in the pine-lands, and nowhere else. The other two being the red-cockaded woodpecker and the pine-wood sparrow, and being thus on the lookout I did not expect to be taken by surprise if such a paradox it is nothing worse, may be allowed to pass, but when I heard them twittering in the distance, as I did almost immediately, I had no suspicion of what they were. The voice had nothing of that nasal quality, that Yankee twang, as some people would call it, which I had always associated with the nut-hatch family. On the contrary, it was decidedly French-like, so much so that some of the notes taken by themselves would have been ascribed without hesitation to the goldfinch or the pinefinch, had I heard them in New England, and even as things were, I was more than once deceived for the moment. As for the birds themselves, they were evidently a cheerful and thrifty race, much more numerous than the red-cockaded woodpeckers, and much less easily overlooked than the pine-wood sparrows. I seldom entered the flat woods anywhere without finding them. They seek their food largely about the leafy ends of the pine branches, resembling the Canadian nut-hatches in this respect, so that it is only on rare occasions that one sees them creeping about the trunks or larger limbs. Unlike their two northern relatives, they are eminently social, often travelling in small flocks, even in the breeding season, and keeping up an almost incessant chorus of shrill twitters as they flit, hither, and dither through the woods.  He flew back and forth past my head, exactly as chickadees do in a similar mood, and once seemed almost ready to alight on my hat. Let us have a look at this stranger, he appeared to be saying. Possibly his nest was not far off, but I made no search for it. Afterwards I found two nests, one in a low stump, and one in the trunk of a pine, fifteen or twenty feet from the ground. Both of them contained young ones, March thirty-first and April second, as I knew by the continual goings in and out of the fathers and mothers. In dress the brownhead is dingy, with little or nothing of the neat and attractive appearance of our New England nut-hatches. In this pine wood on the road to Moultrie I found no sign of the new woodpecker or the new sparrow, nor was I greatly disappointed. The place itself was a sufficient novelty. The place and the summer weather. The pines murmured overhead, and the palmettoes rustled all about. Now a butterfly fluttered past me, and now a dragonfly. More than one little flock of tree-swallows went over the wood, and once a pair of Phoebes amused me by an uncommonly pretty lover's quarrel. Truly it was a pleasant hour. In the midst of it there came along a man in a cart with a load of wood.  Yes, he said, but it was a pretty heavy load to drag seven or eight miles over such roads. Possibly he understood me as implying that he seemed to be in rather small business, although I had no such purpose, for he went on to say, In 1861 when this beautiful war broke out between our countries my father owned niggers. We didn't have to do this, but I don't complain. If I hadn't got a bullet in me I should do pretty well. Then you were in the war, I said. Oh, yes, yes, sir. I was in the Confederate service. Yes, sir. I'm a Southerner to the backbone. My grandfather was a—I missed the patronemic—and commanded St. Augustine. The name had a foreign sound, and the man's complexion was swarthy. And in all simplicity I asked if he was a minorcan. I might as well have touched a lighted match to powder. His eyes flashed, and he came round the tail of the cart gesticulating with his stick. Minorcan, he broke out, Spain and the island of Minorca are two places, ain't they? I admitted meekly that they were.  He went on. You are English. Yankee-born, ain't you? I owned it. Well, I'm Spanish. That ain't minorcan. My grandfather was a—and commanded St. Augustine. He couldn't have done that if he had been minorcan. By this time he was quieting down a bit. His father remembered the Indian war. The son had heard him tell about it. Those were dangerous times, he remarked. You couldn't have been standing out here in the woods then. There is no danger here. No, is there? said I. No, no, not now. But as he drove along he turned to say that he wasn't afraid of anything. He wasn't that kind of man. Then with a final turn he added, what I could not dispute. A man's laugh is always in danger. After he was gone I regretted that I had offered no apology for my unintentionally offensive question. But I was so taken by surprise, and so much interested in the man as a specimen, that I quite forgot my manners till it was too late. One thing I learned, that it is not prudent in these days to judge a southern man's blood, in either sense of the word, by his dress or occupation. This man had brought seven or eight miles a load of wood that might possibly be worth seventy-five cents. I questioned the owner of what looked like just such a load afterward, and found his asking price half a dollar.  Yet his father was a blank and had own niggers. A still more picturesque figure in this procession of wood-quarters was a boy of perhaps ten or eleven.  Who was it that infected the world with the foolish and disastrous notion that work and play are two different things? And was it Emerson or some other wise man who said that a boy was the true philosopher? When it came time to think of returning to St. Augustine for dinner, I appreciated my cracker's friendly warning against losing my way, for though I had hardly so much as entered the woods, and had taken, as I thought, good heed to my steps, I was almost at once in a quandary as to my road. There was no occasion for worry, with the sun out and my general course perfectly plain. But here was a fork in the road, and whether to bear to the left or to the right was a simple matter of guesswork. I made the best guess I could, and guessed wrong, as was apparent after a while when I found the road under deep water for several rods. I objected to waiting, and there was no ready way of going round since the oak and palmetto scrub crowded close up to the roadside, and just here was all but impenetrable. What was still more conclusive, the road was the wrong one, as the inundation proved, and for ought, I could tell, might carry me far out of my course. I turned back, therefore, under the midday sun, and by good luck a second attempt brought me out of the woods very near where I had entered them. I visited this particular piece of country but once afterward, having in the meantime discovered a better place of the same sort along the railroad in the direction of Pilatka. There, on a Sunday morning, I heard my first pine-woods barrow. Time and tune could hardly have been in truer accord. The hour was of the quietest, the strain was of the simplest, and the birds sang as if he were dreaming. For a long time I let him go on without attempting to make certain who he was. He seemed to be rather far off. If I waited his pleasure, he would perhaps move toward me. If I disturbed him, he would probably become silent. So I sat on the end of a sleeper and listened. It was not great music. It made me think of the Swamp Sparrow, and the Swamp Sparrow is far from being a great singer. A single prolonged, drawing note. In that respect, unlike the Swamp Sparrow, of course, followed by a succession of softer and sweeter ones. That was all, when I came to analyze it, but that is no fair description of what I heard. The quality of the song is not there, and it was the quality, the feeling, the soul of it, if I may say what I mean, that made it in the true sense of a much-abused word, charming. There could be little doubt that the bird was Pinewood Sparrow, but such things are not to be taken for granted. Once or twice, indeed, the thought of some unfamiliar warbler had crossed my mind. At last, therefore, as the singers still kept out of sight, I leapt the ditch and pushed into the scrub. Happily I had not far to go. He had been much nearer than I thought. A small bird flew up before me and dropped almost immediately into a clump of palmetto. I edged toward the spot and waited. Then the song began again, this time directly in front of me, but still far away sounding and dreamy. I find that last word in my hasty note penciled at the time, and can think of no other that expresses the effect half so well. I looked and looked, and all at once there sat the bird on a palmetto leaf. Once again he sang, putting up his head. Then he dropped out of sight, and I heard nothing more. I had seen only his head and neck, enough to show him a sparrow, and almost of necessity the Pinewood Sparrow. No other strange member of the French family was to be looked for in such a place. On further acquaintance, let me say it once, Piocae Aestivalis proved to be a more versatile singer than the performances of my first bird would have led me to suppose. He varies his tune freely, but always within a pretty narrow compass, as is true also of the field sparrow with whom, as I soon came to feel, he was not a little uncommon. It is in musical form only that he suggests the Swap Sparrow. In tone and spirit, in the qualities of sweetness and expressiveness, he is nearly akin to Spicella Pucella. One does for the southern Pine Baron what the other does for the northern berry pasture, and this is high praise, for though in New England we have many singers more brilliant than the field sparrow, we have none that are sweeter, and few that in the long run give more pleasure to sensitive hearers. I found the Pinewood Sparrow afterward in Newspirinna, Port Orange, Sanford, and Tallahassee. So far as I could tell it was always the same bird, but I shot no specimens and speak with no authority. Living always in the Pine Lens and haunting the dense undergrowth, it has heard a hundred times where it is seen once, and a point greatly in favor of its effectiveness as a musician. Mr. Brewster speaks of it as singing always from an elevated perch, while the birds that I saw in the act of song, a very limited number, were invariably perched low. One that I watched in Newspirinna, one of a small chorus, the others being invisible, sang for a quarter of an hour from a stake or stump which rose perhaps a foot above the dwarf Palmetto. It was the same song that I had heard in St. Augustine. Only the birds here were in a livelier mood, and sang out instead of Satovoce. The long introductory note sounded sometimes as if it were indrawn, and often, if not always, had a considerable burr in it. Once in a while the strain was caught up at the end and sung over again, after the manner of the field sparrow. One of that bird's prettiest tricks. At other times the song was delivered with full voice, and then repeated almost under the singer's breath. This was done beautifully in the port orange flat woods, the bird being almost at my feet. I had seen him a moment before and saw him again half a minute later, but at that instant he was out of sight in the scrub, and seemingly on the ground. This feature of the song, one of its chief merits and its most striking peculiarity, is well described by Mr. Brewster. Now, he says, it has a full bell-like ring that seems to fill the air around. Next it is soft and low, and inexpressibly tender. Now it is clear again, but so modulated that the sound seems to come from a great distance. Not many other birds, I think, I cannot recall any, habitually vary their song in this manner. Other birds sing almost inaudibly at times, especially in the autumnal season. Even the brown thresher, whose ordinary performance is so full-voiced, not to say boisterous, will sometimes soliloquise, or seem to soliloquise, in the faintest of undertones. The formless, autumnal warble of the song sparrow is familiar to everyone, and in this connection, I remember, and am not likely ever to forget, a winter wren who favoured me with what I thought the most bewitching bit of vocalism to which I had ever listened. He was in the bushes close at my side, in the Franconia, notch, and delivered his whole song, with all its customary length, intricacy, and speed, in a tone, a whisper, I may almost say, that ran along the very edge of silence. The unexpected proximity of a stranger may have had something to do with his conduct, as it often appears to have with the thrashers. But, however that may be, the cases are not parallel with that of the pinewood sparrow, and as much as the ladder-bird not merely sings under his breath on special occasions, whether on account of the nearness of a listener or for any other reason, but in his ordinary singing uses louder and softer tones interchangeably, almost exactly as human singers and players do, as if in the practice of his art he had learned to appreciate consciously or unconsciously, and practice naturally goes before theory, the expressive value of what I believe is called musical dynamics. I spent many half days in the pinelands, how gladly now would I spend another, but I never got far into them, into the depths, my pen was on the point of making me say, but that would have been a false note, the flatwoods have no depths. Whether I followed the railway, in many respects, a pretty satisfactory method, or some roundabout aimless carriage-road, a mile or two was generally enough. The country offers no temptation to pedestrian feats, nor does the imagination find its account in going farther and farther, for the reader is not to think of the flatwoods as in the least resembling a northern forest, which at every turn opens before the visitor and beckons him forward. Beyond and behind, and on either side, the pinewoods are ever the same. It is this monotony, by the by, this utter absence of landmarks that makes it so unsafe for the stranger to wander far from the beaten track. The sand is deep, the sun is hot, one place is as good as another. What use, then, to tire yourself? And so, unless the traveller is going somewhere, as I saw them was, he is continually stopping by the way. Now a shady spot entices him to put down his umbrella, for there is a shady spot, here and there, even in a floor to pinewood. Or blossoms are to be plucked, or a butterfly, some gorgeous and nameless creature, brightens the wood as it passes. Or a bird is singing, or an eagle is soaring far overhead, and must be watched out of sight. Or a buzzard with upturned wings floats suspiciously near the wanderer, as if with sinister intent.  Or a snake lies stretched out in the sun, a whip-snake, perhaps, that frightens the unwary stroller by the amazing swiftness with which it runs away from him. Or some strange invisible insect is making uncanny noises in the underbrush. One of my recollections of the railway woods at St. Augustine is of a cricket, or a locust, or something else. I never saw it, that amused me often with a formless rattling or drumming sound. I could think of nothing but a boy's first lesson upon the bones. The rhythm of the beats was so comically mistimed and bungled. One fine morning, it was the eighteenth of February, I had gone down the railroad a little farther than usual, attracted by the encouraging appearance of a swampy patch of rather large deciduous trees. Some of them, I remember, were red maples, already full of handsome, high-colored fruit. As I drew near, I heard indistinctly from among them what might have been the song of a black-throated green warbler, a bird that would have made a valued addition to my Florida list, especially at that early date. No sooner was the song repeated, however, than I saw that I had been deceived. It was something I had never heard before, but it certainly had much of the black-throated green's quality, and without question was the note of a warbler of some kind. What a shame if the bird should give me the slip. Meanwhile, it kept on singing at brief intervals, and it was not so far away, but that, with my glass, I should be well able to make it out, if only I could once get my eyes on it. That was the difficulty. Something stirred among the branches. Yes, a yellow-throated warbler, D'Androica a bird of which I had seen my first specimens, all of them silent, during the last eight days. Probably he was the singer. I hope so, at any rate. That would be an ideal case of a beautiful bird with a song to match. I kept him under my glass, and presently the strand