It is a custom in the South to build a small house near the homestead as an annex to be used on occasion. Such a house my father built after the Civil War, and when he married my mother they went to live in it. It was completely covered with vines, climbing roses and honeysuckles. From the garden it looked like an arbour. The little porch was hidden from view by a screen of yellow roses and Southern smilax. It was the favourite haunt of humming-birds and bees.

The   Keller   homestead,   where   the   family   lived,   was   a   few   steps   from   our   little   rose- bower.   It   was   called  " Ivy   Green"   because   the   house   and   the   surrounding   trees   and   fences   were   covered   with   beautiful   English   ivy.   Its   old- fashioned   garden   was   the   paradise   of   my   childhood.

Even   in   the   days   before   my   teacher   came,   I   used   to   feel   along   the   square   stiff   boxwood   hedges,   and,   guided   by   the   sense   of   smell   would   find   the   first   violets   and   lilies.   There,   too,   after   a   fit   of   temper,   I   went   to   find   comfort   and   to   hide   my   hot   face   in   the   cool   leaves   and   grass.   What   joy   it   was   to   lose   myself   in   that   garden   of   flowers,   to   wander   happily   from   spot   to   spot,   until,   coming   suddenly   upon   a   beautiful   vine,   I   recognized   it   by   its   leaves   and   blossoms,   and   knew   it   was   the   vine   which   covered   the   tumble- down   summer- house   at   the   farther   end   of   the   garden!   Here,   also,   were   trailing   clematis,   drooping   jessamine,   and   some   rare   sweet   flowers   called   butterfly   lilies,   because   their   fragile   petals   resemble   butterflies'   wings.