But neither at the blacksmith's shop nor at the store across from it was there anything to awaken even a passing interest.

Some farmers' teams and dogs, Pat Larkin's milk wagon with its load of great cans on its way to the cheese factory and some stray villagers here and there upon the street intent upon their business.

Up the street his eye travelled beyond the crossroads where stood on the left Cheatley's butcher shop and on the right McKenny's hotel with attached sheds and outhouses.

Over the bridge and up the hill the street went straight away, past the stone built Episcopal Church whose spire lifted itself above the maple trees, past the Rectory, solid, square and built of stone, past the mill standing on the right back from the street beside the dam, over the hill, and so disappeared.

The whole village seemed asleep and dreaming among its maple trees in the bright sunlight.
Throwing another glance at the robin still singing on the treetop overhead, the boy took from his pocket a mouth-organ, threw back his head, squared his elbows out from his sides to give him the lung room he needed, and in obedience to a sharp word of command after a preliminary tum, tum, tum, struck up the ancient triumph hymn in memory of that hero of the underground railroad by which so many slaves of the South in bygone days made their escape "up No'th" to Canada and to freedom.
"Glory, glory, hallelujah, his soul goes marching on." By means of "double-tongueing," a recently acquired accomplishment, he was able to give a full brass band effect to his hymn of freedom.