This village was named for the once famous sleight of hand performer
Patler. His house is a cozy, pretty affair, freshly painted and nestled
under great embowering trees. Close by is his grave.
Here, too, barges were in waiting to take us to the Winslow House, four
miles distant on Mount Kearsarge. Before we had left the train the soft
rays of the setting sun had changed the hill-sides to amethyst and
deepened the purple gloom of the valleys. Now, as we rode in merry
groups of six or eight, over the country by-ways, the new moon slowly
touched every tree and shrub with her magical wand until the land with
its long, weird shadows and silver radiance seemed to belong to another
world than that of day-light.
It was nine o'clock when the Winslow House suddenly revealed itself.
An open wood fire burned brightly in the brick fireplace, and in that
altitude was a comfort indeed. The ample walls seemed to fairly glow
with welcome as we entered. Some of us acknowledged that we were tired;
others confessed to sleepiness; but one and all openly declared their
hunger.
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