About This Book
There is a sharp turn just above the hill. The North Elba stage sometimes hesitates there before taking the plunge into the valley below. But this was late September. The morning was brisk, the mountains glorified, the tourists were going home. The four clattering, snorting horses swung into the turn and made straight for the brow-the stout, ruddy-faced driver holding hard on the lines, but making no further effort to check them. Then the boy in the front seat gave his usual "Hey look there " and, the other passengers obeying, as they always did, saw something not especially related to Algonquin, or Tahawus, or Whiteface-the great mountains whose slopes were ablaze with autumn, their peaks already tipped with snow-that was not, indeed, altogether Adirondack scenery. Where the bend came, at the brink, a little weather-beaten cottage cornered-a place with apple trees and some faded summer flowers. In the road in front was a broad flat stone, and upon it a single figure-a little girl of not more than eight-her arm extended toward the approaching stage, in her hand a saucer of berries.
