There we hunted ducks and turkeys; Or as leaves came drifting down, Sat and watched the graceful squirrel— Heard the distant deep-mouthed hound. I can see the old tent standing, Scent the fragrant coffee pot, And can see the fish a-frying On the coals so red and hot. We could hear the steamboat whistle, Coming to us from afar; And the wild geese loudly calling Far out on the sandy bar. As the darkness gathered round us, The tree tops bare and high Seemed to touch with inky fingers The azure autumn sky. And the shadows in beneath them, Where the firelight did not go, Made a background for dream pictures In those days of long ago. Ah, those faces in the firelight Glowed with ruddy health and joy, As I pictured golden futures Round the camp fire as a boy. I have walked the crowded city, With restless, weary feet— In search of praise and pleasure— But neither seemed complete. For the wine the city offers Must be drunk in little sips, Or like the Dead Sea apples ’Twill be ashes on the lips. So I’m going back a-camping, ’Neath the sunset’s mellow glow, There to dream the dreams of boyhood As in days of long ago. G. W. BROWDER. _Clinton, Ky._ A People Peculiar. Twenty years or more ago, riding through the flat, palmetto-fringed pine woods of east Florida, before Standard Oil Flagler built his coast railroad to Miami, sundry lean, swarthy, active people of both sexes, were frequently to be met with, more especially in and about St. Augustine, and to the southward towards New Smyrna. They are doubtless to be found there yet, though the great influx of miscellaneous strangers renders their racial traits less noticeable than formerly. Ask one of the large-framed Swedes, Germans, or other scions of a more pronounced North-of-Europe type, who and what these Latin looking peasantry are, the chance is you will be answered, or at least would have been at the time I alluded to above: