120 The Turnpike Road. 



It is a blessing that the road is not neat, that is, not 

 neat in the usual sense. The small trees, the black-berry 

 bushes, and a profusion of wild flowers that pathetically 

 bloom and die in their season, grow in many places along 

 either side. No grassy margin and painted fence, could 

 match the splendor of these natural hedges, and praises be 

 to him, who might have, but did not cut them down. 



There are a few pits by the side of the highway, 

 where treasure was buried, near to a large stone and a 

 forked oak tree. At night a man came with a lantern and 

 dug as silently, as stealthily as he could, in great hope of 

 finding the secret store. He started, no doubt, when his 

 pick struck the hard stones, and the night and the mission, 

 made his pulse run high. 



Houseman, and his negro servant, shortly after the 

 Revolution, dug several caverns into a steep hill-side, and 

 you may sit at the mouth of one of the caves, now sur- 

 rounded by undergrowth and trees, and see the passers-by 

 on the Turnpike. He found no gold, it is said, only dug 

 these holes that make quiet nestling places for lonely 

 ramblers, where they may sit on the dry dead leaves, 

 throw their coats open and let the sun beat warmly down. 

 Many wandering creatures take advantage of their shelter, 

 for they are favorites with the woodland tenantry. 



Wild apple trees grow down the lane in the thicket. 

 Two of them bore an abundance of fruit last August; 

 great mellow apples, red and yellow streaked, and the 

 crickets and wild mice helped to devour them. When 

 you sit under the tree and bite deep into one of the apples, 

 disclosing to the light the brown seeds that have been 



