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Florida's Upper East Coast

( Originally Published Mid 1930's )

Like most travelers to Florida we enter the state by way of Jacksonville, the metropolis and largest city of the state, which appropriately calls itself "The Gateway City." The three great railway systems running through trains from the Northeast to Florida converge at Jacksonville, through whose Union Terminal pass more loaded passenger cars than through any other railway station in America. From Jacksonville substantially all the railway traffic of Florida radiates. It is the center of Florida's transportation web. The largest seaport in the state, through it passes a large part of the water-borne passenger traffic. The great arterial highway which parallels the Atlantic coast from Eastport, Maine, to Miami and beyond to the uttermost southern extremity of the nation, Key West, passes through Jacksonville. Along the highways passing through Jacksonville flow the fleets of busses and a high proportion of the private passenger cars, with or without trailers, in which Florida-bound tourists migrate southward. Here, in Jacksonville's harbor, one may see in the tourist season yachts of every degree, from tiny cabin cruisers to the famous and luxurious craft of the ultra-rich.

Jacksonville airport is the first stop of the through airmail planes as they speed southward from New York on their way to Miami. It is the principal terminal of the motor bus lines which cover all Florida as with a net and connect the state and the city with every other part of the country. Through the port of Jacksonville passes a large proportion of the ocean freight which originates in Florida or which is destined for Florida consumption. The latter is distributed through Jacksonville's warehouses over a trade area which includes not only all of the northern part of Florida but a large part of southern Georgia and southeastern Alabama. With the improvement of physical facilities for distribution and the increasing importance of Jacksonville as an industrial producing center, its trade territory is steadily extending in every direction. Through its three great banks, each with numerous branches strategically located in commercial centers throughout the state, Jacksonville is the financial metropolis of Florida as well as the dominant factor in the state's industrial and commercial life. It is the headquarters for most of the Federal government's activities in Florida, and of many of those of the State government.

Situated twenty-two miles inland from the Atlantic Ocean, at the head of deepwater navigation on the St. Johns River, Jacksonville's history begins with the arrival, at the mouth of the St. Johns, on April 30, 1562, of Captain John Ribault, leader of a band of French Huguenots seeking refuge in America. The following morning, May l, a service of thanksgiving was held on Fort George Island. A stone column today marks the spot where this first Protestant religious service was held in America. Two years later the French established what was intended for a permanent settlement, at St. John's Bluff, a few miles up the river. Under the direction of Rene de Laudonniere they built Fort Caroline. The settlement was raided and the Huguenot colonists exterminated by a Spanish expedition from St. Augustine, on September 20, 1565.

Under Spanish occupancy the old Indian trail between St. Augustine and the point on the St. Johns which was then shallow enough to wade across at low tide became a well-beaten highway, terminating at Fort St. Nicholas in what is now South Jacksonville. Along this road Sir John Hawkins and his English slave-traders drove shackled bands of captured Indians to the Charleston slave market more than three hundred years ago. The English, roughly translating the Indian name of the river crossing, called it Cow Ford, and that name it held until 1822, when the settlement around the foot of what is now Liberty Street was named Jacksonville in honor of Florida's first territorial governor after its annexation to the United States, General Andrew Jackson, afterwards President.

England had taken over Florida from Spain by treaty in 1763. The English colonists of Governor Oglethorpe were already in possession of what the Spaniards had called North Florida, but which from 1735 on was known as Georgia.

At the beginning of the American Revolution the English settlers in Georgia whose loyalty to the King was stronger than their enthusiasm for independence, emulated the example of some of their cousins in the North. Just as thousands of New England families crossed the border into Canada, so did hundreds of Georgia families migrate southward into Florida and settled on the banks of the St. Johns at Cow Ford. They built the Kings Highway southward from Georgia, and down the East Coast to New Smyrna, which the main motor road from the North still follows closely.

Throughout the Revolution Florida remained the only English colony south of the St. Lawrence River that was loyal to King George III; but with the end of the war England not only lost the rebellious colonies but it ceded Florida back to Spain. Determined not to submit to Spanish rule, most of the English at Cow Ford returned to England, abandoning their plantations and their homes. The new Spanish Governor confiscated the lands of the departing settlers and sent agents into the states of the newly formed Republic to the North to induce Americans to come into Florida and take up the lands which the English had abandoned. Those who responded were largely rough and reckless veterans of General Francis Marion's southern army, rebels at heart against discipline and imbued with the restlessness that always characterizes newly discharged fighting men. They promptly declared themselves and the lands they occupied, comprising the whole territory between the St. Johns and the St. Marys River, an independent republic. They seized Fernandina, not without sharp fighting and loss of life on both the Spanish and the American sides; they burned Fort St. Nicholas at the Cow Ford and captured St. Augustine from the Spaniards.

Their Republic of Florida had little semblance of government or order. For twenty years pirates from the waterfront, bandits along the highways and Indians from the forests of the back country raided and robbed the planters and their homes almost without restraint. Cow Ford, an almost deserted village, became the haunt and rendezvous of desperate, dangerous men. This condition lasted until the purchase of Florida by the United States from Spain in 1819. General Jackson, valiant soldier and rigorous disciplinarian, marched across Florida from Pensacola to Cow Ford, with a well-trained body of troops. He restored order on the banks of the St. Johns, drove the Indians back to their forest lairs, hanged a few highwaymen and once more made the settlement and the surrounding territory a peaceful inhabitation for peaceful folk. They gratefully named their town in his honor.

The railroads early cast an eye upon Fernandina, thirtysix miles northeast of Jacksonville, and with a far better deepwater natural harbor, on Cumberland Sound. The first railroad across Florida, the Florida Railroad and Navigation Company, ran from Fernandina to Cedar Key. Its builders acquired all of the waterfront in Fernandina. When Henry Al. Flagler began his railroad operations on the East Coast he planned to start from Fernandina, but the Railroad and Navigation Company refused to let him have any of their waterfront property. He built southward from Jacksonville. The result was to start Jacksonville on its upward climb to metropolitan eminence, while Fernandina declined to its former status of a fishing village. Only now is it starting toward the destiny which its favorable location on Amelia Island between Ocean and Sound has always pointed to.

In the summer of 1937 construction began on the first of two great paper mills at Fernandina, where pine from the millions of acres of timberlands in northeastern Florida and southeastern Georgia will be converted at the rate of hundreds of tons a day into the tough "kraft" wrapping paper and packaging board which is in world-wide demand far in excess of the present supply. And, to finish with Fernandina, which Jacksonville regards as its suburb, it is well worth the visitor's while, stopping off in Jacksonville, to make the motor trip to Fernandina if for nothing else than to see the nearest remaining traces of primitive Florida life, and, in contrast, the thousand-acre State Park created by the joint efforts of the WPA and the CCC around old Fort Clinch, the ancient fortress which marks the farthest north of Spain's occupancy of the Atlantic seaboard, and which still stands, facing the sea, no longer a menace to Governor Oglethorpe's Georgia colonists but a monument to a picturesque epoch of pre-Revolutionary American history.

