Never Were Softer Or
More Genial Airs Breathed Out Of The Heavens Than Those Which Played
Around Us As We Ploughed The Waters Of The Matanzas Sound, Passing Under
The Dark Walls Of The Old Fort, And Leaving It Behind Us, Stood For The
Passage To The Main Ocean.
It is a common saying in St. Augustine, that "Florida is the best poor
man's country in the world," and, truly, I believe that those who live on
the shores of this sound find it so.
Its green waters teem with life, and
produce abundance of the finest fish,
" - - - of shell or fin,
And exquisitest name."
Clams are dug up on the pure sands along the beach, where the fishermen
drag their boats ashore, and wherever the salt water dashes, there is an
oyster, if he can find aught upon which to anchor his habitation. Along
the edge of the marshes, next to the water, you see a row - a wall I
should rather say - of oysters, apparently sprouting one out of another, as
high as the tide flows. They are called here, though I do not know why,
ratoon oysters. The abundance of fish solves the problem which has puzzled
many, how the Minorcan population of St. Augustine live, now that their
orange-trees, upon which they formerly depended, are unproductive.
In the steamboat were two or three persons who had visited Florida with a
view of purchasing land. Now that the Indian war is ended, colonization
has revived, and people are thronging into the country to take advantage
of the law which assigns a hundred and sixty acres to every actual
settler.
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