“Fell while wearing the grey for them!” There is another monument, somewhat weather-beaten, erected by the Spaniards to commemorate the adoption of the Spanish institutions in 1812. Then there is the grey old rookery of a convent, where the withered old sisters sit for ever making lace--wondrous fine lace it is, and produced in such large quantities we wonder who buys it all. Fronting on the Plaza, also, is the old cathedral, with its quaint Moorish belfry, and still more quaint and ancient peal of bells, one of which bears the stamp of 1682. It is not much regarded from an architectural point of view, its antiquity is everything. Partly facing the Plaza, and partly facing the sea breezes, stands the St. Augustine Hotel. We preferred the “Magnolia,” though its position is perhaps not so good; it stands in the centre of that queer crooked St. George Street, and is as pretty and picturesque as, considering its name, it ought to be, with odd turns and angles, verandahs clinging everywhere covered with blooming flowers, and beautiful magnolias and banana trees in the delicious straggly old garden. The magnolias are not yet in bloom, but from their nest of leafy buds we catch a glimpse of the creamy flower, and the long purplish crimson leaves of the banana still shields the golden fruit from too quick maturity. The oleander is already covered with its luxuriance of crimson, pearly pink, and waxen white bloom, and the Japan plum tree laden with juicy fruit. Stepping out on the verandah in the early morning we find everybody sucking oranges in the most solemn business-like fashion. The gentlemen go at it with a will, and generally work through a whole basketful of the golden fruit; they make a hole at one end and suck with inflated cheeks, like a bevy of ancient cherubs blowing a trumpet, and suck in sweet silence, seemingly oblivious of all that is passing round them as they take their morning dose of this delicious nectar. Some of the ladies peel them with white slim fingers, and extract the juice as daintily as the bee extracts honey from the flower; some of the uncompromising feminine family, “who have no nonsense about them,” pull the orange to pieces, mangle its delicate tissues, and disembowel it with ruthless teeth. Some work as though they were sucking for a wager, and others go through their heap with slow solemn enjoyment. Those who have not eaten a fresh gathered orange in Florida don’t know what an orange is.