Thenceforth all the day long we are gliding through the sweetest, loveliest water lane in all the world; winding in and out through mysterious wooded wilds--crooked and full of sudden turns and odd angles. We wonder how our queer little “Okeehumkee” finds her way along; we fancy she must be jointed like an eel, or she could never wriggle her way through this leafy labyrinth. Sometimes, indeed often, she runs her snout against the shore, and the services of a huge black Titan, “Joe,” are called into action; he jumps off the boat, and prods and pushes with a long pole till we are off again. Sometimes the river ties itself into a knot, but the little craft somehow threads her way through the loops and bows, and comes out at the other end of it.
There are no banks on either side of this marvellous Ocklawaha river; the water runs on a level with the shore. Dense masses of jungle and wild forest lands sweep down and close it on either side with their leafy embrace; so closely they clasp it, that often we cannot see a foot of water on either side of us, and the branches of the fine old trees reach their long arms across and interlock one with the other forming a grand overarching avenue above our heads. It is so narrow here and there that it seems as though by some strange magical process the green earth had been liquefied purely for our accommodation in passing through, and anon the stream spreads out like a shining silver mirror in the heart of a jungle of overhanging trees.
Never was there such variety of scenery on a single river; it seems as though Nature had gathered all her forces here just to show how much she could do with her few favourite allies--the forest, rock, and stream. The trees are marching with us side by side, executing strange manœuvres as we pass along, nodding their proud heads, and waving their blessing arms above us; now it is a regiment of tall pines, the bright lances of sunlight glinting and flashing between their boughs; then there is an awkward squad of scrub oaks, magnolias, and gums, lofty palms and dwarf palmettoes, with long grasses and all kinds of brilliant vegetation crowding about their roots, and luxuriant vines and shining mistletoe clinging and climbing round their naked trunks, clothing them with rich verdure, and lost at last in their leafy coronals. All the glowing growth of the forest seems locked and interlocked together, as though the sons of the wilderness were engaged in a wrestling match, trying which could first uproot the other from the ancient soil. Now we face a phalanx of veteran oaks, clothed utterly, and their green boughs hidden, beneath mantles of beautiful Spanish moss; generally it is of deep mourning grey, and hangs like a nun’s veil gently swayed by the passing wind, then it is of a more silvery hue, but always down drooping, as though the iron grey beards of millions of men had been shorn off and flung thither in sport by some wandering wind. Occasionally we come upon masses of strange and wonderful moss; it is long, fibrous, and shining, and hangs in wavy tresses like the golden hair of a woman, as though some sweet Ophelia had been floating down the river, and the envious branches, determined that _all_ should not be lost, stooped downwards, caught and tangled her glistening tresses, while the tide bore the fair form slowly on and the soft breeze still murmurs mournfully “drowned, drowned, drowned.”