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- 403
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T07:57:55.409Z
- extracted_by
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- start_line
- 334
- text
- little track branched off, which, upwards threading that short defile,
came breezily out above, to where the mountain-top, part sheltered
northward, by a taller brother, sloped gently off a space, ere darkly
plunging; and here, among fantastic rocks, reposing in a herd, the
foot-track wound, half beaten, up to a little, low-storied, grayish
cottage, capped, nun-like, with a peaked roof.
On one slope, the roof was deeply weather-stained, and, nigh the turfy
eaves-trough, all velvet-napped; no doubt the snail-monks founded mossy
priories there. The other slope was newly shingled. On the north side,
doorless and windowless, the clap-boards, innocent of paint, were yet
green as the north side of lichened pines or copperless hulls of
Japanese junks, becalmed. The whole base, like those of the neighboring
rocks, was rimmed about with shaded streaks of richest sod; for, with
hearth-stones in fairy land, the natural rock, though housed, preserves
to the last, just as in open fields, its fertilizing charm; only, by
necessity, working now at a remove, to the sward without. So, at least,
says Oberon, grave authority in fairy lore. Though setting Oberon
aside, certain it is, that, even in the common world, the soil, close
up to farm-houses, as close up to pasture rocks, is, even though
untended, ever richer than it is a few rods off—such gentle, nurturing
heat is radiated there.
But with this cottage, the shaded streaks were richest in its front and
about its entrance, where the ground-sill, and especially the doorsill
had, through long eld, quietly settled down.
No fence was seen, no inclosure. Near by—ferns, ferns, ferns;
further—woods, woods, woods; beyond—mountains, mountains, mountains;
then—sky, sky, sky. Turned out in aerial commons, pasture for the
mountain moon. Nature, and but nature, house and, all; even a low
cross-pile of silver birch, piled openly, to season; up among whose
silvery sticks, as through the fencing of some sequestered grave,
sprang vagrant raspberry bushes—willful assertors of their right of
way.
The foot-track, so dainty narrow, just like a sheep-track, led through
long ferns that lodged. Fairy land at last, thought I; Una and her lamb
dwell here. Truly, a small abode—mere palanquin, set down on the
summit, in a pass between two worlds, participant of neither.
A sultry hour, and I wore a light hat, of yellow sinnet, with white
duck trowsers—both relics of my tropic sea-going. Clogged in the
muffling ferns, I softly stumbled, staining the knees a sea-green.
Pausing at the threshold, or rather where threshold once had been, I
saw, through the open door-way, a lonely girl, sewing at a lonely
window. A pale-cheeked girl, and fly-specked window, with wasps about
the mended upper panes. I spoke. She shyly started, like some Tahiti
girl, secreted for a sacrifice, first catching sight, through palms, of
Captain Cook. Recovering, she bade me enter; with her apron brushed off
a stool; then silently resumed her own. With thanks I took the stool;
but now, for a space, I, too, was mute. This, then, is the
fairy-mountain house, and here, the fairy queen sitting at her fairy
window.
I went up to it. Downwards, directed by the tunneled pass, as through a
leveled telescope, I caught sight of a far-off, soft, azure world. I
hardly knew it, though I came from it.
“You must find this view very pleasant,” said I, at last.
“Oh, sir,” tears starting in her eyes, “the first time I looked out of
this window, I said ‘never, never shall I weary of this.’”
“And what wearies you of it now?”
“I don’t know,” while a tear fell; “but it is not the view, it is
Marianna.”
- title
- Chunk 7