Perkinsville! It was as though you said--the beautiful Mrs.Podgers.But there was consolation in the sound of Wayland, with its far call to Wayland's smithy and Walter Scott.
And--Cohocton! The name to me had a fine Cromwellian ring; and Blood's Depot--what a truculent sound to that!--if you haven't forgotten the plumed dare-devil cavalier who once made a dash to steal the king's regalia from the Tower.

Again--Loon Lake.

Can you imagine two more lonesome wailing words to make a picture with?
But--Cohocton.

How oddly right my absurd instinct had been about that--and, shall we ever forget the unearthly beauty of the evening which brought us at dark to the quaint little operatic-looking village, deep and snug among the solemn, sleeping hills?
The day had been one of those days that come perhaps only in October--days of rich, languorous sunshine full of a mysterious contentment, days when the heart says, "My cup runneth over," and happy tears suddenly well to the eyes, as though from a deep overflowing sense of the goodness of God.

It was really Summer, with the fragrant mists of Autumn in her hair.