an^ XKafnter 6ar5en 



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 live-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, Franfois Victor de Mont- 

 martin, is cut in the base. I could tell 

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

 Franfois, 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 

 12 



