If you live in a large city, give street and number every time you write. It does not matter if the postman lives next door to you and brings you everything directed to your name. How do your correspondents know that? We do not like to post a valuable letter addressed to "John Smith, Chicago, Ill." He may get it, but we have misgivings. And then, because you gave your address in one letter, don't say: "Oh, he knows where I live. I gave my address in my letter of last week." Yes, so you did, and the letter of last week is filed away where it will take trouble and time to find it, and get from it information that you ought to have given.
The Florida Seminoles.
Since my short article on "Biscayne Bay and its Marvels" was published I have received several letters requesting me to write all I know about southern Florida and the Everglades.
The Seminole Indians are a great attraction during the winter to the southeast coast of Florida. During the summer they traverse the wilds of the Everglades in search of game, which they sell during the winter to the winter visitors at West Palm Beach. The squaws have been busy making moccasins and leggings, and the bucks have been skinning and tanning the hides of deer, alligators, and other game.
The Seminoles, or most of them, are very fond of strong drink, or "wyomie," as it is called in Indian parlance. Many of them can write their names, and some can write notes. They are becoming more civilized in their mode of dress. Here is a note one Indian wrote. I give it as a specimen.
November 20, '95.
Whiskey Man, Sir, I tell you, you whiskey man, you good man, sir, you likes me, and my name, Jackson Charlie. Me send whiskey, big quart whiskey. See you 6th next month; me come see you; me pay you $1.25. Me sell you buckskin, smoking skin.
Jackson Charlie.
The Seminoles own their farms. One of their camps is a very interesting object. They kill and smoke deer-meat, tan the hides, and sell them. There was an Indian school recently established on the east coast. It will be a great benefit if it is continued. One of the interesting Indians at Palm Beach is Little Tom Tiger. Last spring he was cut in the forehead by a bottle hurled at his head by a bad Indian. His father, old Tommie Jumper, dressed the wound and told him he must not touch a drop of wyomie for ten months. When he is spoken to about it, he will count the ten months on his fingers and say, "Ten months soon be up, and I drink wyomie again."
Harry R. Whitcomb.
Umatilla, Fla.