OUR C O U X T R Y HOME 



It seems an incredible thing now as I look back, to think I 

 \\ ;i> once that narrow and ignorant and prejudiced Person Who Did 

 Not Want a Country House. Perhaps during all those obstinate 

 years, my lucky star kept me from falling into suburban temptations 

 and free from farming entanglements. I know one thought was 

 always uppermost in our minds, even before the If was exchanged 

 for the When, in discussing this great and to us momentous 

 undertaking. The woods, the Virgin Forest, must never be dis- 

 turbed, not one brown leaf should be taken from its rich covering, 

 not one weak seedling should be denied its growth, but just as we 

 found it, in all its natural beauty, so it should remain. 



It almost seemed as if this particular bit of wild land in the 

 midst of farms and clearings, on the shores of a beautiful lake, had 

 been especially preserved during all those fallow years for our 

 gratification, at least what harm if we thought so ? No sheep 

 or cattle had ever browsed there, the bent-down young sapling of 

 the Indian trail was still visible, the concave boulder where the 

 women once ground their corn lay only half buried in the ground. 

 In mossy hollows stood stiffly the moccasin flower, and the curi- 

 ous squaw-root grew close to the Indian pipe. 



Last to blossom of all the flowers, we found the strange wych- 

 hazel. It met us just within the gate, it followed with its wands of 

 gold our wanderings in burry glens, it led us to the water's edge. 

 The old myth came into my mind: " Wherever points the hazel- 

 rod, there dig, for water ye shall find. " We did not have to even 



