THE LITTLE TOWN ON THE HILL 171 



though it looked old enough to have been there always. 

 On one side of the road the brook had been dammed 

 into a little mill pond, full of lily pads, and between 

 the dam and the highway stood the sawmill, a rough 

 lean-to of weathered, mouse-gray boards, the big saw 

 singing its last snarling song for the day as we passed 

 by, the smell of fresh-cut pine flooding the surrounding 

 air. Just beyond the mill was the town hall, a small 

 building about the size of the traditional "little red 

 school house," and neatly painted white. Beyond that 

 was a neat white church, of about the same size. Then 

 came a house or two. On the opposite side of the road 

 were other houses, and the general store and post 

 office, where we left the mail, the papers, and the bags 

 of feed. It was an ancient story-and-a-half building, 

 with a front veranda supported by columns. The hitch- 

 ing posts in front were chewed into fantastic totem 

 poles by hungry horses. Around each white column 

 on the veranda, shoulder-high, was a darker ring where 

 the village had leaned, waiting for the mail. On the 

 floor of the veranda, flanking the door, stood ploughs 

 and rakes and other agricultural implements. Inside 

 were the usual curiously scented gloom, the ancient 

 collection of groceries, calico, thread, overalls, straw 

 hats, tobacco, axe handles, saws, kerosene, and the in- 

 evitable bunch of bananas. Since those days, a black 

 tin rack of souvenir post cards has been added, but 

 otherwise there has been but little change. 



