The skies are intensely blue, the sunshine glorious; a golden haze, born of the sun’s intensity and the green earth’s responsive gladness, falls like a shining veil everywhere. Surrounded by such scenes at such a season, one is apt to fall into a contemplative mood. I was roused from a state of this drowsy kind of day dreaming by having a bottle of some medicated salts thrust under my nose, and a voice at my elbow inquiring with tender solicitude: “You’re looking pale; sickening for the fever, ma’am?” I devoutly hoped not. “Just recovering from it, then?” added my interlocutor. This I could emphatically deny. I inquired, with a touch of irritation, did a visit to Florida necessitate an attack of malarial fever; and was answered-- “Well, ma’am, most people du hev it ef they stay long enough.” We were growing accustomed to this inquiry, “Have you had the fever?” Everybody asked it; at the same time everybody informed us there was no malaria there in their own immediate surroundings, it existed in the place we had left, and in the place we were going to; it was never present with us; it had been yesterday, or would be to-morrow, but it was never to-day. It reminded us of the jam in _Through the Looking-glass_: “Jam yesterday, and jam to-morrow, but never, never any jam to-day.” People who ought to know have stated that malaria is unknown at any season in any part of Florida, and have written volumes in support of this assertion. Perhaps it may be called by another name; certainly no one can travel through the low-lying districts of the St. John’s River, or, indeed, through any portion of semi-tropical Florida, without realising the fact that, amid all the rich luxuriance, the brilliant sunshine, and soft sweet airs, the fever fiend lies concealed, like the serpent hidden beneath the joys of paradise, biding its time, waiting till the hot summer days are swooning among the flowers. Of course there are some places which at all seasons are more free from malarial disturbances than others. Fernandina may especially be mentioned, and St. Augustine. Jacksonville, and the regions of the Tallahassee country, though certainly liable to invasion, yet usually present a clean bill of health all the year round. But we will indulge in a retrospective view of Florida hereafter; at present we are on the St. John’s River, enjoying the most perfect _dolce far niente_, with no thought beyond the hour, and don’t care to be interrupted even for the very necessary operation of eating. The sound of the dinner bell is a disturbing element, but we must perforce obey its summons; though the mind can be fed on fair sunshine and fine scenery, the body requires more substantial support. On board this boat, and I believe on all that line of river steamers, there is uncommonly good feeding; the meals are excellently well and abundantly served. We “get through” as quickly as possible, and station ourselves again on deck.