was repeated, but not by him. Then it ceased, and I was none the wiser. Perhaps I never should be. It was indeed a shame. Such a taking-song, so simple, and yet so pretty, and so thoroughly distinctive. I wrote it down thus, ti-ku, two couplets, the first syllable of each a little emphasized and dwelt upon, not trawled, and a little higher in pitch than its fellow. Perhaps it might be expressed thus, illustration. I cannot profess to be sure of that, however, nor have I unqualified confidence in the adequacy of musical notation, no matter how skillfully employed to convey a truthful idea of any bird's song. Footnote one. As it was, I did not find D'Androica Virens in Florida. On my way home in Atlanta, April twenty, I saw one bird in a door-yard shade-tree. The affair remained a mystery till, in Daytona, nine days afterward, the same notes were heard again, this time in lower trees that did not stand in deep water. Then it transpired that my mysterious warbler was not a warbler at all, but the Carolina Chickadee. That was an outcome quite unexpected, although I now remembered that Chickadees were in or near the St. Augustine Swamp. And what was more to the purpose? I could now discern some relationship between the ti-koi, ti-ku, or, as I now wrote it, si-toi, si-tu, and the familiar, so-called Phoebe Whistle, of the black-capped tit-mouse. The southern bird I am bound to acknowledge is much the more accomplished singer of the two. Sometimes he repeats the second to syllable, making six notes in all. At other times he breaks out with a characteristic volley of fine Chickadee notes and runs without a break into the si-toi, si-tu, with a highly pleasing effect. Then if, on the top of this, he doubles the si-tu, we have a really prolonged and elaborate musical effort, quite putting into the shade our New England birds hear, hear me, sweet and welcome as that always is. The southern Chickadee, it should be said, is not to be distinguished from its northern relative, in the bush, I mean, except by its notes. It is slightly smaller, like southern birds in general, but is practically identical in plumage. Apart from its song, what most impressed me was its scarcity. It was found, sooner or later, wherever I went, I believe, but always and surprisingly, small numbers, and I saw only one nest. That was built in a roadside china tree in Tallahassee, and contained young ones April 17th, as was clear from the conduct of its owners. It must not be supposed that I left St. Augustine without another search for my unknown warbler. The very next morning found me again at the swamp, where for at least an hour I sat and listened. I heard no tikoy, tikoo, but was rewarded twice over for my walk. In the first place, before reaching the swamp, I found the third of my flatwood novelties, the red-cockaded woodpecker. As had happened with the nut-hatch and the sparrow, I heard him before saying him. First some notes, which by themselves would hardly have suggested a woodpecker origin, and then a noise of hammering. Taken together the two sounds left little doubt as to their author, and presently I saw him, or rather them, for there were two birds. I learned nothing about them, either then or afterwards. I saw perhaps eight individuals during my ten weeks visit, but it was worth something barely to see and hear them. Henceforth Dreyabalti's Borealis is a bird, and not merely a name. This, as I have said, was among the pines before reaching the swamp. In the swamp itself there suddenly appeared from somewhere as if by magic a dramatic entrance is not without its value, even out of doors. A less novel, but far more impressive figure, a piloted woodpecker, a truly splendid fellow, with the scarlet cheekpatches. When I caught sight of him, he stood on one of the upper branches of a tall pine, looking wonderfully alert and wide awake, now stretching out his scrawny neck, and now drawing it in again, his long crest all the while erect and flaming. After a little time he dropped into the underbrush, out of which came, at intervals, a succession of wraps. I would have given something to have had him under my glass just then, for I had long felt curious to see him in the act of chiseling out those big oblong, clean-cut, sharp-angled peckholes which, close to the base of the tree, make so common and notable a feature of Vermont and New Hampshire forests. But though I did my best, I could not find him, till, all at once, he came up again and took to a tall pine, the tallest in the wood, where he pranced about for a while, striking sundry, picturesque, but seemingly aimless attitudes, and then made off for good. All in all he was a wild-looking bird, if I ever saw one. I was no sooner in St. Augustine, of course, than my eyes were open for wildflowers. Perhaps I felt a little disappointed. Certainly the land was not a blaze with color. In the grass about the old fort there was plenty of the yellow oxalis and the creeping white Houstonia, and from a crevice in the wall out of reach leaned a stalk of goldenrod in full bloom. The reader may smile, if he will, but this last flower was a surprise and a stumbling block, a vernal goldenrod. Dr. Chapman's flora made no mention of such an anomaly. So-thessels, too, looked strangely anachronistic. I had never thought of them as harbingers of springtime. The truth did not break upon me till a week or so afterward. Then, on the way to the beach at Daytona, where the pleasant peninsular yellow road traverses a thick forest of short-leaved pines, every tree of which leans heavily inland at the same angle, the leaning pines of Daytona, I always said to myself, as I passed. I came upon some white beggar's ticks, like daisies, and as I stopped to see what they were I noticed the presence of ripe seeds. The plant had been in flower a long time, and then I laughed at my own dullness. It fairly deserved a medal, as if, even in Massachusetts, autumnal flowers, the ground-soul, at least, did not sometimes persist in blossoming far into the winter. A day or two after this I saw a mullion stalk still presenting arms, as it were. The mullion always looked like the soldier to me, with one bright flower. If I had found that in St. Augustine, I flatter myself, I should have been less easily fooled. There were no such last year's relics in the Flatwoods, so far as I remember, but spring blossoms were beginning to make their appearance, there by the middle of February, particularly along the railroad, violets in abundance, viola cuculata, dwarf orange-colored dandelions, cregia, the Judas tree, or redbud, St. Peter's wort, blackberry, the yellow starflower, hypoxis gentia, and butterworks. I recall too, in a swampy spot, a fine fresh tuft of the golden club, with its gorgeous yellow spadex, a plant that I had never seen and bloomed before, although I had once admired a cape cod hollow full of the rank tropical leaves. St. Peter's wort, a low shrub, thrives everywhere in the pine barrens, and, without being especially attractive, its rather sparse yellow flowers, not unlike the St. John's wort, do something to enliven the general waste. The butterworks are beauties and true children of the spring. I picked my first ones, which by chance were of these smaller purple species, pingucula pumelia, on my way down from the woods, on a moist bank.  "'What do you call this flower?' said I. "'Valentine's flower,' he answered at once. "'Ah!' said I, because it is in bloom on St. Valentine's Day, I suppose. "'No, sir,' he said. "'Do you speak Spanish?' I had to shake my head. "'Because I could explain it better in Spanish,' he continued, as if by way of apology. But he went on in perfectly good English. "'If you put one of them under your pillow and think of someone you would like very much to see, someone who has been dead a long time, you will be likely to dream of him. It is a very pretty flower,' he added. And so it is. Hardly prettier, however, to my thinking than the blossoms of the early creeping blackberry, rubus trivialis. With them I fairly fell in love. True white roses, I called them, each with its central ring of dark purplish stamens, as beautiful as the cloudberry, which once, ten years before, I had found on the summit of Mount Clinton in New Hampshire, and refused to believe a rubus. Though Dr. Gray's key led me to that genus again and again. There is something in a name. Say what you will. Some weeks later, and a little farther south, in the flat woods behind New Smyrna, I saw other flowers, but never anything of that tropical exuberance at which the average northern tourist expects to find himself staring. Many places were full of blue iris, the common iris versicolor of New England, but of ranker growth. And here and there a pool was yellow with bladderwort. I was taken also with the larger and taller yellow butterwort, which I used never to see as I went through the woods in the morning, but was sure to find standing in the tall, dry grass along the border of the sandy road, here one and there one, on my return at noon. In similar places grew a yellow daisy, leptoboda, a single big head of a deep color at the top of a leafless stem. It seemed to be one of the most abundant of Florida spring flowers, but I could not learn that it went by any distinctive vernacular name. Beside the railroad track were blue-eyed grass and pipewort, and a dainty blue Lobelia, Lobelia faeiana, with once in a while an extremely pretty choreopsis, having a purple center, and scarcely to be distinguished from one that is common in gardens. No doubt the advancing season brings an increasing wealth of such beauty to the flatwoods. No doubt, too, I missed the larger half of what might have been found even at the time of my visit, for I made no pretence of doing any real botanical work, having neither the time nor the equipment. The birds kept me busy, for the most part, when the country itself did not absorb my attention. More interesting, and a thousand times more memorable, than any flower or bird was the pine baron itself. I have given no true idea of it. I am perfectly aware. Open, park-like, flooded with sunshine, level as a floor. What heartache, laniar breaks out, poor exile, dying of consumption. What heartache, near a hill? A dreary country to ride through, hour after hour, an impossible country to live in, but most pleasant for a half-day winter stroll. Notwithstanding I never went far into it, as I have already said. I had always a profound sensation of remoteness, as if I might go on forever, and be no farther away. Yet here I had more than one reminder that the world is a small place. I met a burly negro in a cart, and fell into talk with him about the Florida climate, an endless topic, out of which a cynical traveler may easily extract almost endless amusement. How about the summers here, I inquired. Were they really as paradisacal? I did not use that word, as some reports would lead one to suppose. The man smiled, as if he had heard something like that before. He did not think the Florida summer a dream of delight, even on the East Coast. I am telling you the truth, sir. The mosquitoes and sand-flags is awful. Was he born here? I asked. No, he came from B. Alabama. Everybody in eastern Florida came from somewhere, as well as I could make out. Oh, from B. said I. Did you know Mr. W. of the blank ironworks? He smiled again. Yes, sir. I used to work for him. He's a nasty man. He spoke the truth that time, beyond a paradventure. He was healthier here than in the other place, he thought, and wagers were higher, but he liked the other place better, for pleasure. It was an odd coincidence, was it not, that I should meet in the solitude a man who knew the only citizen of Alabama with whom I was ever acquainted. At another time I fell in with an oldish colored man, who, like myself, had taken to the woods for a quiet Sunday stroll. He was from Mississippi, he told me. Oh, yes, he remembered the war. He was a slave, twenty-one years old, when it broke out. To his mind the present generation of niggers were a pretty poor lot for all their education.  I had found that story more or less common among Negroes of his age. He didn't believe much in education, but when I asked if he thought that blacks were better off in slavery times, he answered quickly, I'd rather be a free man, I had. He wasn't married. He had plenty to do to take care of himself. We separated, he going one way and I the other, but he turned to ask, with much seriousness, the reader must remember that this was only three months after a national election. Do you think they'll get free trade? Truly, said I to myself, the world is too much with us. Even in the flat woods there's no escaping the tariff question. But I answered. And what was meant to be a reassuring tone? Not yet a while, some time. I hope not, he said, as if liberty to buy and sell would be a dreadful blow to a man living in a shanty in a Florida pine baron. He was taking the matter rather too much to heart, perhaps, but surely it was encouraging to see such a man interested in broad economical questions, and I realized as never before the truth of what the newspaper so continually tell us that political campaigns are educational. CHAPTER II Beside the Marsh I am sitting on an upland bank of a narrow winding creek. Before me is a sea of grass, brown and green of many shades. To the north the marsh is bounded by live oak woods, a line with numberless indentations, beyond which runs the Mantausis River, as I know by the passing and repassing of sails behind the trees. Eastward are sandhills, dazzling white in the sun, with a ragged green fringe along their tops. Then comes a stretch of the open sea, and then more to the south, St. Anastasia Island, with its tall black and white lighthouse, and the cluster of lower buildings at its base. Small sailboats, and now and then a tiny steamer, pass up and down the river, to and from St. Augustine. A delicious south wind is blowing, it is the fifteenth of February, and I sit in the shade of a cedar tree and enjoy the air and the scene. A contrast this to the frozen world I was living in, less than a week ago. As I approached the creek a single spotted sandpiper was teetering along the edge of the water. And the next moment a big blue hair and rose just beyond him, and went flapping away to the middle of the marsh. Now an hour later he is still standing there, towering above the tall grass. Once when I turned that way I saw, as I thought, a stake. And then something moved upon it, a bird of some kind. And what an enormous beak! I raised my field glass. It was the heron. His body was the post, and his head was the bird. Meanwhile the sandpiper has stolen away. I know not winter wear. He must have admitted the tweet, tweet, which with ordinarily he signals his flight. He is the first of his kind I have seen during my brief stay in these parts.   And now a second great blue heron comes in sight and keeps on over the marsh and over the live oak wood and on his way to the Saint Sebastian Marshes, or some point still more remote. A fine show he makes with his wide expanse of wing and his feet drawn up and standing out behind him. Next a marsh hawk and brown plumage come skimming over the grass. This way and that he swerves in ever graceful lines. For one to whom ease and grace come by nature. Even the chase of meadow mice is an act of beauty. While another goes awkwardly through in pursuit of a goddess. Several times I have noticed a kingfisher hovering above the grass. So it looks. But no doubt he is over the arm of a creek. Striking the air with quick strokes and keeping his head pointed downward after the manner of a turn. Then he disappeared while I was looking at something else. Now I remark him sitting motionless upon the top of a post in the midst of the marsh. A third blue heron appears and he too flies over without stopping. Number one still keeps his place. Through the glass I can see him dressing his feathers with his clumsy beak. The lively strain of a white-eyed verio, partist of Songster's, comes to me from somewhere on my right. And the soft chipping of myrtle warblers is all but incessant. I look up from my paper to see a turkey buzzard sailing majestically northward. I watch him till he fades in the distance. Not once does he flap his wings, but sails and sails going with the wind, yet turning again and again