When I saw the little house building, an eighth of a mile beyond my own,
on the Old Bay Road, I wondered who were to be the tenants. The modest
structure was set well back from the road, among the trees, as if the
inmates were to care nothing whatever for a view of the stylish
equipages which sweep by during the summer season. For my part, I like
to see the passing, in town or country; but each has his own
unaccountable taste. The proprietor, who seemed to be also the architect
of the new house, superintended the various details of the work with an
assiduity that gave me a high opinion of his intelligence and executive
ability, and I congratulated myself on the prospect of having some very
agreeable neighbors.

It was quite early in the spring, if I remember, when they moved into
the cottage--a newly married couple, evidently: the wife very young,
pretty, and with the air of a lady; the husband somewhat older, but
still in the first flush of manhood. It was understood in the village
that they came from Baltimore; but no one knew them personally, and they
brought no letters of introduction. (For obvious reasons, I refrain from
mentioning names.) It was clear that, for the present at least, their
own company was entirely sufficient for them. They made no advance
toward the acquaintance of any of the families in the neighborhood, and
consequently were left to themselves. That, apparently, was what they
desired, and why they came to Ponkapog. For after its black bass and
wild duck and teal, solitude is the chief staple of Ponkapog. Perhaps
its perfect rural loveliness should be included. Lying high up under the
wing of the Blue Hills, and in the odorous breath of pines and cedars,
it chances to be the most enchanting bit of unlaced disheveled country
within fifty miles of Boston, which, moreover, can be reached in half an