70 FLORIDA DAYS.

 Nature knows no sentiment. Her weeds and
 grasses come boldly 'up between the broken
 planks of the porch, with a joyousness which is
 almost insolent. A Cherokee rose lifts its silver
 shield in the doorway, and a tangle of blossom-
 ing briers chokes one narrow window and pushes
 between the fallen weather-boards. Indeed, so
 many weather-boards have loosened and fallen,
 that there is an entrance at more than one
 place; and the door, too, stands open. Strange-
 ly enough, a rusted key hangs still beneath the
 lintel, as though to guard a threshold over which
 the lizard glides, and shadows come and go.
 The wall upon the street is of coquina. The
windows in it have been boarded up, for sill
and sash have long since vanished, so readily
does wood crumble in the hot, wet shadows;
but even these shutters have warped and bro-
ken, so that the passer-by can peer into the
dusky room within. Its hard earthen floor is
spotted with a dim, white mould; there is no
furniture except some empty shelves upon the
wall, and a crucifix over the narrow mantel,
which is only a projecting ledge of the -shell-