turning the sleigh-tracks in the road into gleaming rills. The
visage of my new acquaintance formed a decided contrast to the
rubicund face of the beef-eating marketman. He was sandy even to his
eyebrows and complexion. His scraggy beard suggested poverty of soil
on his lantern jaws. His frame was as gaunt as that of a scare-crow,
and his hands and feet were enormous. He had one redeeming feature,
however--a pair of blue eyes that looked straight at you and made
you feel that there was no "crookedness" behind them. His brief
letter had led me to expect a man of few words, but I soon found
that John Jones was a talker and a good-natured gossip. He knew
every one we met, and was usually greeted with a rising inflection,
like this, "How are you, John?"

We drove inland for two or three miles.

"No, I didn't crack up the place, and I ain't a-goin' to," said my
real-estate agent. "As I wrote you, you can see for yourself when we
get there, and I'll answer all questions square. I've got the
sellin' of the property, and I mean it shall be a good bargain, good
for me and good for him who buys. I don't intend havin' any
neighbors around blamin' me for a fraud;" and that is all he would
say about it.

On we went, over hills and down dales, surrounded by scenery that
seemed to me beautiful beyond all words, even in its wintry aspect.

"What mountain is that standing off by itself?" I asked.

"Schunemunk," he said. "Your place--well, I guess it will be yours
before plantin'-time comes--faces that mountain and looks up the