While we were getting into the double-seated wagon which Grandfather Nutter had provided, I took the opportunity of asking after the health of the pony.  The pony had arrived all right ten days before, and was in the stable at home, quite anxious to see me. 20

As we drove through the quiet old town, I thought Rivermouth the prettiest place in the world; and I think so still.  The streets are long and wide, shaded by gigantic American elms, whose drooping branches, interlacing here and there, span the avenues with arches graceful enough to be the handiwork of fairies.  Many of the houses have small flower-gardens in front, gay in the season with china-asters, and are substantially built, with massive chimney-stacks and protruding eaves.  A beautiful river goes rippling by the town, and, after turning and twisting among a lot of tiny islands, empties itself into the sea. 20

The harbor is so fine that the largest ships can sail directly up to the wharves and drop anchor.  Only they don’t.  Years ago it was a famous seaport.  Princely fortunes were made in the West India trade; and in 1812, when we were at war with Great Britain, any number of privateers were fitted out at Rivermouth to prey upon the merchant vessels of the enemy.  Certain people grew suddenly and mysteriously rich.  A great many of “the first families” of today do not care to trace their pedigree back to the time when their grandsires owned shares in the Matilda Jane, twenty-four guns.  Well, well!

Few ships come to Rivermouth now.  Commerce drifted into other ports.  The phantom fleet sailed off one day, and never came back again.  The crazy old warehouses are empty; and barnacles and eel-grass cling to the piles of the crumbling wharves, where the sunshine lies lovingly, bringing out the faint spicy odor that haunts the place—­the ghost of the old dead West India trade!  During our ride from the station, I was struck, of course, only by the general neatness of the houses and the beauty of the elm-trees lining the streets.  I describe Rivermouth now as I came to know it afterwards.

Rivermouth is a very ancient town.  In my day there existed a tradition among the boys that it was here Christopher Columbus made his first landing on this continent.  I remember having the exact spot pointed out to me by Pepper Whitcomb!  One thing is certain, Captain John Smith, who afterwards, according to the legend, married Pocahontas—­whereby he got Powhatan for a father-in-law-explored the river in 1614, and was much charmed by the beauty of Rivermouth, which at that time was covered with wild strawberry-vines.

Rivermouth figures prominently in all the colonial histories.  Every other house in the place has its tradition more or less grim and entertaining.  If ghosts could flourish anywhere, there are certain streets in Rivermouth that would be full of them.  I don’t know of a town with so many old houses.  Let us linger, for a moment, in front of the one which the Oldest Inhabitant is always sure to point out to the curious stranger.