Romantic traditions hover over Fernandina. Eight flags have flown over the port, not counting the jolly Roger, if, indeed, the pirates of the Spanish Main, who frequently used its harbor as a rendezvous, bothered to identify themselves by hoisting the Skull-and-Crossbones. Jean Ribault hoisted the Fleur-de-Lys of France. The ensigns of Spain, of England and of the turbulent Republic of Florida have fluttered over Fort Clinch. For a brief period, when the South American republics were struggling for their freedom from Spain, Gregor McGregor, the brother-in-law of General Bolivar the Liberator, seized Fernandina as a base of operations against the Spanish in Florida; for Bolivar's ambitious program took in the abolition of Spanish rule everywhere in the Western Hemisphere. During our war with Mexico, Fernandina was one of the few spots on United States soil which was invaded by General Santa Ana's forces, and for a short time the Mexican flag flew here, too. Then, in the 1860's, Fernandina displayed the Stars and Bars of the Confederacy.

Here, in the safe haven of Cumberland Sound, the blockade runners of the War between the States loaded their contraband cargoes of cotton and tobacco, trusting to luck and darkness to slip past the Northern gunboat coast patrol to their bases at Bermuda or the nearby Bahamas. Now deepwater ships will again ply in and out of Fernandina's harbor with cargoes of paper for the world.

A wide, hard-paved highway connects Fernandina with Jacksonville, many of whose residents maintain summer fishing and hunting camps on the smaller islands which cluster about Amelia Island.

Returning to Jacksonville from Fernandina we encounter at the city limits a wide, well parked highway traversing what is becoming the city's chief inland recreation center, with a zoological park attractively housed among mingled palms and pines, where curious and interesting birds and beasts live in the open the year around except for shelter sheds against the rain. Even Minnie, the African elephant, needs no door to her concrete shelter. It is probably the most completely odorless zoo in the world!

The population of Jacksonville by the Florida State Census of 1935 was 148,202. This was an increase of 45,000, or nearly 43 percent, over the 1925 figures; more than double the prewar population of the 1915 census. With its increasing commercial and industrial growth, all the indications are that Jacksonville is growing at even a faster rate of acceleration. Its residential building development has difficulty in keeping pace with the demand for homes. In the heart of its downtown business center, whose wide streets are lined with shops which would do credit to any city, both in appointments and in the quality of merchandise offered, the years since the beginning of the depression have seen a larger proportionate volume of new construction of business buildings, hotels and public buildings than either New York or Philadelphia.

Jacksonville's retail trade runs above $50,000,000 a year and its wholesale business close to $150,000,000, while the value of its manufactured products is estimated at $100,000, 000. The ocean commerce of the port aggregates about three and one-half million tons a year, inbound and outbound, with a total cargo value of around $150,000,000. Jacksonville is the largest port for the distribution of petroleum products on the South Atlantic coast, second only to Savannah for the shipment of naval stores (turpentine and rosin) and first in lumber shipments. The lumber industry is one of the city's largest. Lying as it does on the very edge of the vast pine forests of Florida and Southern Georgia, Jacksonville has developed not only an enormous trade in both coastwise and foreign shipments of lumber, but a wide variety of industries based upon the utilization of this huge supply of raw material. Other important Jacksonville industries include such widely diversified items as cigars, fertilizer, chemical products, crushed oyster shell, concrete products, acetylene gas, glass bottles, storage batteries, ship and boat building, beverages, brick, palmetto fibres, coffee roasting, matches, meat packing and stockyards, upholstery and refrigeration plants.

To those has lately been added the manufacture of paper from pinewood pulp, an industry which is rapidly assuming dominant importance throughout Florida.

Unique among the world's industries is the one in Jacksonville which produces raw material for the use of hens in the manufacture of eggshells and ships its product all over the world. Underlying the marshes along the lower reaches of the St. Johns river are incalculable millions of tons of prehistoric oyster-shells, a solid bed of them more than fifty feet deep and covering many square miles. Now they are dredging these million-year-old oyster-shells, bringing them up to Jacksonville on barges, crushing and grinding them with most ingenious machinery, and selling the product by carloads and shiploads to poultry growers everywhere, to provide the lime grit which hens need to make the shells of their eggs out of it.

One of the world's largest factories, turning out a million and a half "domestic" cigars a day was established in Jacksonville because a cigar manufacturer visited Florida as a winter tourist from the North and decided he wanted to make his permanent home in the state. He picked Jacksonville for his factory site because it was the most economical spot at which to assemble tobaccos from Connecticut, New York and Ohio and from West Florida, as well as the most advantageously situated center from which to distribute the finished product.

There has never been any shortage of labor, both white and negro, in Jacksonville. All industries here, as in the rest of the state, operate under a State Factory Law which prohibits the employment of children under fourteen, and of those under sixteen unless they have a work certificate, and limiting their working hours to nine a day or fifty-four hours a week. Living costs being materially lower in the South, where the climate itself eliminates most of the expense of fuel and clothing, wages are on a lower average scale. Many of Jacksonville's industries operate on a piece-work basis. In the cigar factory, for example, which operates night and day in three eight-hour shifts, girls working full-time earn from eight to nine dollars a week, for the colored girls who operate the simplest machines, to from fifteen dollars and upward for the white operators running the more intricate wrapping and packing machinery.

Jacksonville's industrial and commercial development and its rise to unchallenged leadership among Florida's cities is not entirely due to the accident of its location. There is an aggres sive, forward-looking spirit among the business men of Jacksonville, which is reflected in the management of the affairs of the city and of Duval County. Jacksonville was one of the first cities in America to establish the commission form of government. It was also one of the first to take over the ownership and operation of electric light service as a municipal function. The result is that Jacksonville not only enjoys a very low rate for electric current for industrial and domestic purposes, but the profit realized by the city from the operation of that public utility pays a high percentage of the city's operating expenses and keeps the tax rate down. Jacksonville's city bonds have never sold below par in the financial markets of the North. The city's bonded indebtedness at the end of 1937 was under $11,000,000, having been reduced more than $5,000,000 in the preceding seven years; while the assessed valuation of real estate is above $86,000,000.

In addition to its own good municipal housekeeping, Jacksonville leads almost every project for the advancement of the welfare and interests of the state as a whole. It is the head quarters of the State Chamber of Commerce, in which the local Chambers of Commerce of all Florida are federated, and which thus serves as a clearing house through which movements and enterprises of state-wide importance can be initiated, developed and put into effect.

One of the most important and far-reaching movements of this kind, of incalculable benefit to Florida, was initiated by the State Chamber of Commerce. Through its agricultural com mittee it brought about, in 1936, an agreement between citrus fruit growers of Florida and the association of national chain grocery stores whereby the chain stores undertook the direct distribution to consumers of Florida's surplus grapefruit crop. The result was not only to stabilize this seasonal market but to extend it into regions and communities where grapefruit had never before been sold, or even seen by many people. Such a novelty was it that, according to a chain store manager in a remote northwestern town, one puzzled buyer of the new commodity wrote in to ask how to cook a grapefruit. She had boiled hers for an hour, she said, and it was still tough! There are no affidavits accompanying that anecdote.

