The area had once been a grass plot, but was now
shagged with briers and rank weeds. At one end, and just on the
river bank, was a ruined building, little better than a heap of
rubbish, with a stack of chimneys rising like a solitary tower out
of the center. The current of the Sound rushed along just below
it, with wildly grown trees drooping their branches into its waves.
Wolfert had not a doubt that this was the haunted house of Father
Red-cap, and called to mind the story of Peechy Prauw. The evening
was approaching, and the light, falling dubiously among the woody
places, gave a melancholy tone to the scene well calculated to
foster any lurking feeling of awe or superstition. The night hawk,
wheeling about in the highest regions of the air, emitted his
peevish, boding cry. The woodpecker gave a lonely tap now and then
on some hollow tree, and the firebird[1] streamed by them with his
deep red plumage.
[1] Orchard oriole.
They now came to an inclosure that had once been a garden. It
extended along the foot of a rocky ridge, but was little better
than a wilderness of weeds, with here and there a matted rosebush,
or a peach or plum tree, grown wild and ragged, and covered with
moss.
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