24 HAPPY HOLLOW FARM 



fences meandered on either side, grown over 

 with wild blackberries and thorny smilax and 

 sassafras bushes. Here and there a huge elm 

 bent over, its buds just breaking into frothy 

 green. The rare farms along the road wore a 

 shaggy, unkempt look. The road itself was 

 rough oh, yes, quite rough! Up hill and 

 down it wandered, rain-rutted, twisting back 

 and forth in quest of a smooth place it seemed 

 never to find. We bumped quite a lot as we 

 rode; if the driver tried to dodge a stone in the 

 wheel-tracks, he was sure to drop into a "chug- 

 hole." 



"They'll be working these roads when spring 

 opens up a little more," our real estate man 

 said. He needn't have bothered to say any- 

 thing about it. We weren't really minding 

 the bumps ; for ahead of us, with a fresh reve- 

 lation at each new turn of the way, opened the 

 White River Valley, rimmed with the hills. 

 We gazed and gazed, and couldn't get enough 

 of gazing. 



By and by, turning off through a narrow, 

 stony lane, we came to a rude wire gate in a 

 crumbling rail fence. Just inside the gate the 

 carriage halted. 



"This is the place," our real estater said; and 