One effect which had not been anticipated of this grapefruit marketing arrangement was to defeat the efforts made in the Florida legislative session of 1937 to impose a prohibitive tax upon chain stores. The citrus growers, comprising the largest industry in Florida, refused to subscribe to the doctrine that the chain store is a public enemy.

Jacksonville's own Chamber of Commerce, a particularly well-organized and administered body of citizens, is not only especially energetic and effective in the business fields in which Chambers of Commerce customarily function, but it takes the initiative and active leadership in numerous fields where the ultimate benefit sought is the welfare of the entire state. Such an activity is the annual Fat Stock Show, held in Jacksonville every Spring under the auspices of the local Chamber of Commerce. It has proved one of the most stimulating factors in the state-wide campaign for the improvement of the grade of Florida beef cattle, thereby increasing the incomes of cattle breeders and making it worth while for the meat packing industry to establish new plants in the state.

As a result of the local interest stirred up by the series of cattle shows, such a strong public sentiment has been built up among the farmers who have been accustomed to pasture their cattle in the open, unfenced pine forests and let them roam at will over the highways, that with the sanction of an Act of the 1937 Legislature Duval County, of which Jacksonville is the seat, is proceeding with a program of fencing the entire county. Farmers who had been unmoved by the argument that letting their herds stray along the highways created a serious menace to motorists have been brought to a realization that they can get twice as much money for a grade Hereford steer as for one of the scrub range stock, and that while it was small loss to have a range yearling killed by a car it runs into real money when a "beef critter" worth ten cents a pound on the hoof is thus slaughtered.

The interests of Jacksonville's people, and the interest of the city itself to visitors from the North, are not confined, however, to business and industries. Winter tourists are beginning to discover that Jacksonville has attractions for the vacationist, particularly for such as prefer to enjoy the Florida climate without too much exposure to the sometimes forced gaiety and excitement of many of the distinctly holiday resorts. The city itself, especially in its delightful residential district stretching for miles along the St. Johns River on the north bank and spreading rapidly in a series of charming suburban developments on the south side, has a quiet charm all its own. Its excellent and modern downtown hotels have not acquired the practice, prevalent in the strictly resort communities, of making one rate in the Summer and another, much higher, in Winter, since they are not dependent upon seasonal business. One of them, the George Washington, is reputed to be the first completely air-conditioned hotel in America.

Supplementing the downtown hotel accommodations of Jacksonville are numerous excellent modern residential hotels in the western and southern suburbs, in which, also, are several country clubs and golf courses to which the transient visitor can obtain access at moderate cost. To the motor tourists, with or without trailer, Jacksonville affords the most favorable base for those whose idea of a restful vacation is to run up as much mileage as possible. The shortest and best routes to every part of Florida diverge from Jacksonville; and no one can say that he has seen Florida until he has taken in all that Jacksonville and its environs have to show him, including its truly marvelous beaches.

For the guidance and help of tourists Jacksonville maintains a tourist and recreation bureau with headquarters in Hemming Park, in the center of the city's downtown district, under the joint auspices of the City Commission and the Chamber of Commerce. And the question which the attendants oftenest have to answer is: "How do I get to the beach?"

Jacksonville Beach stands by itself among the ocean frontages of the world. Imagine a stretch of smooth, white sand, packed so firmly that the wheels of an automobile hardly leave a visible track, more than six hundred feet wide at low tide, and freshly packed twice a day when the tide comes in, stretching 36 miles southward from the mouth of the St. Johns River, bordered on one side by palm-fringed dunes and on the other by the blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

That is Jacksonville Beach, reached from the city by a broad twenty-mile concrete boulevard, and offering to the people of Jacksonville and to the tourist every variety of recreation, from quiet cottages, beach clubs with their cabanas and sport facilities, salt water fishing from ocean piers, safe, well-protected ocean bathing, and for those who enjoy them the standard Coney Island attractions, all readily accessible but so grouped and segregated that none impinges too closely upon any of the others.

Many Jacksonville families maintain summer cottages at the beach and live there from May to October, renting their cottages in Winter to visitors from the North. An increasing number of Jacksonville residents have built their permanent homes at the southerly end of the beach, motoring daily back and forth to town. One of the most attractive residential developments in all Florida is at Ponta Vedra, where a country club behind the dunes is the center of a residential suburb in which fifty or more new homes have been built since 1935. The National Lead Company, during the war, acquired sixteen hundred acres of beach property for the sake of certain mineral contents necessary in the manufacture of paint, which it had been importing from Germany but could find nowhere else except in the sands of Jacksonville Beach when that supply was shut off by the war. With its normal source of supply again accessible and operations at its Florida plant terminated, the company looked about for means of disposing of the property without loss and hit upon the successful device of establishing the exclusive suburb of Ponta Vedra.

Leading southward from Jacksonville there are two roads to the oldest city in the United States, St. Augustine. One leads directly from the southerly end of the South Jacksonville bridge over the St. Johns River; the other, a new, hard-paved road, parallels the ocean front just behind the dunes. It is a forty-mile run by the inland route, somewhat more than fifty by way of the shore road.

Florida is a land of strange contrasts. Youngest of all the states east of the Mississippi, younger than any other state in respect of the realization of its possibilities and the develop ment of its natural resources, it contains, in St. Augustine, the oldest city of European pedigree in the United States. And, marvelously enough, St. Augustine, at least in its central downtown section, still looks like an ancient city. Therein lies its charm for the visitor from such modern communities as Boston, New York, or Philadelphia and their environs, or from the chronologically infantile regions of what was the Northwest Territory.

Forty-two years before Captain John Smith landed at Jamestown, and forty-seven years before the Dutch settled Manhattan, Pedro Menendez de Aviles and his Spaniards were building St. Augustine. For three hundred and seventy-two years St. Augustine has been continuously occupied by people speaking a European tongue. We look with veneration on the continuous records of the Plymouth colonists, yet here in St. Augustine are the parish records of the old church which run back to 1594, almost a century before William Penn landed on the banks of the Delaware to found his City of Brotherly Love.

The strongest impression which the visitor to St. Augustine receives from the moment he comes within sight of the ancient city gates is one of age, an impression emphasized by the sense of surprise at finding it so well preserved in a territory so new, for the most part, that it can hardly be said to have any history at all. One is impressed in St. Augustine with the feeling which ancient European cities give the sensitive traveler, a sense of continuity, of being a part of the stream of life and of time from the beginning of things.

Its antiquity has been St. Augustine's chief lure, next to its climate, which it shares with the rest of Florida, since before there was a railroad leading to it. Until Henry M. Flagler, the pioneer railroad builder who opened up Florida's East Coast to settlement and tourist traffic, had extended his rails southward, St. Augustine was and continued for many years to be the chief resort for winter tourists. Mr. Flagler, with admirable discrimination, determined to maintain the Spanish character of the town, and built his great hotel, the Ponce de Leon, which still dominates St. Augustine, in a style which his architects brought directly from Spain. Though most of the other huge caravanseries which Flagler erected farther south have been razed by wreckers or demolished by fire, this modern replica of a bit of the medieval still stands, and is scheduled to remain as the background tying together all the elements constituting the restored and reconstructed historical monument into which archaeologists, engineers and builders began to convert St. Augustine in the Spring of 1937.

Quite the most interesting, and quite possibly the most important development of recent years in Florida, if not of all time, is the program of historical restoration of St. Augus tine, under the joint auspices of the Carnegie Institution of Washington, with the Smithsonian Institution, the American Council of Learned Societies, the Social Science Research Council and the Carnegie Corporation of New York collaborating. With the completion of the project, the cost of which is expected to reach or exceed $9,000,000, under the direction of Dr. Verne E. Chatelain of the Carnegie Institution's staff, men and woman of today and tomorrow will be able to walk through six centuries of history which represents the birth and growth of their own civilization.

The plan of the project is not to restore one period by itself, but to telescope the centuries, bringing the life of the aboriginal Timuquan Indians into clear focus side by side with all the succeeding centuries, the arrival of the Spanish, the French and the English and their struggles for supremacy over each other and over the wild land to which they had come and its savage inhabitants. The plan of depicting history "in the round" is to be carried down to the present day, thus making St. Augustine, the city itself, an epitome of American history from its beginning, as veritable as reproduction of a slice of our national past as the Rockefeller beneficence has made of Virginia's ancient capital city of Williamsburg.

The means for the accomplishment of this project is a revolutionary venture in the field of history and science, for rather than relying on written records to reconstruct the story, as is the usual procedure of the historian, the pan-scientific method will be used; that is, all the arts and sciences will contribute their findings in this region to make a scientifically as well as historically accurate whole. The archaeologist, architect, engineer, geologist, astronomer, botanist, the student of cartography, physical and human geography, languages, medicine, agriculture, plant ecology, anthropology and paleontology will enlarge and enrich the story by their findings.

The restored St. Augustine will tell its own story, and the town will not be "frozen" into any period of its history, but all stages of its development will be represented. There may be a few instances where buildings representing one period of history will be reconstructed in detail, but the general plan is to give the visitor the feel of succeeding centuries. Many houses here today explain this plan. Built of coquina, a sea shell material hardening like concrete, peculiar to this region and distinctly American, these houses have the Spanish features of windowless north walls, gardens and patios facing south, overhanging balconies, living rooms on the second floor, and the added English features of gable roofs and chimneys. But the balconies themselves are not quite like the balconies of Europe. Therefore, in one house may be represented the story of the Spanish and the English occupation, flavored with the personality that is American. It is that blending of old civilizations with the distinctively American flavor that gives St. Augustine a personality which is unique.

These monuments might be called the body of the picture. The work of giving it color, richness and life will be in the studies of folk-lore, traditions, religious observances, to the end of staging historical plays, pantomimes, pageants, festivals, fiestas and pilgrimages in order that those traditions which are the heritage of the people may again become part of their consciousness. Creative activity and the desire to preserve folk skills, home manufacture of handicrafts, such as linen and lace making, traditional domestic food and dishes, stories and literature will all contribute.

In order that the scene may achieve a harmonious and esthetic whole the city has been replanned for the construction of boulevards, promenades and parks; traffic will be rerouted out of the historic areas and parking lots will be developed. Anachronistic buildings will be razed; overhead wires, signs, poles and other disfiguring objects will be removed.

The Historical Museum will be the final achievement of this project, the thing which will tie the completed venture into a perfect whole, a depository of culture presenting in objective fashion the complete story of St. Augustine by means of period rooms, each containing dioramas, models, pictures, charts of explanation, and artifacts relating to single stages in this history. With these objective realities the visitor may then go out to intelligently visit the actual sites.

The philosophy of the project is to achieve the thing beyond research; the educational use of this site. To quote Dr. Chatelain's report of the preliminary survey which was com pleted in March, 1937, the plan will "result in making St. Augustine a great laboratory of history, as well as in the fine arts and social democracy, useful not only in understanding more fully how life progresses, but effective because of its objective realism, far more than books and classrooms can be, in educating all classes of citizens in what may be termed `historical mindedness.' "

The first few months of work on this gigantic project resulted in the tentative verification of the claim of "the oldest house in the United States" to that title, dating it back to, at latest, the late 1500's, while at the same time scientific research shifted the reputed ages of some other St. Augustine buildings from one century to another. The beginning of actual restoration was made at the ancient city gates, with the discovery and re-excavation of the old moat.

The inspiration for this huge project came in the first instance from Mr. Walter B. Fraser, mayor of St. Augustine. Mr. Fraser is manager of the Fountain of Youth Gardens, St. Augustine's most popular tourist resort, where thousands flock daily during the season to drink of the clear, sweet water, although no pretension is made of its medicinal value and it is doubtful whether Ponce de Leon ever found the miraculous Fountain of Youth except in his dreams. In 1934 workmen digging holes in which to plant orange trees in the Fountain of Youth Gardens unearthed a human skeleton. Further digging uncovered more bones. It was ap parent that this had been the site of an ancient cemetery. Recalling the tradition that the Indian village of Seloy, described by early historians, had stood at or near this spot, Mr. Fraser appreciated the possible archaeological value of the discovery and asked the Smithsonian Institution to send a scientific research man down to St. Augustine. Dr. M. W. Sterling, ethnologist of the Smithsonian, came down and identified the skeletons as Indians. Mr. J. Ray Dixon of the Smithsonian staff and an archaeologist of note, directed the uncovering of the entire area, disclosing hundreds of skeletons which had been buried under Christian influence, as indicated by the postures with the hands crossed over the breast.

This was regarded by the Smithsonian as a highly important archaeological discovery, and the greatest pains were taken to collect and study the beads, decorations and other artifacts which had been buried with the bodies, while the dirt was carefully scraped and brushed away from the skeletons, leaving each undisturbed in the position in which it was found exposed upon a pillow of earth and with the bones treated with a preservative to guard against disintegration by exposure to the open air.

Housed under a thatched log structure built after the style of the Timuquan council houses, the Indian graveyard became an added attraction for tourists; but of far greater conse quence, his observation of the methods of archaeological research by Mr. Dixon and his associates and the precision with which science could deduce historical facts and events from the study of the tangible relics of an earlier day, impressed Mr. Fraser with the possibility of applying such methods to the study of the entire ancient city. He went to Washington and there found that Dr. John C. Merriam, president of the Carnegie Institution, and his staff, had been casting about for an opportunity to put their combined knowledge and resources to work upon just such a project. As a background they had the voluminous records of the early Spanish explorers and governors of American colonies, which a corps of research workers had been digging out of the royal archives in Spain for a quarter of a century.

