There was a substratum of hard common-sense in Aunt Diana, where my romantic boat often got aground. It was aground now.
The next morning Eugenio presented himself without waiting for Aunt Di, and John proposed a walk to the Ponce de Leon Spring in his honor.
“It is almost the only spot you have not visited,” he said to us, “and Eugenio must see the sweep of a pine-barren.”
“By all means,” replied the poet, “the stretching glades and far savannas, gemmed with the Southern wild flowers.”
“You have missed the most beautiful flower of all,” said Iris, “ ‘the wild sweet princess of far Florida, the yellow jasmine.’ ”
The Captain was with us, likewise Mokes; but Aunt Diana had sliced in another young lady to keep the balance even; and away we went through the town, across the Maria Sanchez Creek, under the tree arches, and out on to the broad causeway beyond.
“What! walk to Ponce de Leon Spring!” exclaimed the languid St. Augustine ladies as we passed.
“They evidently look upon Northerners as a species of walking madmen,” I said, laughing.
“It is a singular fact,” commented Sara, “that country people never walk if they can help it; they go about their little town and that is all. City people, on the contrary, walk their miles daily as a matter of course. You can almost tell whether a young lady is city or country bred from the mere fact of her walking or not walking.”
“Climate here has something to do with it,” said John, “and also the old Spanish ideas that ladies should wear satin slippers and take as few steps as possible. The Minorcans keep up some of the old ideas still. Courtship is carried on through a window, the maiden within, a rose in her hair, and the favorite Spanish work in her hand, and the lover outside leaning on the casement. Not until a formal acceptance has been given is he allowed to enter the house and rest himself and his aspirations in a chair.”