Notable 



American Homes 



By Barr Ferree 



" Pakeen" — the House of Samuel Cabot, Esq., Ponkapoag, Massachusetts 



ONKAPOAG is but thirteen miles from Bos- 

 ton by the raih'oad. Presumably, there- 

 fore, it is quite within the pale of metro- 

 politan influence. Certainly the traveler 

 from a distance is justified in assuming — if 

 railroad time tables count for anything — 

 that Mr. Cabot's house is quite close to 

 Boston, and that whatever its other characteristics may be it 

 is certainly not distinguished by remoteness of situation. As 

 a matter of fact, one only reaches the nearest railroad station 

 to immediately leave 

 it for a long drive 

 into the adjacent 

 countryside, a drive 

 so prolonged and 

 through such beau- 

 tiful country that I 

 have no idea what- 

 ever as to the loca- 

 tion of the Cabot 

 house, nor can I tell 

 whether it is near 

 Boston or not, or 

 even so much as re- 

 motely influenced by 

 Boston proximity. 



The journey 

 thither, while it 

 takes some time, is 

 not without many 

 compensating ad- 

 vantages. One loses 

 the New England 

 metropolis gradu- 

 ally, stopping at fre- 

 quent intervals, 

 doubtless with the 

 intention of accus- 

 toming the traveler 

 to the difference be- 

 tween Boston itself 

 and its immediately 

 adjoining suburbs. 

 So numerous are the 

 places at which the 

 train pauses that 

 one has almost for- 

 gotten Boston on 

 arriving at the sta- 

 tion. The carriage 

 presently leaves the 



The Entrance Portico Is Supported by Doric Columns 



highway and turns off into a country road, whence the jour- 

 ney is continued to so great a length that one has serious 

 doubts as to the knowledge of the driver. One is almost 

 immediately lost in the true country, with broad fields and 

 distant hills and woods, which the road approaches closer 

 and closer, until one is in a true woodland — ^trees to the 

 right and left, trees to the front, trees behind. The road is 

 so thickly covered with pine needles that the thud-thud of 

 the horse's hoofs is muflled, and the atmosphere is laden 

 with the sweet odor of the pine woods. Scarce a house is to 



be seen, and the rest- 

 fulness and quiet of 

 the real country — 

 the country that is 

 country, where na- 

 ture still holds su- 

 preme sway and the 

 handiwork of man 

 has made barely an 

 impress — all this 

 penetrates one with 

 a delightful sense of 

 peacefulness. 



Presently you ar- 

 rive, for far off on 

 the left is a stable 

 you instinctively 

 know belongs to an 

 estate of some mag- 

 nitude — a stable of 

 some size, with a 

 coachman's house on 

 one end, a high 

 white central arch in 

 its shingled walls, a 

 green stained gar- 

 age behind it. The 

 entrance road climbs 

 a gentle hill, and 

 there you are before 

 the entrance por- 

 tico ! 



And a most de- 

 lightful and agree- 

 able house it is: a 

 long, low dwelling 

 of stucco, colored 

 French gray, with 

 white trim, and pale 

 blue-green shutters. 

 The front wall is so 



