The slow moving shadows of first dark crossed the clear run and crept into the small place where the man and boy hunkered beside a smoldering cow dung skeeter fire. They were almost mesmerized by the tiny varicolored flames of the burning dung; by the cacophonous music from myriads of "choog-choogs", "peep-peeps", "krronkers", and "knee-deeps"; by the whorled and soft gurgling waters; and by the plaintive cry of the phantom "poor-me-one" from the distant hummock. Overhead on the higher branches of the big oak, perched a brace of homed owls, silhouetted against -the sky, bobbing themselves up and down, all the while chortling their eerie: "Whoo-Ah's".

The mingling and blending of these discordant night sounds, fell as music upon the man and boy . . . and their hearts were good . . . They had begun their journey in the early morning time. They had swept the shed and removed the wood sweepings to the outside shavings pile, had sharpened and cleaned and oiled the wood-cutting chisels and the wood lathe, had loosened the pulley belt and closed the sluice gate that diverted the water flow away from the waterwheel.

And when these things were done, the man walked over to where the boy was standing near the door and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. Turning around together, they surveyed their surroundings, the man nodding his head in satisfaction, and they walked through the doorway, fastening the door behind them.

They walked away from the sun through virgin woods and over ground that only nature had seeded, soon coming upon a cattle trail which meandered around the edge of a cedar grove where huge trees towered above grotesque formations of lime rock. The boy shuddered and the man, observing this, smilingly reached out to clasp the boy's hand.

Moving along the cattle trail they skirted the north end of a pond and waded into an ankle-deep slough. There they tarried long enough to gather a brimming hat full of wild may-haws from a tree standing in the water. They knew the mayhaw at its pink and white blossom time, the jelly of its fruit, and as now, the luxury of tasting its tarty sweetness.

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So starts the tale of Will Mclean. A Florida Son that tells the tales of Florida's history thru his personal stories and songs.