To the south on the river side was the little town of Oxford, a tobacco port, and riding at anchor was a brigantine from Liverpool, being loaded with tobacco by Morris & Callister (Robert Morris and Henry Callister), shipping merchants.[1] From the back porch, through a long, wide and high arbor entwined with fruitful grapevines, you saw Otwell Creek, and the arbor-way led you into a more enchanting garden than the one mentioned in “EZRA,” where my fancy loves to wander, for “a thing of beauty is a joy forever.” It was some fifteen acres in extent. The encircling fences were so overgrown with honeysuckle, clematis and trailing roses as to look like a flowery hedge, with here and there lilacs and snowballs. The winding, wooing walks were hedged with box, and bowing trees were caressed by fruitful grapevines. It was a banqueting place for bees, and a paradise for birds, from little Jennie Wren to the proud mocking bird, and they filled acres of air with their melodious lays. 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. When the weather was dry Miss Henrietta dipped its pellucid water and sprinkled the thirsty arbor vines, “But O! for the touch of a vanished hand And the sound of a voice that is still.”