After you pass Albion village, with its streets shaded by elms and maples and
its outskirts embowered in blossoming orchards, you wind along a hilly country
road that runs between grassy fields. Here the whiteweed is already budding,
and there are pleasant pastures dotted with rocks and fringed with spruce and
fir; stretches of woodland, too, where the road is lined with giant pines and
you lift your face gratefully to catch the cool balsam breath of the forest.
Coming from out this splendid shade, this silence too deep to be disturbed by
light breezes or vagrant winds, you find yourself on the brow of a descending
hill. The first thing that strikes the eye is a lake that might be a great
blue sapphire dropped into the verdant hollow where it lies. When the eye
reluctantly leaves the lake on the left, it turns to rest upon the little
Shaker Settlement on the right--a dozen or so large comfortable white barns,
sheds, and houses, standing in the wide orderly spaces of their own spreading
acres of farm and timber land. There again the spring goeth all in white, for
there is no spot to fleck the dazzling quality of Shaker paint, and their
apple, plum, and pear trees are so well cared for that the snowy blossoms are
fairly hiding the branches.
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