watch for our ships coming in from sea.

For leagues of ocean were visible from the tiptop of the ledge, a
tiny cleft peak that held always little rain-pool for thirsty
birds that now and then stopped as they flew over, to dip their
beaks and glance shyly at us, as if they wished to share our
games. We could see the steeples and smokes of Salem in the
distance, and the bill, as it desended, lost itself in mowing
fields that slid again into the river. Beyond that was Rial Side
and Folly Hill, and they looked so very far off!

They called it "over to Green's" across the river. I thought it
was because of the thick growth of dark green junipers, that
covered the cliff-side down to the water's edge; but they were
only giving the name of the farmer who owned the land, Whenever
there was an unusual barking of dogs in the distance, they said
it was "over to Green's." That barking of dogs made the place
seem very mysterious to me.

Our lane ran parallel with the hill and the mowing fields, and
down our lane we were always free to go. It was a genuine lane,
all ups and downs, and too narrow for a street, although at last
they have leveled it and widened it, and made a commonplace
thoroughfare of it. I am glad that my baby life knew it in all
its queer, original irregularities, for it seemed to have a
character of its own, like many of its inhabitants, all the more
charming because it was unlike anything but itself. The hill,
too, is lost now, buried under houses.

Our lane came to an end at some bars that let us into another