A short car drive through the up-and-down stony streets, a ramble through a winding lane, and we are in the midst of a beautiful wild wood flaming with scarlet honeysuckle, creeping up, twining round, and seeming to strangle the great strong trees in its close embrace, drooping its bright blooms like a canopy above our heads; they are lovely to the eye, but, like so many beautiful things, are poisonous and scentless. We wander for hours, but do not get to the end of the crimson woods. Every man, woman, or child we meet--black, white, or brown--have their hands full of the gorgeous rose-red flowers of this Southern honeysuckle, so far richer than its northern sister. Some are carrying them home in baskets for domestic decoration, others make them into wreaths, or wear them on their hats or on their breasts. No matter in what direction you turn on leaving the labyrinths of bricks and mortar, you are at once plunged into a wealth of lovely scenery, fringed on one side with the blazing woods; on one side it is skirted by richly-timbered, well-cultivated lands, jewelled with wild flowers of every hue and colour. Then we come upon a tangle of forest scenery or thickets varying from a few to thousands of acres. These consist of a dense growth of live and water oaks, dog wood, hickory, and pine, hung with garlands of moss, or close clinging draperies of purple blooms, birds are peeping and twittering in and out, butterflies and insects humming, and a whole colony of frogs croaking joyously throughout this luxuriant wilderness. We should not be much surprised to find a fairy city hidden away in this labyrinthine mass of leaves and timbers; who knows but when the evening shadows fall, and a thousand tiny twinkling lights flash hither and thither, we think the fireflies are abroad, when in reality it is the elfin army of lamplighters illuminating their fairy city with wandering stars.