The nine miles of interval was passed, riding through an undulating
country, by pleasant farms surrounded with the stone walls so common in
Massachusetts and the eastern states, and by pretty white houses, with
green window blinds and little front flower gardens, with fruit and
shade trees standing sentinels on their borders. Here and there a ledge
of "pudding-stone" cropped out, and the scenery grew more primitive as
we neared the vicinity of the farm. Slowly we rode on, leaving
passengers and parcels by the way until it showed signs of deepening
twilight, when we reached by a slight acclivity the door of the
farmhouse that was at the entrance of the place, where I was soon
joined by my relatives who took me in charge and made me presentable
for supper; but I was too late to join with the family, and took my
first meal with them the following day.
Looking out of the window the next morning, I found it overlooked the
farm-yard and the broad meadow that lay south of the house. What
awakened me was the sound of a trumpet or horn, blown by some one for
rising or breakfast. I dressed leisurely, as I found it was the first
or "rising horn," and went out of the front door for a survey. Before
me was the driveway.
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