does it best. He takes your picture in a real orange grove, picking oranges. He is the fortunate possessor of five trees, and some of the five have real oranges growing on them—a few. But who wants to be picking oranges in a skimpy grove? The owner of "George" fixed that. He wired golden fruit and leafy twigs on his trees by the bushel and then, because nature has made it difficult to photograph oranges in their native color, he whitewashed the fruit. As a result you may send home from the ancient Spanish city a picture of yourself, supremely happy, standing beneath trees loaded with real fruit, picking them as nonchalantly as if it was your constant occupation. No wonder people come to St. Augustine by thousands each winter and go away charmed with the place.
But about "George." The first morning that the thermometer stood at seventeen I went out early, wearing a sweater and a big overcoat, besides one's usual garments, and still shivering, so penetrating is this Southern cold. At the gates I found the owner of "George" inside the pen, chopping vigorously. He was removing an ice blanket from the top of the shallow tank in which the alligator was securely frozen. This ice blanket had kept the 'gator secure in a temperature above thirty-two, whereas he would have been frozen stiff if he had not had the wit to get
