/ID^ Mtnter 6ar^en 



architectural art has ever entered, not even 

 by stealth. It spreads its body and wings 

 widely out, like those of a chicken in the 

 sun, having an air decidedly self-compla- 

 cent, its low and disproportionately broad 

 verandas smothered in vines. 



Great Hve-oaks embower it, letting fall a 

 beard of Spanish moss to dangle on the 

 roof-slopes. Loopholes are made in the 

 vines so as to give a full view of every 

 space and vista, while out in an area, be- 

 side a huge century-plant, stands a sun- 

 dial brought here a hundred and thirty 

 years ago by a seafaring Frenchman, 

 whose name, Francois Victor de Mont- 

 martin, is cut in the base. I could tell 

 you a story, as told to me, of this same 

 Frangois, but you would not care for it 

 — a story of almost ancient flavor, about 

 a young wife he brought here from San 

 Domingo or some other distant land, and 

 housed in a cabin, or rather a spacious log 

 pen thatched with palms. He loved her 

 madly, surrounded her with rich things 

 from all climes, clothed her in queenly 

 splendors, and watched her by day and by 



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