outstretching of the city's influences. Joel Chandler Harris had a
country soul, and if he had been set down in the heart of a metropolis
his home would have stretched out into mystic distances of greenery
and surrounded itself with a limitless reach of cool, vibrant, amber
atmosphere, and looked out upon a colorful and fragrant wilderness of
flowers, and he would have dwelt in the solitudes that God made.

As I walked, a fragrance wrapped me around as with a veil of radiant
mist. It came straight from the heart of his many-varied roses that
claimed much of his time and care. The shadow of two great cedar trees
reached protecting arms after me as I went up to the steps of the
cottage hidden away in a green and purple and golden and pink tangle
of bloom and sweet odors; ivy and wistaria and jasmine and
honeysuckle. Beside the steps grew some of his special pet roses.
Their glowing and fragrant presence sometimes afforded him a congenial
topic of discourse when a guest chanced to approach too closely the
subject of the literary work of the host, if one may use the term in
connection with a writer who so constantly disclaimed any approach to
literature, and so persistently declined to take himself seriously.

In the front yard was a swing that appealed to me reminiscently with
the force of the olden days when I had a swing of my very own. As I
"let the old cat die," we talked of James Whitcomb Riley's poem,
"Waitin' fer the Cat to Die," and Mr. Harris told me of the visit
Riley had made to him not long before. Two men with such cheerful
views of life could not but be congenial, and it was apparent that the
visit had brought joy to them both.

I did not see the three dogs and seven cats--mystic numbers!--but felt
confident that my genial host could not have been satisfied with any