The National Park Service, whose interest arose from its custody of Fort Marion, the well-preserved ancient Spanish fortress which has long been one of the principal tourist attractions of St. Augustine and which is now a National Monument, was also called into consultation. The result was the establishment of the National Committee for the Preservation and Restoration of St. Augustine, and the working out of a plan of cooperation between the various agencies already named. The actual work of restoration began in March, 1937, on a program planned to cover several years, and to make of St. Augustine the chief center of historical information and study of the life of pioneer America.

The program of restoration and research was hardly under way before its effects began to be observable in a new influx of visitors and a rising demand for permanent residences. During the real estate boom of 1925 a pretentious development was begun on Anastasia Island, lying between St. Augustine and the ocean, across the narrow sound known as the Matanzas River. The project collapsed with the collapse of the boom, but it left St. Augustine with its beautiful "Bridge of Lions" leading to the Island, where the concrete seawalls, paved streets and other improvements provided ample room for population growth for years to come. Good roads lead across the Island to the ocean side, where a fine beach provides sea bathing, while southward through the middle of the island a fine state highway has been built, connecting at its lower end, sixteen miles south of the city, with the shore drive on the mainland.

The first French expedition to land on the coast of Florida entered the harbor of St. Augustine and sailed through the Matanzas River in the summer of 1564. Their captain, Lau donniere, named it "The River of the Dolphins," a name which would be still appropriate today, for one of the most interesting sights for those who come to Florida merely to take their ease in comfort under the winter sun is to watch the dolphins (which we call porpoises) frolic and leap in great schools up and down the Matanzas River.

If, instead of following the main highway south from St. Augustine, the motorist crosses the Matanzas River over the Bridge of Lions and drives the length of Anastasia Island over the fine new state highway No. 140 he can cross Matanzas Inlet by bridge or ferry to reach two of Florida's most interesting spots. One is old Fort Matanzas, scene of the massacre of 300 French Huguenots in 1565 by the Spanish under Menendez. Fort Matanzas has been made a National Monument and is under the jurisdiction of the National Park Service.

Seaward from the highway is Florida's newest town, Marineland, where a unique and truly amazing institution, the Marine Studios, has been established. Headed by Cornelius Vanderbilt Whitney, a group of prominent New Yorkers have formed a corporation with half a million dollars in capital, which constructed in 1937 a gigantic scenic aquarium in which large sea creatures never before seen in captivity are on public exhibition under conditions which not only make it possible for visitors to see them from above but to view them from below the water level. Sharks, tuna, porpoises, the giant manta, swordfish, marlin, barracuda and possibly even small whales, if opportunity offers to capture one, may be seen swimming and feeding in their natural element.

The inspiration for this project came from W. Douglas Burden, a young scientist of the staff of the American Museum of Natural History. Scientists have had little opportunity to study marine life under controlled conditions, and the need for such facilities was felt. With the cooperation of Ilia Tolstoy, grandson of the great Russian novelist, and Roy P. Gates, a plan for meeting this need was developed. The resulting Marine Studios consist, primarily, of two huge open air tanks. One is a rectangle, 40 x 100 feet; the other a circular tank of 75 feet diameter. Both are made of steel, and are fitted with portholes around the sides through which visitors can observe the life and actions of the big fish. Watertight galleries enable observers to view the interior of the tanks from three different undersea levels, and also to look upward through the bottom of the rectangular tank. Difficult engineering problems had to be solved, to build suspended tanks so that the interiors would be visible from all angles, and to make the portholes absolutely free from leakage. The tanks are constructed of electrically-welded steel plates, lined inside with a two-inch non-chipping cement enamel.

An immense amount of scientific research was necessary before work on the Marine Studios could be begun. Specimens of seawater from both the Atlantic and Pacific coasts were studied, before it was decided where to locate the studios. It was necessary to find a place where the water was at a constant temperature the year around. Moreover, the water must be crystal-clear, otherwise the principal purpose, that of observing and studying sea creatures, would be defeated. Water from many sources was sent to the New York Aquarium and placed in the tanks there. At last a specimen of seawater obtained from the ocean near the Matanzas Inlet was found not only to have the requisite clarity but to have other properties which no other water had. Fish placed in this water, Dr. Charles M. Breder of the Aquarium reported, seemed to be rejuvenated. This water had been pumped up through a large deposit of coquina, lying four or five feet below the sand about 200 feet from the shore. The coquina apparently acted as a filter, and the supply of water for the Marine Studios' tanks is obtained in the same way, pumped through the coquina bed and into the tanks at the rate of 3,600 gallons a minute.

For capturing big fish alive a special boat has been built, equipped with a large submersible cage into which fish can be herded after being hooked or netted, and towed to Marineland to be floated from the cage into one of the tanks.

Besides the scientific study possibilities in a field about which zoologists and biologists as yet know little, the Marine Studios make a fascinating educational exhibit. Because of the clearness of the water and the possibility of illuminating the interior of the tanks from all sides and below as well as from above, underwater movies of a quality never before achieved are also possible.

The back country behind St. Augustine, lying between the ocean and the St. Johns River, is, naturally, the oldest agricultural region in Florida. Here citrus culture began. The Spanish settlers planted orange and lemon trees and some of the finest orange groves in Florida are to be found here in St. Johns county, many of them having records of continuous production for more than a century. A few miles southwest of St. Augustine lies the town of Hastings, which is the center of the white potato cultivation in Florida. From Hastings and its appropriately named nearby railroad station, "Spuds," are shipped annually nearly three-quarters of the million-bushel potato crop grown in St. Johns and Flagler counties.

It is an intensively agricultural background which lies back of the seaside winter resorts through which the main highways leading south take us on our trip around the state. Crescent Beach, Flagler Beach, Ormond Beach, where the late John D. Rockefeller maintained his winter home for so many years, and the back country communities lying between the ocean and the St. Johns all have their special attraction for winter vacationists and most of them have developed a permanent clientele among people who go to Florida not in search of excitement but for restful relaxation and sunshine.

Daytona Beach, fifty-seven miles south of St. Augustine and ninety-seven from Jacksonville, is distinctly a resort city, whose 20,000 permanent residents are about equally divided between settlers from the North who have retired on their incomes and picked this spot as the one they liked best in Florida, and those who earn their living by catering to the needs and tastes of the floating population of winter and summer vacationists. It is so typical in almost every respect of what Florida offers to tourists and to those seeking year-'round homes for their declining years that it is of interest to examine Daytona Beach in some detail, as representing the golden mean between the extremes of extravagant luxury and ostentation on one hand and the monotony of the severely simple life on the other.

