Behind the little house in which I spent a happy childhood, where I toted books from one room to another, where I knelt by my bed nightly to pray, where homemade biscuits buttered and sprinkled with sugar were a favorite treat, is a little shed that, to the outside world, is noted for its ugliness. It is an ancient truck trailer that, I feel certain, was given to Daddy probably 50 years ago by someone who was anxious to unload the ghastly thing. Daddy, never one to turn down anything free that could be used practically, had hauled it to the backyard and settled it near the barn.