ABSTRACT
North along Putney Road, across West River where the three bridges stood, then west along Black Mountain Road, passing the old farm once known as the Waite Farm, and crossing Waite Brook on the way we went. The names somehow struck familiar notes … Putney, Waite … for these are names that appear in a charming short story written by Rudyard Kipling which he titled “An Habitation Enforced.” We sought out the fork to the right which announced itself as Kipling Road, and at once began ascending a steeply curving blacktopped road, now swinging boldly across a sunny meadow, now darting beneath overhanging trees which left the road surface dappled and leaf-patterned. We proceeded up the mountain side, glimpsing vistas below of steep meadows where the Connecticut River glistened in the sun, and then we came to the narrow gate, guarded by eight foot stone pillars that bore no name but somehow suggested clearly that the land they guarded was a piece of England.
