Barn doors and byways . spitableprofusion. But the charm of South County is not confinedto the seaboard view and the salt water. Turninland from your hilltop and you will find acart-track, or perhaps only a path, winding intothe pines and oaks. Follow this track a littleway, and all sight of the sea is lost. You are inthe deep woods. A mile, two miles, and youcatch the glint of water through the foliageahead. A few steps more, and you are on theshore of a fresh-water pond, which stretches outbefore you half a mile or so, and then, bendingaround a promontory, disappears into the silentmystery o
Barn doors and byways . spitableprofusion. But the charm of South County is not confinedto the seaboard view and the salt water. Turninland from your hilltop and you will find acart-track, or perhaps only a path, winding intothe pines and oaks. Follow this track a littleway, and all sight of the sea is lost. You are inthe deep woods. A mile, two miles, and youcatch the glint of water through the foliageahead. A few steps more, and you are on theshore of a fresh-water pond, which stretches outbefore you half a mile or so, and then, bendingaround a promontory, disappears into the silentmystery of the forest. There are no houses, noboats, no hint of man beyond the dim cart trackat your feet. If you try to follow the woodeH shores insearch of an outlet, you will, perhaps, sink intoNarragansett swamp mud up to your waist, butyou will find no outlet. The outlets are subter-ranean, and their termini are supposed to be thosesprings of crystal water which gush out of thebanks of the salt pond two miles away. If, how-. Four miles away you catch the yellow line of the sand-bar, laid as witha ruler from east to west, and beyond that the blue Atlantic, withBlock Island like a faint mirage on the sky-line. See page jyi IN OLD SOUTH COUNTY 173 ever, you are wiser in woodcraft, or are familiarwith the region, you may find a track around thepond on higher ground, a track along a glacialmoraine, which looks as though it had been worndeep into the sand by the passing of countlessfeet long years ago. It is an old Indian it, and presently you may come upon aring of stones — the old Narragansett CouncilRing — and then upon a human habitation, theold Indian schoolhouse, converted into a forestlodge. If you enjoy the hospitality of that lodge,hospitality which includes incomparable RhodeIsland Jonny Cakes baked by a negroid Indianwoman who, as a girl, went to school in this samebuilding, and thus enjoy the use of one of thosegreen canoes so protectively colored that theyar
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