New settlers are frequently found here, living in palmetto-houses. Think of a family composed of ten persons staying in a house made of leaves, with a finely surf-beaten shell-floor, the whole structure nearly fifty feet long, twelve feet high, divided into rooms by pieces of sail-cloth, the roof impervious to water, and no rude winds to blow on them. We have wandered far to find the home of contentment, and here it dwells. How heartily they all eat fish, clams, and oysters! How soundly they sleep on their mossy beds! How happy they appear, building boats or cultivating their lands! How merry they whistle when starting out to fish, or strike in their little canoes! They look exceedingly picturesque gliding about with their torches in the bow of the boat, resembling ignes-fatui more than tangible substance. When they approach the shore the hogs, dogs, and cats all run to meet them, knowing their supplies are coming. Hogs are fattened on fish, and penned a month before killing, when they are given other food to prevent the meat having a fishy flavor. Here conchologists, and persons fond of shell-hunting, can be gratified. After you pass the keys which abound in this bay, you come to a wide beach of snowy whiteness, formed from the débris of shells and coral, worn by the waves which open to the Gulf of Mexico. There is no place in Florida which has such a variety of rare and beautiful shells. Here are also numerous layers of rock, extending into the water, very nearly resembling the St. Augustine coquina, which is used in building chimneys, also house-foundations.
All visitors that come to Florida, who are not confirmed invalids, have their hobby, or favorite amusement, with which they propose to be entertained during their stay. Some love to fish, and require choice morsels to tempt their prey. No rivulet, however remote, if a minnow moves in its sluggish waters, is proof against their explorations. The crabs are pulled out with a celerity that astonishes their crustaceous lordships. The sea-fiddlers cannot come from their holes for a quiet dance on the beach without being jerked up to a tune they never heard before. These are all used for bait, which delights the silly fish very much, until he finds himself a captive in an element which relieves him of vitality. Others are fond of capturing alligators, and many an unfortunate animal is found lying on his back, with his teeth drawn out, his head cut off, and skin missing. The deer-hunter is in for his share of amusement: he loves to camp at night, and, when he can “shine the eyes” of the unsuspecting animal, send a bullet with unfailing certainty through his head.
The most indefatigable, persistent, unrelenting, and unyielding, to any obstacle, is the naturalist. No mire or mud, filled with shapes however monstrous or ugly, is proof against his encroachments. The eagle in her eyrie, with a nest built on the tallest pines, is reached with ropes, the young eaglets captured, to be cut in pieces, their wings measured from tip to tip, feathers counted, and bodies embalmed. Mr. and Mrs. Snake have no privileges, except in their dens, but that of being gobbled up in a very unceremonious manner, their striped hides taken off and stuffed, then carried to the Smithsonian, or some other museum of less celebrity. The ugliest and most repulsive-looking worms have no chance to measure their length outside their dark places of repose with the prospect of ever returning. No butterfly, if discovered, is permitted to pass through its transitions in freedom, for oftentimes, before its wings are spread to the breeze, it becomes a helpless, hopeless prisoner, where in its captivity it can metamorphose much as it pleases, and then yield its life a sacrifice to science. The bugs, with their various shapes and sizes, cannot try the strength of their wings, or compare their green, velvety jackets, with their more plainly-dressed neighbors, without being seized like culprits, and pinned to pasteboard.
Sailing and stopping, how care is lightened of its burden in the life we are now pursuing! There is nothing expected of us, but we are anticipating a great deal of pleasure from the trip. We are now landing at Egmont Key, which is an insular domain—a kingdom bounded by deep waters—a residence among turtles and birds of varied notes. This island is five miles in circumference, and seven from the mainland, commanding the entrance to Tampa Bay. Latitude—north, 27° 36´; longitude—west from Greenwich, 82° 45´. A light-house was erected upon this island in 1848. It is built of brick, and is eighty-six feet above sea-level—lens of the fourth order—the light being a fixture, visible twelve miles. The high tower looks as though it was trying to reach the sky, which overhangs its solitary turret. In this retired spot the ocean-birds resort to build their nests, or rest their pinions for longer flights; and the turtle comes to deposit her eggs, to be fostered by sunbeams, and afterward caressed in emerald waves, when their maternal shells are broken. Here the most frequent sounds are from sighing waves and heavy seas; but, when the weather is calm, feathered songsters of varied notes come from their coverts of safety to sing songs of joy.
Naturalists from every State visit this point—among the number the late lamented Professor Agassiz ranked as the most distinguished. Among the many marines with whose habits we have become conversant, the hermit-crab, also called the soldier-crab, appears the most peculiar. At low tide we saw a large mollusk-shell traveling toward the shore, and wondered why such unaccustomed speed in its movements. We soon discovered crab-claws projecting from its shell, and recognized it as a hermit-crab, an original freebooter. How strangely he looked, with his confiscated house on his back, moving about like a sailor in his boat, using his claws for oars! When the shell he is occupying gets too small for him, like a land-liver he goes house-hunting. If he finds one tenanted which will answer his purpose, he pulls out the occupant with as little ceremony as a fellow-man kicks his drunken brother into the street. He then darts into the shell with great speed, leaving his companion, bruised and homeless, to die at his leisure, or secure another, if he is able.
In this favored spot the eagle teaches her eaglets to face the sun and soar from sight, while the seagulls flap their wings in silence, the cormorant gorges himself to gluttony, and the pelican takes on her cargo of fish, which she carries to a platform raised in front of her nest, that the fledglings may draw their rations without leaving their downy beds, where they remain until they are grown.
Rare sea-shells are found on this beach, and rarer birds; but the rarest of all that is seen on this island is the light-house-keeper, Captain Coons, who is a Spiritualist, a curiosity, a mixture of singularities combined, an enigma of the human species. His presence reminds one of a moving panorama, or kaleidoscope, with a great variety of coloring and adaptations, always changing, and designed to please the crowd before which it is placed. He has much versatility of talent—can scrape almost any old-fashioned tune out of catgut, blow plaintive notes from a flute, and draw “Yankee Doodle” from that unclassic instrument upon which we never read of David the son of Jesse having performed—an accordion. Spirits of persons that have been drowned in the vast deep are said to visit this island more than others: perhaps the proximity favors their coming; and sailors, never remarkable for their piety, while wandering in darkness, and weary of the gnashing teeth in their unhappy abodes, if they do come, it is only seeking rest.