I am examining each detail in the grounds beneath. From the palm leaf that is so strong Saucy runs up and slides down it. Tired of this she picks an odd blossom in shape of a tiny cupid with drawn bow. At her touch shoots the tiny arrow and to break in fragrance. Would that all Love’s arrows were so sweet. I suddenly realize where the verdure of Upper Arc is produced, as familiar forms greet me, faithfully growing up as to the summer day. Where are they now? Glass protected in upper arbor. Tired of the Cupids, Mae now rolls over and over in the grass with abandon of childish glee until she suddenly comes upon two lovers—Show Off and Serpenta (I have named) which latter smiles her a welcome, stooping down to raise her to where they sit, a long, slim, rope looking swing or hammock. But Mae starts back with a scream, which makes me look close. O, dear, it is the live folds of a boa constrictor. I get faint as Robet looks up and takes in the situation. “Do not fear,” she says, “it does not eat children, it is better fed.” Imagining she is laughing at me I brace up to great bravery, asking, “Can I ride, too?” “Yes, we will go down, look out;” the latter in reference to the chair upon which I sit—one of a row of seats around the lower edge, facing outward. I look quite curiously and assure myself its rails are in front as on each side of me, inclosing me quite secure. Connecting it to her own, she presses on them heavily downward. Feeling warned, as curious, I feel the top bend over forwards, still more. I hold quite fast. My head is now where my heels have been. This is not all; increasing the velocity we complete the revolution, and repeat it to the foot of the tower, where I come standing, red with vexation (the idea of a lady of my age rolling down the side of a house), my temperate zone stomach quite upset. But “click” at the top. There is Roba in similar chair, who signifying that she will join us is about to round the edge. I recover my temper in anticipation of being witness to her acrobatic descent—stateliness combined. But no; she slowly goes over, smoothly, down to the bottom dignifiedly—right side up with care. I turn reproachfully to Robet. “I thought you were in for a frolic,” she says innocently. This restores my gaiety and we return to the arbor with zest and join the jolly crowd who are making the garden ring. They make room for me on the boa, where I ride, the danger enhancing the delight. I regret to get down for others. As I do so, the great graceful head of the boa swings close to me, the mouth opens, the eyes dart fire; then next I discover it is an art manufacture. “There are real ones, Auntie, but they do not let strangers ride.”