170 GREEN TRAILS AND UPLAND PASTURES 



brook, full of waterfalls, and every fall, I am sure, was 

 duplicated by a thank-you-marm in the road. There 

 would be a short, steep ascent, then a high thank-you- 

 marm at the top, a stretch less steep, then another 

 sharp upgrade and another thank-you-marm. It was 

 as if the winding road was cascading down the moun- 

 tain gorge. The horses knew exactly how to pull the 

 rear wheels over one of these thank-you-marms and let 

 them settle into the little hollow above, which held the 

 wagon stationary while the horses caught their breath. 



"Hosses has got a lot o' sense," the driver said on one 

 such occasion. "They don't tire themselves out ef you 

 don't push 'em. They take things natural. A man 

 don't. He don't let up till all the steam's out o' the 

 boiler." 



Driving on this theory, he was a long time getting to 

 the upland, but I still recall the pleasures of that ride, 

 the rushing, ferny brook, the solemn hemlocks, the steep 

 mountain walls, the smell of woods and wild flowers and 

 brown water on the run. We came at last into a small 

 upland intervale, where there was a cleared field and a 

 house, and then, passing them and climbing another 

 slope, into a larger intervale, with more fields and 

 several houses. But there was still a hill ahead of us, 

 and mountain walls on either side, and we must have 

 ascended two hundred feet more before we reached the 

 lower end of the village. 



This, my driver told me, was the "new" village, 



