THE LITTLE TOWN ON THE HILL 169 



a mail bag, four sacks of feed, and a bundle of morning 

 newspapers. He belonged to the old-fashioned com- 

 municative school of Yankee stage drivers, and before 

 we had accomplished the six uphill miles to the vil- 

 lage (he said it was eight up and four down, but aver- 

 aged six, so they marked it six on the maps), I was in 

 possession of a considerable body of local history, New 

 England folk-lore, and highly flavoured, individual 

 philosophy. Alas! in those days I kept no note book, 

 (nor do I now, except spasmodically!), and this par- 

 ticular stage driver has long since carried his last mail, 

 so I cannot return to atone for my omission. But it 

 was from his lips, I remember, that I first heard the 

 story of the old woman who read in her Bible that faith 

 would remove mountains. As a particular mountain 

 behind her house annoyed her by shutting off the late 

 afternoon sun (he showed me the identical hill), she 

 decided to exercise her faith and will it to be gone, 

 which she accordingly did just as it was spoiling what 

 promised to be a particularly choice sunset. How- 

 ever, she gave it all night to get out of the way, and in 

 the morning ran expectantly to the window. It was 

 still there. 



"Well, I knew it would be!" she said. 



The road we were plodding up the hill led beside a 

 dashing, fern-embroidered and hemlock-shaded brook, 

 which had been the primal engineer without whose 

 aid no road could have been built. It was a beautiful 



