"One little hut among de bushes, -
One dat I love, -
Still sadly to my mem'ry rushes,
No matter where I rove.
When will I see de bees a-hum-ming
All round de comb?
When will I hear de ban-jo tum-ming
Down in my good old home?"
We all joined in the chorus at the end of each verse:
"All de world am sad and dreary
Eb-ry-whar I roam.
O, darkies, how my heart grows weary,
Far from do old folks at home."
We soon entered forests primeval which were
quiet, save for the sound of the axe of the log-thief;
for timber-stealing is a profession which
reaches its greatest perfection on the Florida
state lands and United States naval reserves.
Uncle Sam's territory is being constantly
plundered to supply the steam saw-mills of private
individuals in Florida. Several of the party told
interesting stories of the way in which log-thieves
managed to steal from the government legally.
"There," said one, "is X, who runs his mill
on the largest tract of pine timber Uncle Sam
has got. He once bought a few acres' claim
adjacent to a fine naval reserve. He was not,
of course, able to discover the boundary line
which separated his little tract from the rich
government reserve, so he kept a large force
of men cutting down Uncle Sam's immense
pines, and, hauling them to the Suwanee, floated
them to his mill.
