{"id":"01KG6YH8FMFKFTM4SXGVAYREV2","cid":"bafkreibi2ayxxi3lirvq4aycu7ecwuef253kp4ychsdlnjvllskctfgj5y","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":403,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T07:57:55.409Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 7","source_file":"01KG6YDDF6PTWG4P7JTS5THSTD","start_line":334,"text":"little track branched off, which, upwards threading that short defile,\r\ncame breezily out above, to where the mountain-top, part sheltered\r\nnorthward, by a taller brother, sloped gently off a space, ere darkly\r\nplunging; and here, among fantastic rocks, reposing in a herd, the\r\nfoot-track wound, half beaten, up to a little, low-storied, grayish\r\ncottage, capped, nun-like, with a peaked roof.\r\n\r\nOn one slope, the roof was deeply weather-stained, and, nigh the turfy\r\neaves-trough, all velvet-napped; no doubt the snail-monks founded mossy\r\npriories there. The other slope was newly shingled. On the north side,\r\ndoorless and windowless, the clap-boards, innocent of paint, were yet\r\ngreen as the north side of lichened pines or copperless hulls of\r\nJapanese junks, becalmed. The whole base, like those of the neighboring\r\nrocks, was rimmed about with shaded streaks of richest sod; for, with\r\nhearth-stones in fairy land, the natural rock, though housed, preserves\r\nto the last, just as in open fields, its fertilizing charm; only, by\r\nnecessity, working now at a remove, to the sward without. So, at least,\r\nsays Oberon, grave authority in fairy lore. Though setting Oberon\r\naside, certain it is, that, even in the common world, the soil, close\r\nup to farm-houses, as close up to pasture rocks, is, even though\r\nuntended, ever richer than it is a few rods off—such gentle, nurturing\r\nheat is radiated there.\r\n\r\nBut with this cottage, the shaded streaks were richest in its front and\r\nabout its entrance, where the ground-sill, and especially the doorsill\r\nhad, through long eld, quietly settled down.\r\n\r\nNo fence was seen, no inclosure. Near by—ferns, ferns, ferns;\r\nfurther—woods, woods, woods; beyond—mountains, mountains, mountains;\r\nthen—sky, sky, sky. Turned out in aerial commons, pasture for the\r\nmountain moon. Nature, and but nature, house and, all; even a low\r\ncross-pile of silver birch, piled openly, to season; up among whose\r\nsilvery sticks, as through the fencing of some sequestered grave,\r\nsprang vagrant raspberry bushes—willful assertors of their right of\r\nway.\r\n\r\nThe foot-track, so dainty narrow, just like a sheep-track, led through\r\nlong ferns that lodged. Fairy land at last, thought I; Una and her lamb\r\ndwell here. Truly, a small abode—mere palanquin, set down on the\r\nsummit, in a pass between two worlds, participant of neither.\r\n\r\nA sultry hour, and I wore a light hat, of yellow sinnet, with white\r\nduck trowsers—both relics of my tropic sea-going. Clogged in the\r\nmuffling ferns, I softly stumbled, staining the knees a sea-green.\r\n\r\nPausing at the threshold, or rather where threshold once had been, I\r\nsaw, through the open door-way, a lonely girl, sewing at a lonely\r\nwindow. A pale-cheeked girl, and fly-specked window, with wasps about\r\nthe mended upper panes. I spoke. She shyly started, like some Tahiti\r\ngirl, secreted for a sacrifice, first catching sight, through palms, of\r\nCaptain Cook. Recovering, she bade me enter; with her apron brushed off\r\na stool; then silently resumed her own. With thanks I took the stool;\r\nbut now, for a space, I, too, was mute. This, then, is the\r\nfairy-mountain house, and here, the fairy queen sitting at her fairy\r\nwindow.\r\n\r\nI went up to it. Downwards, directed by the tunneled pass, as through a\r\nleveled telescope, I caught sight of a far-off, soft, azure world. I\r\nhardly knew it, though I came from it.\r\n\r\n“You must find this view very pleasant,” said I, at last.\r\n\r\n“Oh, sir,” tears starting in her eyes, “the first time I looked out of\r\nthis window, I said ‘never, never shall I weary of this.’”\r\n\r\n“And what wearies you of it now?”\r\n\r\n“I don’t know,” while a tear fell; “but it is not the view, it is\r\nMarianna.”\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 7"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG6YGB7ZRMGN7B1MPH0Y1BQ2","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG6YDDF6PTWG4P7JTS5THSTD","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG6YCG626JN4FCG8QK17CQCF","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG6YH8FM5D9BYXAQYPZHDAD6","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"prev"},{"peer":"01KG6YH8FSM3Y7H7MPKQWADRPB","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T07:57:55.572Z","ts":"2026-01-30T07:58:02.223Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}