nces _precisely_ as it's spelled! These
_English_!

Greenwich was our first Connecticut town, a charming introduction to a
new state: highroad and streets thickly tree-lined, and once, when we
lost ourselves at a turning, we passed exquisite houses in lovely
gardens. There was a divine smell of ozone-haunted seaweed in the air,
for Greenwich is on Long Island Sound, with gold-green sedgy shores,
and everybody is rich or richish. Surely, though, the people are not
"exclusive" in that selfish way I hate, for in this part of the world
they can prowl all over each other's lawns; they have hardly any fences.
It seems, however, that things are _very_ difficult politically. You
can't do your hair in a new way without asking permission! I simply
would, wouldn't you? and do it so prettily they couldn't fuss. Yet the
really exciting thing about Greenwich is not the way you do your hair or
moustache. It is the cottage where (apropos of moustaches) General
Israel Putnam was shaving off his when British soldiers rudely surprised
him. The cottage is on the road, a beautiful road, and it's a still more
beautiful stone cottage, with a flag and two cannons on the lawn.
Certain horrid people say he lived at another house, but probably that's
because they wanted to get the cottage cheap for themselves! You have
only to _look_ at it, to feel that General Putnam must have lived there.
As for the creatures who insist that he took a mere cowpath for his
great escape, and didn't ride down the old stone steps on the face of
the cliff, why, they wouldn't dare repeat it in front of his monument in
Putnam Hill Park, I'm sure!

When you get out of a town or village here, in a minute you might be a
hundred miles from anywhere, and living a hundred years ago--except for
motors; and you can pretend they are insects, if you like. There are
sweet, mysterious byways which it breaks your heart not to see the end
of, and ponds like the Long Island ponds, which is to say, like broken
blue panes dropped from the windows of Heaven.

We took a detour after Coscob (an Indian-named village) because the road
was being mended; and there was a little summer settlement called Sound
Beach which I should _love_ to have to play dolls in. It would be just
right for that.

The big event of our morning, however, was seeing the famous Marks
place. Every one is allowed to drive through, so we were not fortune's
favourites, yet it was a favour of fortune to have such a v