Into a Grassy Land of Silence and Decay

Archer drove past gray shingled farmhouses in orchard, past hay fields and groves of oak. He turned down a lane between high banks of en rot and brambles. At the end of the lane he saw a long, tumble down house with white paint peeling from its clappeards. On the roadside stood one of the open sheds in which the new englander shelters his farming implements and visitors hitch their teams. The parasol drew him in like a magnet; he was sure it was hers. Archer lift the handle to his lips: 'Where did you drop from? I must have been sound asleep in the hammock'