To me， emerging from the wood， the sunlit grove was like something out of Grimm， as if this odd little village had been put under a spell and had been asleep for 100 years. A yellow house in front of me with a blue-latticed front porch could have been waiting for Hansel and Gretel. So quiet the grove was， so still the air， that even the aspen leaves hung limp. Blue and green dragonflies， poised in the air， added to the enchantment. Far off， I could hear the wich-wich-wich of a yellow warbler and a locust' s somnolent buzz. Otherwise silence.
I went up on the porch of a pinktrimmed house and peered through the single window. What I saw was prosaics enough—a room with a couple of chairs， a table， a couch， a kerosene lamp. A ladder led upstairs to a sleeping loft. The grove was a mystery. Why were those little houses there？ Why were they empty and yet at the same time cared for？ Who owned them？ It was eerie to see these miniatures huddled together against all that space. I half expected some guardian to come rushing out and ask me what I was doing there.
I suppose my enchanted village was some sort of camp meeting ground， used a few weeks each summer. I never did find out. On that afternoon I did not linger. The sun' s rays were already slanting， the shadows longer， and my hill still lay ahead of me. Again I plunged into the underbrush. (breaking through at last to a rutted road scored with puddles.) But at the first turning I reached the foot of the hill， my hill， open and placed in the lengthened sunshine. Its thin meadow grass had turned brown， a stone wall that once enclosed the pasture had fallen apart， and velvety mullein leaves were thrusting up between the boulders. Up I went， over a granite ledge and across the meadow， trampling down hardhack and meadowsweet in my hurry to get to the top.
At last， under the sky' s bowl， I stood at the crest breathless， the hill solid， tangible under my feet. So often I had seen it elusive in the distance. Now I was there. Yet even as I reached my goal， it began to slip away from me. Straight ahead， beyond more miles of woodland， I could see another hill， somewhat higher， somewhat longer， cows grazing placidly on its cleared slope a summit hinged with green. Mysterious， full of promise， it was a hill I should never reach. Yet， in my old longing， that was where I wished I might be， on that farther hill. But even as I looked at it. I sensed that beyond there would be another hill， and beyond that yet another， beyond Mt. Battie， beyond Maine， beyond the miles. Even if I kept going round the world there would always be another hill. And I knew then， suddenly and overwhelmirlgly， that one could never reach the last hill.