One of our casual acquaintances accompanies us to the station, loads us with heaps of good wishes and a basket of beautiful flowers; we exchange a pleasant farewell, and the train moves slowly off. We take our last look at the majestic river, whereon we have passed so many delightful hours; it is clothed with a silver sheen, and ripples and sparkles and flashes in the royal light of the sun. The little Palatka steamer, with a single white sail fluttering from its masthead, puffs fussily on its way, bearing a fresh freight of happy tourists on their way to the wonderful Ocklawaha--as it bore us only a few days ago; for a moment it seems to be racing with us, then we pass out of sight. We take a last look at the pretty embowered city of Jacksonville, and then proceed to decorate our section with flowers, have a table set up, get out our books and a little idle needlework, and settle ourselves comfortably in our travelling home. The car is almost empty, and the few companions we have are of the masculine order; the touristical element is absent. Our companions, judging from, their conversation, are all Texan farmers who have been on a trip through Florida, combining business with pleasure, investigating the land generally, seeing how they could improve their own possessions; and gathering up hints and facts and scraps for future use. One talked of giving up his cattle ranch in Texas, and migrating to Florida altogether. “Steers and heifers, and such-like are well enough raisin’,” he said, “but them cattle lifters are always about, and keep us a little too lively all the time. When we go to bed at night we are never sure we sha’n’t find our cattle driven off in the morning, and then--well, there’s generally a little shootin’ before we can get ’em back. I’ve seen so much of that sort of thing that now I’m getting an old man I’m tired of it. It seems all so quiet and peaceful down Florida, no lifters nor raiders thereabouts. I think,” he added, after a pause, “I shall turn my cattle into orange groves.”