We steam on for a few miles, when we come to Welaka, one of the healthiest localities of the state. It stands on a high bluff, fringed with a magnificent growth of live oaks, clothed in their own beautiful robes of green, undecorated by the grey Spanish moss, which, while adding to the graceful appearance of the trees, tells plainly that the malarial fiend is lurking somewhere near. In this locality is grown some of the finest oranges in the state, as the soil is rich and dry, and all the conditions are favourable to their successful cultivation. Directly opposite the landing stage is the mouth of the wonderful Ocklawaha, whose weird depths we have so lately penetrated. Three miles farther on we reach Norwalk, a primitive landing place, where there seems nothing to land for, and nowhere to go to when you have landed. But the settlement, it seems, is laid more than a mile back from the river, and is rather an important little town, the neighbourhood producing a large amount of garden vegetables and fruits. Very few orange growers settle in that location; very few tourists visit it; it is a simple city of homes; it has the regulation number of schools (indeed the simplest hamlet is well off on that score, the means for education are freely scattered throughout the length and breadth of the land; the poorest tillers of the land or toilers of the sea have no excuse for ignorance), churches, banks, etc., and a thriving population of busy workers. It is at this point the lower St. John’s river ends, and we pass into a narrow crooked channel, varying from forty to several hundred feet wide. Here the water loses its clear opaline blue, and reflects the clouds in dark murky shadows. This dingy colour of the water, they say, is owing to the rich, rank vegetation of this tropical region of the St. John’s river. Everywhere the shores are covered with dense forests of oak, cypress, willow, etc., interlaced with gigantic vines, some barren, some bearing a rich fruitage of sweet wild grapes. The grey Spanish moss hangs from the green branches, and reeds, rushes, and all kinds of long tropical grasses form an impenetrable jungle down to the water’s edge--nay, encroach upon the water’s self and sway gently on its surface; and flowers of immense size and brilliant colours are abundant everywhere; they spread over the surface of the water, and flourish on the vines, on the trees, on everything or on nothing, for we catch an occasional glimpse of the mysterious golden-hued air plant among the luxuriant green foliage. Here, too, the alligators and other hideous river reptiles abound, but you must have sharp eyes to get a glimpse of them, for as the steamer approaches they hurry back, and dive under the water, or hide upon the land. This dense jungle scenery is apt to give one an idea that we are going through some of Nature’s primeval solitudes, her secret haunts, impenetrable and uninhabitable for the human race. But that is a wrong idea; this is the low-lying valley region; the ground slopes upwards from the water’s edge, and within a mile or two--nay, sometimes much nearer, only a few hundred yards away from the waterside--are wide clearings where some adventurous pioneer has squatted and made his home, and cultivates the land, his own not by right of purchase, but possession. Only a few hundred yards from the malarial region you may breathe pure, healthful air.