Our destination was a country tavern on the stage-road, not far
from the point where the road crosses the ridge of the mountain-
range, and about sixteen miles from the town. We had heard of this
tavern from a friend of ours, who had spent a summer there. The
surrounding country was lovely, and the house was kept by a farmer,
who was a good soul, and tried to make his guests happy. These
were generally passing farmers and wagoners, or stage-passengers,
stopping for a meal, but occasionally a person from the cities,
like our friend, came to spend a few weeks in the mountains.
So hither we came, for an out-of-the-world spot like this was just
what we wanted. When I took our places at the stage-office, I
inquired for David Dutton, the farmer tavern-keeper before
mentioned, but the agent did not know of him.
"However," said he, "the driver knows everybody on the road, and
he'll set you down at the house."
So, off we started, having paid for our tickets on the basis that
we were to ride about sixteen miles. We had seats on top, and the
trip, although slow,--for the road wound uphill steadily,--was a
delightful one. Our way lay, for the greater part of the time,
through the woods, but now and then we came to a farm, and a turn
in the road often gave us lovely views of the foot-hills and the
valleys behind us.
But the driver did not know where Dutton's tavern was. This we
found out after we had started. Some persons might have thought it
wiser to settle this matter before starting, but I am not at all
sure that it would have been so.
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