Little wonder he should always obey the wander-bidding.
They passed a place where the head of the clan, having dined, had been overtaken with lethargy and in a hammock on his porch was asleep in a public and noisy manner.
"Small-town stuff!" murmured Dave, amiably contemptuous.
The Wilbur twin could never understand why his father called Newbern a small town.

They came to the end of Fair Street, where the white houses dwindled into open country.

The road led away from the river and climbed the gentle slope of West Hill.

The Wilbur twin had climbed that slope the day before under auspices that he now recalled with disgust.

Beyond, at the top of the hill, its chimneys lifted above the trees and its red walls showing warmly through the cool green of its shading foliage, was the Whipple New Place.