194 GREEN TRAILS AND UPLAND PASTURES 



marms, into a mountain intervale, an isolated com- 

 munity of little farms which is walled on the farther side 

 by the upspringing green flanks of the major range. 

 From the broader valley where Tom's journey began 

 these mountains had not been visible, hidden by the 

 foothills and the forest plateau. They come into the 

 view with a dramatic suddenness, never quite the same 

 under the changing play of mist and light and cloud- 

 shadow upon them, and never seen, however often, 

 without a secret thrill. 



It is frequently twilight, in Winter it may be quite 

 dark, when Tom comes down the last slope into the 

 hamlet which is journey's end. Perhaps a young 

 moon is hanging in the black tracery of the maple 

 boughs and the village lights are golden across the snow. 

 All his packages and letters have been distributed and 

 only the sacks of mail at his feet are left. The usual 

 familiar crowd is awaiting him, in Summer under the 

 porch in front of the store, in Winter around the stove 

 within. The post office is one corner of the "general 

 store," barricaded off by a partition of numbered mail 

 boxes like an artificial bee-hive comb, stood on end, 

 except that it has a little window in the centre through 

 which the postmaster peers. Tom tosses in the mail- 

 sacks over the counter, and warms his hands at the stove, 

 while his neighbours interrogate him regarding the state 

 of the road. There is a curious smell in the store, of ker- 

 osene, coffee, grain, tobacco smoke, cotton cloth, bananas, 



