[1] Here they
struck into a long lane, straggling among trees and bushes very
much overgrown with weeds and mullein stalks, as if but seldom
used, and so completely overshadowed as to enjoy but a kind of
twilight. Wild vines entangled the trees and flaunted in their
faces; brambles and briers caught their clothes as they passed; the
garter snake glided across their path; the spotted toad hopped and
waddled before them; and the restless catbird mewed at them from
every thicket. Had Wolfert Webber been deeply read in romantic
legend he might have fancied himself entering upon forbidden,
enchanted ground, or that these were some of the guardians set to
keep watch upon buried treasure. As it was, the loneliness of the
place, and the wild stories connected with it, had their effect
upon his mind.
[1] At the time this story was written Bloomen-dael (Flowery
Valley) was a village four miles from New York. It is now that
part of New York known as Bloomingdale, on the west side, between
about Seventieth and One Hundredth Streets.
On reaching the lower end of the lane they found themselves near
the shore of the Sound, in a kind of amphitheater surrounded by
forest trees.
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