to rise against it, helping himself thus to its adverse uplifting pressure in the place of wing-strikes perhaps, and passing onward all the while in beautiful circles. He too, scavenger though he is, has a genius for being graceful. One might almost be willing to be a buzzard to fly like that. The kingfisher and heron are still at their post. An exquisite yellow butterfly, of a sort strange to my Yankee eyes, flits past, followed by a red admiral. The marsh hawk is on the wing again, and while looking at him I describe a second hawk too far away to be made out. Now the air behind me is dark with crows, a hundred or two at least, circling over low cedars. Some motive they have for all their clamor, but it passes my allish wisdom to guess what it can be. A fourth blue heron appears, and drops onto the grass out of sight. Between my feet is a single blossom of the yellow oxalis, the only flower to be seen, and very pretty it is, each petal with an orange spot at the base. Another buzzard, another marsh hawk, another yellow butterfly, and then a smaller one, darker, almost orange. It passes too quickly over the creek and away. The marsh hawk comes nearer, and I see the strong yellow tinge of his plumage, especially underneath. He will grow handsomer as he grows older. A pity the same could not be true of men. Behind me are sharp cries of titlarks. From the direction of the river come frequent reports of guns. Somebody is doing his best to be happy. All at once I prick up my ears. From the grass just across the creek rises the brief hurried song of a long-billed marsh ran. So he is in Florida, is he? Already I have heard confused noises, which I feel sure of the work of rails of some kind. No doubt there is abundant life concealed in those acres on acres of close grass. The heron and the kingfisher are still quiet. Their morning hunt was successful, and for today fate cannot harm them. A buzzard with nervous rustling beats goes directly above the low cedar under which I am resting. At last after a siesta of two hours the heron has changed his place. I looked up just in season to see him sweeping over the grass into which he dropped the next second. The tide is falling. The distant sandhills are winking in the heat, but the breeze is deliciously cool, the very perfection of temperature if a man is to sit still in the shade. It is eleven o'clock. I have a mile to go in the hot sun and turn away. At first I sweep the line once more with my glass. Yonder to the south are two more blue herons standing in the grass. Perhaps there are more still. I sweep the line. Yes, far, far away I can see four heads in a row. Heads and necks rise above the grass, but so far away. Are they birds? Or only posts made alive by my imagination. I look again. I believe I was deceived. They are nothing but stakes. See how in a row they stand. I smile at myself. Just in one of the moves, and another is pulled down suddenly into the grass. I smile again. Ten great blue herons, I say to myself. All this has detained me, and meantime the kingfisher has taken wing and gone noisily up the creek. The marsh hawk appears once more. A kildier sharp, rasping note, a familiar sound in St. Augustine, comes from my no-not-wear.  I can see their feet drawn up under them. My own I must use in plotting her word. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of A Florida Sketchbook This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ewan Baylis A Florida Sketchbook by Bradford Torrey Chapter 3 On the Beach at Daytona The first eight days of my stay in Daytona was so delightful that I felt as if I had never before seen fine weather, even in my dreams. My east window looked across the Halifax River to the Peninsula Woods. Beyond them was the ocean. Immediately after breakfast, therefore, I made toward the North Bridge, and in half an hour or less was on the beach. Beaches are much the same the world over, and there is no need to describe this one. Silver Beach, I think I heard it heard. Except to say that it is broad, hard, and, for a pleasure seeker's purpose, endless. It is backed by low sand hills, covered with impenetrable scrub, oak, and palmetto, beyond which is a dense growth of shortleaved pines. Perfect weather, a perfect beach, and no throng of people, here were the conditions of happiness. And here, for eight days, I found it. The ocean itself was a solitude. Day after day, not a sale was in sight. Looking up and down the beach, I could usually see somewhere in the distance a carriage or two, and as many foot passengers, but I often walked a mile, or sat for half an hour, without being within hail of anyone. Never were airs more gentle or colours more exquisite. As for birds, they were surprisingly scarce, but never wanting altogether. If everything else failed, a few fishhawks were sure to be in sight. I watched them at first with eager interest. Up and down the beach they went, each by himself, with heads pointed downward, scanning the shallow water. Often they stopped in their course, and by means of laborious flapping, held themselves poised over a certain spot. Then, perhaps, they set their wings and shot downward clean under water. If the plunge was unsuccessful, they shook their feathers dry, and were ready to begin again. They had the fisherman's gift. The second, and even the third attempt might fail, but no matter. It was simply a question of time and patience. If the fish was caught, their first concern seemed to be to shift their hold upon it, till its head pointed to the front. That done, they shook themselves vigorously and started landward, the shining white victim wriggling vainly in the clutch of the talons. I took it for granted that they retired with their quarry to some secluded spot on the peninsula. Till one day I happened to be standing upon a sand hill as one passed overhead. Then I perceived that he kept on straight across the peninsula and the river. More than once, however, I saw one of them in no haste to go inland.  I was surprised at the action, but gave it no second thought, nor once imagined that he was making me his protector. Till suddenly a large bird dropped rather awkwardly upon the sand not far before me. He stood for an instant on his long ungainly legs, and then showing a white head and a white tail, rose with a fish in his talons and swept away landward out of sight. Here was the Ospreys parasite, the bald eagle, for which I had been on the watch. Meantime the hawk too had disappeared. Whether it was his fish which the eagle had picked up, having missed it in the air, I cannot say. I did not see it fall, and knew nothing of the eagle's presence until he fluttered to the beach. Some days later I saw the big thief, emblem of American liberty, play his sharp game to the finish. I was crossing the bridge, and by accident turned and looked upward. By accident I say, but I was always doing it. High in the air were two birds, one chasing the other. A fish-hawk and a young eagle, with dark head and tail. The hawk meant to save his dinner if he could. Round and round he went, ascending at every turn, his pursuer after him hotly. For wrought I could see. He stood a good chance of escape, till all at once another pair of wings swept into the field of my glass. A third is in the race, who is the third, speeding away swift as the eagle bird. It was an eagle, an adult, with head and tail white. Only once more the osprey circled. The odds were against him, and he let go the fish. As it fell the old eagle swooped after it, missed it, swooped again, and this time long before it could reach the water, had it fast in his claws. Then off he went, the younger one in pursuit. They passed out of sight behind the trees of an island, one close upon the other, and I do not know how the controversy ended, but I would have wagered a trifle on the old white head, the bird of Washington. The scene reminded me of one I had witnessed in Georgia a fortnight before, on my way south. The train stopped at a backward station. Some of the passengers gathered upon the steps of the car, and the usual bevy of young negroes came alongside. Stand on my head for a nickel, said one. A passenger put his hand into