The Half Way House 
farm, where the women with their kerchiefs 
and gleaming sickles were at work in the yel- 
low barley patches. We stopped each time to 
pass a word and see their faces lighten, as we 
told them Parson Gibbons had sent us to see 
their country and had sent messages to them. 
They all asked eagerly when he was coming 
back. 
We crossed a bridge and turned into the 
bushes to let a waggon pass. Instead of pass- 
ing, it stopped in a friendly way while we told 
our names, where we came from, and whither 
we were going. It contained Mrs. Morri- 
son of Green Cove and Mr. Timmons, and 
they were on their way to Mrs. Timmons's 
mother's, for we, too, had learned to be polite 
and ask questions. 
Soon there were no more barley patches and 
the road dwindled to a mere track where the 
horse waded up to his middle in grass, ever- 
lasting, and golden-rod, and finally plunged 
into the dismal swamp that crosses the country 
here. We laboured for several miles through 
as desolate a region as one need care to 
know. It was for the most part an alder- 
choked swamp, the road cut through a solid 
255 