One may, it is true, live as luxuriously in Daytona Beach as anywhere else in Florida, and many persons of wealth have built themselves fine mansions here. But there is no encourage ment of nor facilities for the gay night life and boisterous excitement which some other Florida resorts offer to those whose tastes run to such things. One may live at Daytona Beach as simply and economically as he chooses and still participate in everything which the community has to offer to its guests. The major part of the vacationists who come to Daytona Beach, however, are neither the ultra-rich nor those who have to calculate the precise value of every penny they spend. The result is that Daytona Beach, at the height of its winter season, is a representative cross-section of middle-class America enjoying itself in Florida; and Daytona Beach's season is steadily growing longer at both ends as increasing numbers of people are realizing the truth that there are far less comfortable, though widely advertised, places in which to spend a summer vacation than the shores of Florida. The slogan of Daytona Beach is: "It's Warmer in Winter and Cooler in Summer," and the weather bureau records, showing a winter average of 63 degrees and a summer average of 79, tends to bear out that claim.

The city of Daytona Beach lies on both sides of the Halifax River, another of Florida's salt water sounds forming a part of the intra-coastal waterway system. Its beach has been in ternationally famous from the earliest days of motoring. Here for nearly forty years the world's speed records have been established, and the most spectacular motor races have been held. The hard-packed sand of the almost perfectly level beach makes a race-track 600 feet wide and 26 miles long in the straightaway. No other speedway in the world equals it, except possibly the salt flats of Utah, where Sir Malcolm Campbell, in 1936, for the first time drove a car at 300 miles an hour. The city of Daytona Beach has an outstanding offer of a cash prize of $10,000, which has been augmented by private subscriptions to nearly double that sum, to any racing motorist who will bring the world's speed record back to Florida, where Sir Malcolm in 1935 pushed his "Blue Bird" along the beach at the rate of 276 miles an hour.

Automobile racing, however, is only an occasional high spot of excitement in the life of Daytona Beach, although motorists and motorcyclists among the visitors find a large part of their recreation and enjoyment in motoring up and down its broad expanse. A large part of the life of Daytona Beach is lived in bathing suits, in or out of the water. One wears a bathing suit to go fishing, either surf-casting from the beach, by handline from one of the fishing piers, or going out seriously in a chartered boat after the big ones off-shore.

The chartering of motor boats for deep-sea fishing parties is not listed in any of the statistical records of Florida's income-producing operations, but it must rank as an important, if not a major industry. At every point along the coast where there is a safe harbor for small craft, and that means practically everywhere, there are fishing boats for charter parties, owned and manned by skilful sailors who are also experts in the art of fishing and who, for a charge which usually runs about $30 a day, will take a party of amateurs, usually six, out to where the fish are running and all but guarantee good catches for those who are willing to follow instructions about bait, tackle and technique.

There is good fishing off any part of Florida's coast, anywhere at any time. While certain areas are associated in the minds of sportsmen with certain varieties of fish, every kind of salt water fish found anywhere in the Gulf of Mexico, or in the range of the Gulf Stream on the Atlantic side of Florida, can be caught anywhere else in those waters.

Tarpon fishing has been exploited by annual contests and prizes on the Gulf Coast until many think of tarpon as exclusively a Gulf fish; but tarpon running up well over one hundred pounds are not infrequently taken in the waters close to Daytona. While the largest tarpon on record ever caught by rod and reel was taken off the coast of Mexico and weighed 242Y2 pounds, the largest fish of this variety ever put on the scales was taken in a net by commercial fishermen at the Indian River inlet at the lower end of Daytona Beach. Hundreds of tarpon are caught every year off Ponce de Leon inlet at Daytona. Bluefish, amberjack, sea-bass, salt-water trout, red snappers, sheepshead, pompano and the gigantic jewfish, which averages 150 pounds and frequently exceeds 500, are only a few of the varieties of fish which anglers going out from Daytona Beach may expect to bring home.

Water sports of every kind (except skating and ice-boating) naturally play an important part in the picture of life in Daytona Beach, which is lived practically out-of-doors. The long reaches of the broad Halifax River, unobstructed by bridges except the few leading from the heart of the city's business district on the mainland to the residential and hotel section by the beach, offer an ideal, safe, landlocked expanse for small boat sailing, motor boating, and also for very good fishing. Something like 5,000 motor yachts and commercial motor craft pass through the heart of the city of Daytona Beach annually, going up and down the intra-coastal waterway. Many of them make the city their headquarters for the Winter, and the yacht basins also shelter large numbers of houseboats in which winter visitors make their homes while in Florida.

To accommodate the transient visitors who increase Daytona's population by more than fifty percent in the Winter, and lately by almost as much in the Summer, so successful has been the city's Chamber of Commerce campaign of advertising for hot weather vacationists, the merged communities which formerly were Daytona and Daytona Beach and Seabreeze but are now the single municipality of Daytona Beach, have forty-five hotels of twenty or more rooms each, and 283 apartments, lodging houses and boarding houses offering ten or more rooms each, thus being able to take care of more than 6,000 visitors at once, to say nothing of the other thousands who either own or rent cottages by the season, occupy the cabanas along the south end of the beach, or put up in tourist camps, as many of the short-term transient visitors do.

The reader who has never been to Florida may wonder what all of these folk do with themselves besides fishing, bathing, boating, motoring or just loafing on the beach. The tour ist's days in Daytona Beach and the facilities for entertainment and recreation afforded the visitor are so typical of all Florida resorts that a brief catalogue and calendar, condensed from the city's weekly "Official Greeter and Guide" may clarify one's mental picture of life at a Florida resort. Here, for example, are the announcements of the week's programs at the two big air-conditioned motion picture theatres, showing the same pictures one sees on Broadway, and often before New York sees them. Here is a bathing beauty contest. A baby parade on the beach, open to entries from all over the South, is another featured entertainment. There are open air religious services in the Ocean Amphitheatre at 7:30 every Sunday evening during the summer months, sponsored by the city's ministerial association. The Ocean Amphitheatre, by the way, is a part of Daytona Beach's latest municipal improvement for the benefit of its guests. It stands at one end of the new halfmile stone and concrete "board-walk," along the landward side of the beach. The amphitheatre itself is an open air auditorium which will seat 5,000 persons, facing a great hemispherical band shell, or accoustic reflector, which the community proudly boasts is the largest in the world, and which encloses a stage not only large enough to accommodate the biggest band that ever was, but fully equipped with all of the necessary curtains, scenery-lofts, footlights and dressing rooms for full-sized theatrical performances.

Among the other amusements listed are the four eighteen hole golf courses, where the addict can play on a daily fee basis or take out a ten-game or a season membership, besides a nine-hole course just outside the city. There are public dances every Thursday and Saturday night at the Ocean Pier Casino; a public bridge party every Thursday afternoon, shuffle-board all the time on three different sets of courts; hand-ball courts where anybody can play; an excellent gun club for trap-shooting; free tennis courts, dozens of them. Here are some more bridge parties, every Monday at 2:30, Tuesdays and Fridays at 10 o'clock in the morning, every Tuesday at 8 P. M., every Saturday afternoon; one wonders what the bridge players do on Wednesdays. For those who are old enough to be interested in old-age pensions there is a Townsend Club meeting every Monday evening. The young people have a dance every Friday night, and there is a night club of sorts, with a roof garden, running every night. Five of the nationally organized service and luncheon clubs announce their weekly gatherings with the welcome hand of fellowship extended to visiting members. Members of fraternal organizations will find twenty-four of them having local clubs, lodges, halls or headquarters, while a dozen women's clubs invite visiting ladies interested in their particular fields of activity to attend their meetings.