his pocket. The boy did as he had promised, in no very professional style, be it said, and with a grin stretched out his hand. The nickel glistened in the sun, and on the instant a second boy sprang forward, snatched it out of the sand, and made off in triumph amid the hilarious applause of his fellows. The acrobats' countens indicated a sense of injustice, and I had no doubt that my younger eagle was similarly affected. Where is our boasted honour among thieves, I imagine him asking. The bird of freedom is a great bird, and the land of the free is a great country. Here let us hope the parallel ends, whether on the banks of Newfoundland or elsewhere. It cannot be that the great republic would ever snatch a fish that did not belong to it. I admired the address of the fish-hawks until I saw the gannets. Then I perceived that the hawks, with all their practice, were no better than landlubbers. The gannets kept farther out at sea. Sometimes a scattered flock remained in sight for the greater part of a forenoon. With their long, sharp wings, and their outstretched necks, like looms, but with a different flight, they were rakeish-looking customers. Sometimes from a great height, sometimes from a lower, sometimes at an incline, and sometimes vertically, they plunged into the water, and after an absence of some seconds, as it seemed, came up and rested upon the surface. They were too far away to be closely observed, and for a time I did not feel certain what they were. The larger number were in dark plumage, and it was not till a white one appeared that I said with assurance, GANETS!  If he would have come inshore, like the Ospreys, I think I should never have tired of his evolutions. The gannets showed themselves, only now and then, but the brown pelicans were an everyday sight. I had found them first on the beach at St. Augustine. Here at Daytona they never alighted on the sand and seldom in the water. They were always flying up or down the beach, and unless turned from their course by the presence of some suspicious object, they kept straight on, just above the breakers, rising and falling with the waves, now appearing above them, and now out of sight in the trough of the sea. Sometimes a single bird passed, but commonly they were in small flocks. Once I saw seventeen together, a pretty long procession, for whatever their number, they went always in Indian file. Evidently some dreadful thing would happen if two pelicans should ever travel abreast. It was partly this unusual order of march, I suspect, which gave such an air of preternatural gravity to their movements. It was impossible to see even two of them go by, without feeling almost as if I were in church. First both birds flew a rod or two, with slow and stately flapping, then as if at some pre-concerted signal, both set their wings and scaled for about the same presence. Then they resumed their wing strokes, and so on, till they passed out of sight. I never heard them utter a sound, or saw them make a movement of any sort. I speak of what I saw at Daytona, except to fly straight on, one behind another. If church ceremonials are still open to amendment, I would suggest in no-spirited irreverence, that a study of pelican processionals would be certain to yield edifying results. Nothing done in any cathedral could be more solemn. Indeed, their solemnity was so great that I came at last to find it almost ridiculous. But that, of course, was only from a want of faith on the part of the beholder. The birds, as I say, were brown pelicans. Had they been of the other species in churchly white and black, the ecclesiastical effect would perhaps have been heightened. Though such a thing is hardly conceivable. Some beautiful little gulls peculiarly daint it in their appearance. Bonaparte gulls, they are called in books, but surf gulls would be a prettier and apt to name. They were also given to flying along the breakers, but in a manner very different from the pelicans. As different, I may say, as the birds themselves. They, too, moved steadily onward, north or south as the case might be. But, fed as they went, dropping into the shallow water between the incoming waves, and rising to escape the next breaker. The action was characteristic and graceful, though often somewhat nervous and hurried. I noticed that the birds commonly went by twos, but that may have been nothing more than a coincidence. Beside these small surf gulls, never at all numerous, I usually saw a few turns, and now and then one or two rather large gulls, which, as well as I could make out, must have been the ring-build. It was a strange beach, I thought, where fish-hawks invariably outnumbered both gulls and turns. Of beach-birds, properly so-called, I saw none but sandalings. They were no novelty, but I always stopped to look at them, busy as ants, running in a body down the earth, after a receding wave, and the next moment, scampering back again with all speed before an incoming one. They tolerated no near-approach, but were at once on the wing for a long flight, but poured down the coast, looking like a flock of snow-white birds as they turned their underparts to the sun, in rising above the breakers. Their man forward, and a quick eagre movement, as if they had eaten nothing for days, and were fearful that their present bit of good fortune would not last, is strongly characteristic, so that they can be recognised a long way off. As I have said, they were the only true beach-birds, but I rarely failed to see one or two great blue herons playing that role. The first one filled me with surprise. I had never thought of finding him in such a place, but there he stood, and before I was done with Florida beaches, I had come to look upon him as one of their most constant habituaries. In truth, this largest of the herons is well-nigh omnipresent in Florida. Wherever there is water, fresh or salt, he is certain to be met with sooner or later. And even in the driest place, if you stay there long enough, you will be likely to see him passing overhead, on his way to the water, which is nowhere far off. On the beach, as everywhere else, he is a model of patience. To the best of my recollection, I never saw him catch a fish there, and I really came to think it pathetic, the consistency with which he would stand with the water halfway to his knees, leaning forward expectantly toward the breakers, as if he felt that this great and generous ocean, which had so many fish to spare, could not fail to send him, at last, the morsel for which he was waiting. But indeed, I was not long in perceiving that the southern climate made patience a comparatively easy virtue, and fishing by a natural consequence, a favourite avocation. Day after day, as I crossed the bridges on my way to and from the beach, the same men stood against the rail, holding their poles over the river. They had an air of having been there all winter. I came to recognise them, though I knew none of their names. One was peculiarly happy-looking, almost radiant, with an educated face, and only one hand. His disability hindered him, no doubt. I never saw so much as a sheep head or a drum lying at his feet. But inwardly, I felt sure his look was good. Another was older, fifty at least, sleek and well-dressed. He spoke pleasantly if I addressed him. Otherwise, he attended strictly to business. Every day he was there, morning and afternoon. He, I think, had better fortune than any of the others. Once I saw him land a large and handsome speckled trout to the unmistakable envy of his brother Anglers. Still a third was a younger man with a broad-brimmed straw hat and a taciturn habit, no less persevering than number two, perhaps, but far less successful. I marveled a little at their enthusiasm. There were many besides these. And they, in their turn, did not altogether conceal their amusements at the foibles of a man still out at Bedlam, who walked and walked and walked. Always with a field-glass protruding from his side pocket, which now and then he pulled out suddenly and levelled at nothing. It is one of the merciful ameliorations of this present evil world that men are thus mutually entertaining. These Anglers were to be