Trail-Makers of the Middle Border

Trail-Makers of the Middle Border

Trail-Makers of the Middle Border

Trail-Makers of the Middle Border

Excerpt

I have heard Richard Graham say that his earliest memories were the sounds of his mother's voice and the whirr of her spinning-wheel, mingled with the jocund sound of the mountain brook which ran just before the farm-house door. It was a swift stream, offering some danger to small explorers, but it was also an allurement, for its ripples were filled with a million glancing lights in summer, and in the winter its banks were mysteriously beautiful with snowladen, overhanging shrubs and vines.

It came from the White Mountains to the south, and vanished into equally alluring spaces in the vaguer north. It had fishes in it and "Uncle John" used to draw them out with a spear. Ducks and geese rode on its still pools in springtime or nuzzled along its grassy margins in September.

It was a never-failing source of interest to Dickie. He went to sleep in his trundle-bed with its gurgle in his ears, and woke to its laughter of a morning. As he grew older . . .

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