Whatever else the visitor to Daytona Beach may do on Sunday he need not look far for a church of his own denomination. They are all here, including the Mormon and the Jewish Temple. There are two public libraries and several lending libraries, three daily and two weekly newspapers and a radio station. And the visitor who still finds time hanging heavy on his hands can always go to the big alligator farm, lately removed from South Jacksonville to Daytona Beach, and enjoy delicious shudders at the sight of the huge saurians, or inspect the birds, plumes and eggs at the ostrich farm.

From the Daytona Beach airport there is passenger plane service daily North and South, and almost continuous bus service in every direction. The back country and the nearby towns along the coast are well worth exploring. Unlike most Florida cities, Daytona Beach has no aspiration to become a seaport or a metropolis. It does not seek industries and is content to let its commerce develop along the normal lines of supplying its own people's needs. The visitor to Daytona Beach senses none of the jealousy which many Florida communities feel and express toward each other, nor does the traveler often hear any but kind words spoken of Daytona Beach in other parts of the state. In this respect the city is practically unique.

Less than twenty miles south of Daytona Beach, just below Ponce de Leon Inlet, is the interesting old city of New Smyrna, fronting on Mosquito Lagoon, the northerly bayou of the famous Indian River. New Smyrna is connected by bridges with its own ocean beach and the adjacent popular little winter resort of Coronado Beach.

Like St. Augustine, New Smyrna has more than three centuries of history behind it. Indeed there are partisans of New Smyrna who claim that Menendez planted a settlement here nine months before he ever saw St. Augustine. At any rate, there are many relics of the 16th and 17th century Spanish occupancy here among the ancient moss-draped oaks. A huge Indian mound, "Turtle Mound," is the highest point of land directly on the coast in the Southeast United States. It is said to be the first land sighted by the Spaniards. Here are the crumbling walls of a Spanish mission, the remains of an ancient sugar mill and the foundations of an unfinished Spanish fortress.

New Smyrna was named by a Scotch physician, Dr. Andrew Turnbull, who was given a grant of 60,000 acres by the British government when the English traded Cuba to Spain in exchange for Florida in 1763, and offered a bounty for the production of silk, cotton, indigo and sugar to settlers who would cultivate those crops in Britain's new possession.

Dr. Turnbull had married the daughter of a Syrian merchant of Smyrna, Asia Minor, then under Turkish rule. He conceived the idea of colonizing Florida with Greeks, who were restive under the tyranny of the Turks. He was unable to get permission from the Turkish government to take the class of Greeks whom he wanted out of the country; but he managed to enlist 200 wild mountaineers from Southern Greece, whom even the Turks were glad to be rid of. Then he sailed to Southern Italy and persuaded 110 Italians, who were about to be deported because of misconduct, to join him.

Proceeding westward through the Mediterranean he stopped at the Balearic Islands. Several successive years of crop failures in Minorca had reduced the peasantry to despera tion, and Dr. Turnbull had no difficulty in persuading twelve hundred of these simple, peaceful people of mixed Spanish, Catalonian and Moorish blood, to cast in their lot with him and his wild Peloponnesian tribesmen and Italian convicts.

He named his Florida colony New Smyrna from the birthplace of his wife.

Dr. Turnbull laid out great plantations of sugar cane and indigo, and planned and constructed a drainage system which is still effective and which modern engineers have declared their inability to improve upon.

Between the struggle to subdue the wilderness, and fighting hostile Indians and the Spanish settlers who resented the invasion of the newcomers the New Smyrna colonists had a hard time of it. In 1777 what remained of them moved to St. Augustine, leaving monuments behind them in the shape of cleared lands, drainage canals and sugar mills.

With the passage of nearly two centuries and the violent political and economic disturbances and changes of territorial allegiance to which Florida has been subjected in that period, a large part of Dr. Turnbull's rich acres have gone back to forest and jungle, but the land is still there, awaiting the advent of new settlers and ready to enrich them as the adjacent lands of Volusia County are enriching those who cultivate them. For, as Daytona Beach is typical of a Florida seacoast resort city, so Volusia County, in which it lies, is typical of Florida's agriculture. It grows everything. Other sections, in other parts of the state, may specialize more definitely on particular crops, and there are some parts of the state in which the major agricultural emphasis is upon farm operations of a kind which are not so successful in this region. But as a crosssection of the agricultural background of Peninsular Florida, as distinguished on the one hand from North and West Florida and on the other hand from the essentially tropical country south of Lake Okeechobee, an analysis of Volusia County's farming gives a fair picture in miniature of the whole.

Even the proportion of farm land to forest in Volusia County tallies closely with that of all Florida. Out of 718,720 acres in the whole county there are 76,796 acres in farms and of these farm lands only 23,000 acres are in crops regularly harvested. About 20,000 acres are in pasture-which in Florida usually means open pine woods-and the rest of the farm area is in unpastured woods and waste land. Some 20,000 acres are listed as merchantable timber. As in all the rest of Florida, the soil of Volusia County is far from uniform. Florida farmers call it "spotty." Even from one side of a twenty-acre lot to the other there may be such differences in soil content and quality as to make it impossible to grow on one edge of the field a crop which thrives well on the other side. For this reason great stress is laid upon scientific soil analysis.

The farmer coming into Florida from the North has to forget almost everything he has learned about farming in the North, except that it calls for patience and hard work and is a hazardous occupation at best. But there are few parts of the country in which he can get so much sound, scientifically based advice and such hearty cooperation from those who know as he can in Florida. The Florida Agricultural College, an integral part of the State University at Gainesville, under the direction of Dr. Wilmon Newell, has for years carried on intensive experimental and research work, with experiment stations in each important agricultural region. Through these courses have passed thousands of young Florida farmers, so many and constituting such a high proportion of those engaged in agriculture in the state that it is hardly an exaggeration to say that in no other agricultural commonwealth are the general run of farmers so thoroughly imbued with the scientific principles on which their vocation is based, nor so ready to abandon the old ways when better new ways are discovered. Nor, for that matter, will one find anywhere else than in Florida so many farm owners ready to experiment with new crops. The temptation to experiment is ever-present, everything that will grow at all in Florida grows so luxuriantly and so swiftly.

The county agricultural agent, reporting to the Federal Department of Agriculture but working in close cooperation with the State College of Agriculture, is an important and highly respected personage in every county of Florida where agricultural operations are carried on. He is always an Agricultural College graduate and has usually taken a post-graduate course at the Florida Agricultural College in soil analysis and experimental station work. He is the mentor and guide to whom the farmers of his county take their problems, knowing that he is as much of an enthusiast about Florida agriculture as they are. He works in close harmony with the State Bureau of Marketing, which plays an important part in the distribution of Florida's agricultural products.