congratulated. Ordered south by their physicians, as most of them undoubtedly were, compelled to spend the winter away from friends and business amid all the discomforts of southern hotels. They were happy in having at least one thing which they loved to do. Blessed is the invalid who has an outdoor hobby. One man whom I met more than once in my beach rambles seemed to devote himself to bathing, running and walking. He looked like an athlete. I heard him tell how far he could run without getting winded, and as he sprinted up and down the sand in his scanty bathing costume, I always found him a pleasing spectacle. Another runner there gave me a half hour of amusements that turned at the last to a feeling of almost painful sympathy. He was not in bathing costume, nor did he look particularly athletic. He was teaching his young lady to ride a bicycle, and his pupil was at that most interesting stage of a learner's career when the machine is beginning to steady itself. With a very little assistance she went bravely, while at the same time the young man felt it necessary not to let go his hold upon her for more than a few moments at once. At all events he must be with her at the turn. She piled the pedals with vigor, and he rang alongside or behind as best he could. She excited, and he out of breath.  I left him still panting in his fair one's wake, and hoped it would not turn out a case of love's labours lost. Let us hope too that he was not an invalid. While speaking of these my companions in idleness, I may as well mention an older man, a rural philosopher he seems, whom I met again and again always in search of shells. He was from Indiana, he told me with agreeable loyalty. His grandchildren would like the shells. He had perhaps made a mistake in coming so far south. It was pretty warm, he thought, and he feared the change would be too great when he went home again. If a man's lungs were bad, he ought to go to a warm place, of course. He came for his stomach, which was now pretty well, a capital proof of the superior value of fresh air over proper food in dispeptic troubles. For if there is anywhere in the world a place in which a delicate stomach would fare worse than in a southern hotel of the second or third class, may none but my enemies ever find it. Seashell collecting is not a panacea. For a disease like old age, for instance, it might prove to be an alleviation rather than a cure. But take long enough, and with a sufficient mixture of enthusiasm, a true sine qua non. It will be found efficacious, I believe, in all ordinary cases of dyspepsia. My Indiana man was far from being alone in his cheerful pursuit. If strangers, men or women, met me on the beach and wished to say something more than good morning, they were sure to ask, have you found any pretty shells? One woman was a collector of a more business-like turn. She had brought a camp stool, when I first saw her in the distance was removing her shoes and putting on rubber boots. Then she moved her stool into the surf, sat upon it with a tin pale beside her, and leaning forward over the water, fell to doing something. I could not tell what. She was so industrious that I did not venture to disturb her as I passed, but an hour or two afterward I overtook her going homeward across the peninsula, with her invalid husband, and she showed me her pale full of the tiny coquina clams, which she said were very nice for soup, as indeed I knew. Some days later I found a man collecting them for the market, with the help of a horse and a cylindrical wire roller. With his trousers rolled to his knees he waded in the surf, and shoveled the incoming water and sand into the wire roller through an aperture left for that purpose. Then he closed the aperture, and drove the horse back and forth through the breakers, till the clams were washed clear of the sand, after which he poured them out into a shallow tray, like a long bread pan, and transferred them from that into a big bag. I came up just in time to see them in the tray, bright with all the colours of the rainbow. Called the bag open, he said, I was glad to help, it was perhaps the only useful ten minutes that I passed in Florida, and so, counting quart by quart, he dished them into it. There were thirty odd quarts, but he wanted a bushel in a quarter, and again took up the shovel. The clams themselves were not, canned and shipped, he said, but only the juice. Many rudely built cottages stood on the sandhills just behind the beach, especially at the points, a mile or so apart, where the two Daytona bridge roads come out of the scrub, and one day, while walking up the beach to Ormond, I saw before me a much more elaborate Queen Anne house, fancifully but rather neatly painted, and with a stable to match it looked like an exotic. As I drew near, its venerable owner was at work in front of it, shoveling a path through the sand, just as, at that moment, February 24th, thousands of Yankee householders were shoveling paths through the snow, which then was reported by the newspapers to be seventeen inches deep in the streets of Boston. His reverend air, and his long black coat proclaimed him a clergyman, past all possibility of doubt. He seemed to have got to heaven before death, the place was so attractive, but being still in a body terrestrial, he may have found the meat market rather distant, and mosquitoes and sandflies sometimes a plague. As I walked up the beach, he drove by me in an open wagon with a hired man. They kept on till they came to a log which had been cast up by the sea, and evidently had been sighted from the house. The hired man lifted it into the wagon and they drove back, quite a stirring adventure I imagined, an event to date from, at the very least. The smaller cottages were nearly all empty at that season. At different times I made use of many of them, when the sun was hot, or I had been longer foot. Once I was resting thus on a flight of front steps, when a three seated carriage came down the beach and pulled up opposite. The driver wished to ask me a question I thought. No doubt I looked very much at home. From the day I had entered Florida, everyone I met had seemed to know me intuitively for a New Englander, and most of them, I could not imagine how, had divined that I came from Boston. It gratified me to believe that I was losing a little of my provincial manner under the influence of more extended travel, but my pride had a sudden fall. The carriage stopped, as I said, but instead of inquiring the way the driver alighted, and all the occupants of the carriage proceeded to do the same. Eight women with baskets and sundries. It was time for me to be starting. I descended the steps and pulled off my hat to the first comer, who turned out to be the proprietor of the establishment. With a gracious smile she hoped they were not fighting me away. She and her friends had come for a day's picnic at the cottage. Things being as they were, eight women, she could hardly invite me to share the festivities, and, with my best apology for the intrusion, I withdrew. Of one building on the Sandhills I have peculiarly pleasant recollections. It was not a cottage, but had evidently been put up as a public resort, especially as I inferred, for Sunday school or parish picnics. It was furnished with a platform for speechmaking. Is there any foolishness that men will not commit on sea beaches and mountain tops? And, what was more to my purpose, was open on three sides. I passed a good deal of time there, first and last, and once it sheltered me from a drenching shower of an hour or two. The lightning was vivid and the rain fell in sheets, in the midst of the blackness and commotion. A single turn, ghostly white, flew past, and, toward the close, a bunch of sandlings came down the edge of the breakers, still looking for something to eat. The only other living things in sight were the two young fellows who had improved the opportunity to try a dip in the surf. Their colour indicated that they were not yet hardened to open air bathing, and from their actions it was evident that they found the ocean cool. They were wet enough before they were done, but it was mostly with fresh water. Probably