oy structure that compelled the
traveler to keep an eye on his feet. Blue jays, two or three small
hawks, a solitary wild pigeon, and ruffled grouse were seen along the
route. Now and then the lake gleamed through the trees, or we crossed
o a shaky bridge some of its arms or inlets. After a while we began to
pass dilapidated houses by the roadside. One little frame house I
remembered particularly; the door was off the hinges and leaned
against the jams, the windows had but a few panes left, which glared
vacantly. The yard and little garden spot were overrun with a heavy
growth of timothy, and the fences had all long since gone to decay. At
the head of the lake a large stone building projected from the steep
bank and extended over the road. A little beyond, the valley opened to
the east, and looking ahead about one mile we saw smoke going up from
a single chimney. Pressing on, just as the sun was setting we entered
the deserted village. The barking dog brought the whole family into
the street, and they stood till we came up. Strangers in that country
were a novelty, and we were greeted like familiar acquaintances.

Hunter, the head, proved to be a first-rate type of an Americanized
Irishman. His wife was a Scotch woman. They had a family of five or
six children, two of them grown-up daughters,--modest, comely young
women as you would find anywhere. The elder of the two had spent a
winter in New York with her aunt, which made her a little more
self-conscious when in the presence of the strange young men. Hunter
was hired by the company at a dollar a day to live here and see that
things were not wantonly destroyed, but allowed to go to decay
properly and decently. He had a substantial roomy frame house and any
amount of grass and woodland. He had good barns and kept considerable
stock, and raised various farm products, but only for his own use, as
the difficulties of transportation to market some seventy miles
distant make it no object. He usually went to Ticonderoga on Lake
Champlain once a year for his groceries, etc. His post-office was
twelve miles below at the Lower Works, where the mail passed twice a
week. There was not a doctor, or lawyer, or preacher within
twenty-five miles. In winter, months elapse without their seeing
anybody from the outside world. In summer, parties occasionally pass
through here on their way to Indian Pass and Mount Marcy. Hundreds of
tons of good timothy hay annually rot upon the cleared la