With such expert advice and counsel the farmer of Volusia County, or of any other part of Florida, has only himself to blame if he does not find out the precise quality and character of every acre of his land, the kind of crops, if any, which it will grow to best advantage; how and when to plant and cultivate them, where and when to market them and how much he may reasonably expect to receive per unit or earn per acre. All of the knowledge based on years of experience and scientific research is at his command.

Keeping those elemental principles of general application in mind, let us look again at our exhibition cross-section of Florida agriculture, Volusia County. It stretches from the ocean to the upper reaches of the northward flowing St. Johns River. It is, roughly, thirty miles wide and forty miles from North to South. Of its total population of 50,000 more than 15,000 are Negroes. Only a third of its white population are natives of Florida; half of the remainder or about 12,000, were born north of the Mason and Dixon Line. Six-tenths of all of Volusia County's inhabitants live in the cities of Daytona Beach, in DeLand, the county seat and in New Smyrna. Many of them, however, may still be farmers, for a very high proportion of Florida's agriculture, like that of much of Europe, is carried on by farmers who do not live on their farms but in a village or city. The Florida State Census of 1935 enumerated only 737 persons giving their occupation as "farmer" in the entire county, although the Federal Farm Census of the same year reports 2,983 farms, nearly three times the number reported five years previously. The answer to that apparent paradox is that in Volusia County, as elsewhere throughout the Florida peninsula, the largest and most important agricultural product is citrus fruit-oranges, grapefruit, lemons and limes-and that a very large proportion of the citrus groves are owned by people who do not regard or report themselves as farmers. They may be gentlemen of leisure, living in Florida on the income from their groves, or they may be residents of the northern states who come to Florida only in the Winter and whose groves are managed for them, as a large proportion are, by experts, individuals or organizations, who make a business of caring for the citrus groves of non-residents.

But even oranges and grapefruit will not grow everywhere in this typical county, any more than they will grow everywhere in Florida. Citrus trees are particular. The soil they prefer is the Norfolk sandy loam, which Florida folk call "high pine land" to distinguish it from "flatwood land." On the high pine land, where the long-leafed hard yellow pine of the South is the natural virgin growth, the sand and clay subsoil and the elevation of these lands above the surrounding level, make for natural drainage. After land of this type has been cleared it is good soil for general farm crops, but particularly for the tree crops.

The flatwood land, on which the native trees are the socalled "slash pine" which yields an inferior quality of lumber and a smaller output of turpentine and rosin than the long leafed pine, is largely used for pasturage before clearing, and generally produces a considerable undergrowth of palmetto. From almost any point of view the palmetto is a plain nuisance. Its economic value as a source of fiber is so slight that the profit remaining after the expense of cutting and processing it is trifling, although a considerable amount of palmetto fiber is shipped out of Florida for the manufacture of coarse brushes and brooms. Getting rid of the palmetto roots after a piece of low pine land has been logged is frequently a more laborious and expensive operation than removing the pine stumps. The market value of slash pine logs is rising, because it is from this variety of pine that the pulp for Florida's new paper industry is mainly derived.

Once the low pine land has been cleared and adequate drainage and irrigation are provided, its dark loam, usually about two feet thick above an almost impervious subsoil of clay or hardpan, is considered excellent for the production of all crops, except citrus, which are adapted to Central Florida. The flatwood land is tricky, however, and only a chemical soil test will determine whether a given tract, which looks exactly like all the adjacent land, will grow any crops successfully or not.

Around the edges of most of the large flatwood areas are cypress swamps and "hammocks," as Florida calls the patches of rich muck land and black loam which usually rise somewhat above the level of the adjacent country and which, when cleared and cultivated, provide the richest and most fertile of all farm land. These hammocks frequently occur in the depths of the pine forest. They are usually covered with a heavy growth of oaks, magnolias and other hardwood, which to the trained eye of the Florida farmer indicates land of the highest fertility. Most of the hammocks, however, are too small to repay the expense of clearing them.

Along the east coast of Volusia County is a long and wide strip of hammock or hardwood land, with an extremely rich soil of shell, marl and muck. This is the soil upon which the finest oranges in Florida are produced, the famous Indian River fruit which always commands a premium in the nation's markets. It was on this hardwood strip that the Spaniards planted their sugar plantations and where Dr. Turnbull established his colony of Minorcans.

Remains of ancient sugar mills are to be found still standing throughout this section. One of them, particularly well preserved, with its huge waterwheel still in place and much of the masonry of the old boiling vats yet intact after a couple of centuries or more, is at De Leon Spring, in the southwestern part of Volusia County.

It is the local tradition, unshaken in the minds of those who believe it by any of the evidence so far put forth in support of St. Augustine's claims, that this huge spring, from which pour more than a million gallons an hour of cool, crystal clear water, forming a wide, swift river emptying into the St. Johns, was the actual Fountain of Youth of which Ponce de Leon had heard before he left Spain, and that when he landed on the coast which he named Florida on the festival day of Pascua del Florida in 1513, he came ashore at New Smyrna, not at St. Augustine at all, and proceeded at once to visit the great spring which still bears his name.

One may believe that or not; but it is undeniable that the Spanish settlers found the water power generated by the outflow from the spring very useful for grinding sugar cane. Moreover, De Leon Spring has the best authenticated local tradition of buried treasure to be found in Florida.

The Spaniards, if one is to credit the legends which persist, and crop up every now and then all the way from Peru to Georgia, must have had the habit of carrying iron chests full of gold and jewels around with them and either burying them or chucking them into any convenient hole or lake at the least alarm. The De Leon Spring legend runs true to the standard pattern. A party of conquistadors, lugging their treasure with them, camped for the night at De Leon Spring, were surprised by the Indians and threw the chest into the spring.

Whether they were killed by the Indians, or forgot where they had mislaid the treasure, or were not good enough engineers to reclaim it, are points on which the legend is not quite clear. But it sounded plausible enough a few years ago to some adventurous young men to induce them to employ a deep-sea diver to go down in the De Leon Spring and find out if there was anything there. With a good deal of difficulty, owing to the upward rush of water, the diver succeeded in getting down into the deep, dark hole in the limestone at the bottom of the spring. He got his grappling hooks on something which, he reported, felt like a treasure chest, and gave the signal to haul up. They got him back to the surface in safety but the grappling tackle slipped and the treasure chest or whatever it was slid back to the bottom of the cavern, while the diver refused to make another descent.

That sort of believe-it-or-not myths and legends are among the elements that go to make up the lure and the charm of Florida. They even interrupt a dissertation on Florida farming.

Most of Volusia County's farms are on flatwood land, but along the St. Johns River, the whole length of the west side of the county, is a strip of high pine land, from two to five miles wide, given over mainly to citrus growing.