they took no harm, but I moved to remark, in passing, that I sometimes wondered how generally physicians who are the patients to Florida for the winter, caution them against imprudent exposure. To me, who am no doctor, it seemed not too safe for young women with consumptive tendencies to be out sailing in open boats on winter evenings, no matter how warm the afternoon had been. While I saw one case where a surf bath, taken by such an invalid, was followed by a day of prostration and fever. We who live here, said a resident, don't think the water is warm enough yet, but for these northern folks it is a great thing to go into the surf in February, and you can't keep them out. The rows of cottages of which I have spoken were in one sense a detriment to the beach, but on the whole, and in their present deserted condition, I found them an advantage. It was easy enough to walk away from them, if a man wanted the feeling of utter solitude. The beach extends, from Matanzas Inlet to Mosquito Inlet, 35 miles more or less. While at other times they not only furnished shadow and deceit, but with the paths and little clearings behind them, were an attraction to many birds. Here I found my first Florida Jays. They sat on the chimney tops and ridge poles, and I was rejoiced to discover that these unique and interesting creatures, one of the special objects in my journey south, were not only common, but to an extraordinary degree approachable. Their extreme confidence in man is one of their oddest characteristics. I heard from more than one person how easily, and in almost no time, they could be tamed, if indeed they needed taming. A resident of Hawkes Park told me that they used to come into his house and stand upon the corners of the dinner table, waiting for their share of the meal. When he was hoeing in the garden, they would perch on his hat, and stay there by the hour unless he drove them off. He never did anything to tame them, except to treat them kindly. When a brood was old enough to leave the nest, the parents brought the youngsters up to the doorstep as a matter of course. The Florida J, a bird of the scrub, is not to be confounded with the Florida Blue J, a smaller, unless conspicuously crested duplicate of our common northern bird, to which it bears little resemblance either in personal appearance or in voice. Seen from behind its aspect is peculiarly striking, the head, wings, rump and tail being dark blue, with an almost rectangular patch of grey set in the midst. Its beak is very stout, and its tail very long, and though it would attract attention anywhere, it is hardly to be called handsome or graceful. There are various notes such of them as I have heard, that is, a mostly gutter all, with little or nothing of the screaming quality which distinguishes the blue J's voice. To my ear they were often suggestive of the northern Shrike. On the 23rd of February I was standing on the rear piazza of one of the cottages when a J flew into the oak fence, and I saw that she was busy upon the nest. When she had gone I moved nearer and waited. She did not return, and I descended the steps and went to the edge of the thicket to inspect her work. A bulky affair, nearly done I thought, loosely constructed of pretty large twigs. I had barely returned to the veranda before the bird appeared again. This time I was in a position to look squarely in upon her. She had some difficulty in edging her way through the dense bushes with a long branching stick in her bill, but she accomplished the feat, fitted the new material into its place, readjusted the other twigs a bit here and there, and then as she rose to depart she looked me suddenly in the face and stopped as much to say, well well here's a pretty go, a man spying upon me. I wondered whether she would throw up the work, but in another minute she was back again with another twig. The nest I should have said was about four feet from the ground and perhaps twenty feet from the cottage. Four days later I found her sitting upon it. She flew off as I came up and I pushed into the scrub far enough to thrust my hand into the nest, which, to my disappointment, was empty. In fact it was still far from completed, for on the third of March, when I paid it a farewell visit, its owner was still at work lining it with fine grass. At that time it was a comfortable looking and really elaborate structure. Both the birds came to look at me as I stood on the piazza. They perched together on the top of the stake so narrow that there was scarcely room for their feet, and as they stood thus side by side, one of them struck its beak several times against the beak of the other, as if in play. I wished them joy of their expected progeny, and was the more ready to believe they would have it for this little display of sportive sentimentality. It was a distinguished company that frequented that row of narrow backyards on the edge of the sand hills. As a newcomer, I found the jays, sometimes there were ten under my eye at once, the most entertaining members of it, but if I had been a dweller there for the summer, I should perhaps have altered my opinion, for the group contained four of the finest of Floridian songsters, the Mockingbird, the Brown Thrasher, the Cardinal Grossbeak, and the Carolina Wren. Rare morning and evening concerts these cottages must have, and besides these there were cat birds, ground doves, red-eyed chiwinks, white-eyed chiwinks, a song sparrow, one of the few that I saw in Florida, Savannah Sparrows, Myrtle Birds, Red Pole Warblers, A Theby, and Two Flickers. The last named Birds, by the way, are never backward about displaying their tender feelings. A tree-top flirtation is their special delight. I hope my readers have all seen one. Few things of the sort are better worth looking at, and here in the absence of trees they had taken to the ridgepole of a house. More than once I remarked white-breasted swallows straggling northward along the line of Sandhills. They were in loose order, but the movement was plainly concerted with all the luck of a vernal migration. This swallow, the first of its family to arrive in New England, remains in Florida throughout the winter, but is known also to go as far south as Central America. The Purple Martins, which, so far as I am aware, do not winter in Florida, had already begun to make their appearance. While crossing the bridge, February 22, I was surprised to notice two of them sitting upon a bird-box over the draw, which just then stood open for the passage of a tugboat. The tell-gatherer told me they had come from some place, eight or ten days before. His attention had been called to them by his cat, who was trying to get up to the box to bid them welcome. He believed that she discovered them within three minutes of their arrival. It seemed not unlikely. In its own way, a cat is a pretty sharp ornithologist. One or two cormorants were almost always about the river. Sometimes they sat upon stakes in a patriotic, spread eagle, attitude, as if drying their wings. A curious sight till one became accustomed to it. Snakebirds and buzzards resort to the same device, but I cannot recall ever seeing any northern bird thus engaged. From the south bridge I one morning saw to my great satisfaction a couple of white pelicans, the only ones that I found in Florida. Though I was assured that within twenty years they had been common along the Halifax and Hillsborough rivers. My birds were flying up the river at a good height. The brown pelicans, on the other hand, made their daily pilgrimages just above the level of the water, as has been already described, and were never over the river, but off the beach. All in all there are a few pleasant walks in Florida, I believe, than the beach round at Daytona, out by one bridge and back by the other. An old hotel keeper, a rural Yankee, if one could tell anything by his look and speech, said to me in a burst of confidence, yes, we've got a climate, and that's about all we have got, climate and sand. I could not entirely agree with him. For myself I found not only fine days, but fine prospects. But there was no denying the sands.


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