I lived, up to the time of the illness that deprived me of my sight and hearing,
in a tiny house consisting of a large square room and a small one,
in which the servant slept. It is a custom in the South to build a small house
near the homestead as an annex to be used on occasion. Such a house my father
built after the Civil War, and when he married my mother they went to live in it.
It was completely covered with vines, climbing roses and honeysuckles.
From the garden it looked like an arbour. The little porch was hidden from view
by a screen of yellow roses and Southern smilax. It was the favourite haunt of
humming-birds and bees. The Keller homestead, where the family lived,
was a few steps from our little rose-bower. It was called"Ivy Green"
because the house and the surrounding trees and fences were covered
with beautiful English ivy. Its old-fashioned garden was the paradise of
my childhood. Even in the days before my teacher came, I used to feel along
the square stiff boxwood hedges, and, guided by the sense of smell would
find the first violets and lilies. There, too, after a fit of temper,
I went to find comfort and to hide my hot face in the cool leaves and grass.
What joy it was to lose myself in that garden of flowers, to wander happily
from spot to spot, until, coming suddenly upon a beautiful vine,
I recognized it by its leaves and blossoms, and knew it was the vine
which covered the tumble-down summer-house at the farther end of the garden!
Here, also, were trailing clematis, drooping jessamine, and some rare sweet flowers
called butterfly lilies, because their fragile petals resemble butterflies'wings.
But the roses-they were loveliest of all. Never have I found in the greenhouses
of the North such heart-satisfying roses as the climbing roses of my
southern home. They used to hang in long festoons from our porch,
filling the whole air with their fragrance, untainted by any earthy smell; and
in the early morning, washed in the dew, they felt so soft, so pure, I could not
help wondering if they did not resemble the asphodels of God's garden.
The beginning of my life was simple and much like every other little life.
I came, I saw, I conquered, as the first baby in the family always does.
There was the usual amount of discussion as to a name for me.
The first baby in the family was not to be lightly named,
every one was emphatic about that. My father suggested the name of
Mildred Campbell, an ancestor whom he highly esteemed, and he declined
to take any further part in the discussion. My mother solved the problem
by giving it as her wish that I should be called after her mother,
whose maiden name was Helen Everett. But in the excitement
of carrying me to church my father lost the name on the way,
very naturally, since it was one in which he had declined to have a part.
When the minister asked him for it, he just remembered that it had been
decided to call me after my grandmother, and he gave her name as Helen Adams.