They made no advance
toward the acquaintance of any of the families in the neighborhood, and
consequently were left to themselves. That, apparently, was what they
desired, and why they came to Ponkapog. For after its black bass and
wild duck and teal, solitude is the chief staple of Ponkapog. Perhaps
its perfect rural loveliness should be included. Lying high up under the
wing of the Blue Hills, and in the odorous breath of pines and cedars,
it chances to be the most enchanting bit of unlaced disheveled country
within fifty miles of Boston, which, moreover, can be reached in half an
hour's ride by railway. But the nearest railway station (Heaven be
praised!) is two miles distant, and the seclusion is without a flaw.
Ponkapog has one mail a day; two mails a day would render the place
uninhabitable.
The village--it looks like a compact village at a distance, but unravels
and disappears the moment you drive into it--has quite a large floating
population. I do not allude to the perch and pickerel in Ponkapog Pond.
Along the Old Bay Road, a highway even in the Colonial days, there are a
number of attractive villas and cottages straggling off toward Milton,
which are occupied for the summer by people from the city. These birds
of passage are a distinct class from the permanent inhabitants, and the
two seldom closely assimilate unless there has been some previous
connection.
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