"Beth," this is what the warbler said to her, "come up into this
beautiful tree with us. Stay with us." The enticement of the bird,
added to the fascination trees had for her, was almost too much for so
little a girl to resist. However, she put her fingers into her ears,
and ran on. But, she did not escape temptation thus. Countless beds
of roses, of geraniums, and of many other flowers tempted her to
linger, and gather the fragrant blossoms, but, still she did not
succumb, for there was greater beauty ahead. She beheld a lovely
avenue formed of orange trees and red and white oleanders trimmed to a
perfect archway. The winter had been a mild one. Not only did
luscious ripe oranges cling to the trees, but green fruit was forming,
and there was, also, a wealth of fragrant blossoms. The oleanders,
too, were coming into bloom.

Beth stopped for a moment to draw in some of the wonderful fragrance
that filled the air. No perfume is more delightful than that of orange
blossoms in their native grove. The fruit, too, looks more tempting on
the trees. The glistening green leaves are just the right setting for
the golden yellow balls. Beth wished to stop and eat some of the
fruit, but again she proved firm. She ran on and on under the shade of
the archway that extended a quarter of a mile at the very least. She
ran so fast that her breath shortened and her cheeks flamed.

At the end of the avenue was an arch of stone covered with climbing
Cherokees spread in wild confusion. Beth did not stop to gather any of
the pure, fragrant blossoms, for right in front of the arch was a wharf
leading out on the beautiful St. Johns. The river was from one to two
miles wide at this point. It glistened and rippled under the brilliant
sunshine. As Beth ran out on the wharf, she thought she had never seen