There it was, the Indian River, rippling idly in full sunlight,
palmettos leaning over the water, palmettos standing as irregular
sentries along the low, reeflike island which stretched away out of
the picture. There was the gigantic, lonely pine he knew well, and,
yes--he could just make it out--there was his own ramshackle little
pier, which stretched in undulating fashion, like a long-legged,
wading caterpillar, from the abrupt shore-line of eroded coquina into
deep water.
He thought at first that this picture of his home was some new and
delicate device put forth by his press-agent. His name on one side of
a window, his birthplace upon the other--what could be more tastefully
appropriate? Therefore, as he spelled out the reading-matter beneath
the photogravure, he was sharply disappointed. It read:
Spend this winter in balmy Florida.
Come to the Land of Perpetual Sunshine.
Golf, tennis, driving, shooting, boating, fishing, all of the best.
There was more, but he had no heart for it; he was disappointed and
puzzled. This picture had, after all, nothing to do with him.
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