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Ezra loved to assist old Kurchibell, the Scotch gardener, and one day he was heard to say, “Mr. Kurchibell ain’ no gyardner less’n he kill dem plegon sassy catbirds and robins; dey jes spilin’ all dem cherries. I’m gwine right straight an tell Ole Mars an Ole Miss!” Betimes Ezra would saunter with basket on each arm to the garden and gather the dew-kissed peaches, apricots, juicy melons and other fruits, and later cull the 100–leaf roses and assist the old gardener in distilling them. The rose cakes left were tucked away in the house linen, the fragrance of which in fancy I still inhale.

The apple trees flung down so many blossoms that they covered the ground. All are gone! so are the other fruit trees and fragrant vines.

“Leaves have their time to fall

And flowers to wither at the North

Wind’s breath,

And stars to set; but all—

Thou hast all seasons for thine

Own, O death!”

About the middle of the garden was a large bower, roughly made of cedar, but as strong as Jacob’s ladder. Clematis, honeysuckle and beautiful trailing roses covered its sides and dome-shaped top so thoroughly that only here and there little sunbeams could pierce and play among the interwoven vines and blossoms. In the center of the bower was a large table, from which fruit was eaten, cards played, tea made (echo), and love made! Almost within arm’s reach of the arbor was a brimming spring, whose water was soft and pure as a dewdrop. The spring is there to-day, and, like the brook, flows on forever.