CHAPTER XXV
IN A TURPENTINE CAMP
The white sands of the Florida coast seem like
the pearly gates drawing reluctantly together behind
the departing traveler. The winter has
rolled up like a scroll behind him, enfolding pictures
of delights so different from those which a
Northern winter could have given him that it
seems as if for him the ages have rolled back and
he is our father Adam stepping forth from Paradise,
while his eyes still cling fondly to beloved
scenes. The swoon of summer is on all the land
which lies blue beyond those pearly gates and the
soft odors follow like half-embodied memories.
Strongest perhaps of these and most gratefully lasting is the resinous aroma of the Southern pines which clothe the level peninsula in living green from Tampa to the Indian River, from Fernandina to the Keys. In the coolest of winter days this odor greets the dawn and lingers behind the sunset, and though the stronger scent of flowers often overpowers it for a time it is always there, a permanent delight. Now the fervid heat
