Or again,—­

“Measles raound pooty thick.  Briggs’s folks buried two children with ’em lass’ week.  Th’ of Doctor, he’d h’ ker’d ’em threugh.  Struck in ‘n’ p’dooced mo’t’f’cation,—­so they say.”

This is only meant as a sample of the kind of way they used to think or talk, when the narrow sulky turned in at the gate of some house where there was a visit to be made.

Oh, that narrow sulky!  What hopes, what fears, what comfort, what anguish, what despair, in the roll of its coming or its parting wheels!  In the spring, when the old people get the coughs which give them a few shakes and their lives drop in pieces like the ashes of a burned thread which have kept the threadlike shape until they were stirred,—­in the hot summer noons, when the strong man comes in from the fields, like the son of the Shunamite, crying, “My head, my head,”—­in the dying autumn days, when youth and maiden lie fever-stricken in many a household, still-faced, dull-eyed, dark-flushed, dry-lipped, low-muttering in their daylight dreams, their fingers moving singly like those of slumbering harpers,—­in the dead winter, when the white plague of the North has caged its wasted victims, shuddering as they think of the frozen soil which must be quarried like rock to receive them, if their perpetual convalescence should happen to be interfered with by any untoward accident,—­at every season, the narrow sulky rolled round freighted with unmeasured burdens of joy and woe.

The Doctor drove along the southern foot of The Mountain.  The “Dudley Mansion” was near the eastern edge of this declivity, where it rose steepest, with baldest cliffs and densest patches of overhanging wood.  It seemed almost too steep to climb, but a practised eye could see from a distance the zigzag lines of the sheep-paths which scaled it like miniature Alpine roads.  A few hundred feet up The Mountain’s side was a dark deep dell, unwooded, save for a few spindling, crazy-looking hackmatacks or native larches, with pallid green tufts sticking out fantastically all over them.  It shelved so deeply, that, while the hemlock-tassels were swinging on the trees around its border, all would be still at its springy bottom, save that perhaps a single fern would wave slowly backward and forward like a sabre with a twist as of a feathered oar,—­and this when not a breath could be felt, and every other stem and blade were motionless.  There was an old story of one having perished here in the winter of ’86, and his body having been found in the spring,—­whence its common name of “Dead-Man’s Hollow.”  Higher up there were huge cliffs with chasms, and, it was thought, concealed caves, where in old times they said that Tories lay hid,—­some hinted not without occasional aid and comfort from the Dudleys then living in the mansion-house.  Still higher and farther west lay the accursed ledge,—­shunned by all, unless it were now and then a daring youth, or a wandering naturalist who ventured to its edge in the hope of securing some infantile Crotalus durissus, who had not yet cut his poison teeth.