E-text prepared by Al Haines Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 18801-h.htm or 18801-h.zip: (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/8/0/18801/18801-h/18801-h.htm) or (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/8/0/18801/18801-h.zip) GREEN VALLEY by KATHARINE REYNOLDS Frontispiece by Nana French Bickford [Frontispiece: They came to her hand in hand and said not a word.] Grosset & Dunlap Publishers ------ New York Copyright, 1919, by Little, Brown, and Company. All rights reserved Dedication TO ALL THE LITTLE ONE-HORSE TOWNS WHERE LIFE IS SWEET AND ROOMY AND OLD-FASHIONED; WHERE THE DAYS ARE FULL OF SUNSHINE AND RAIN AND WORK; WHERE NEIGHBORS REALLY NEIGHBOR AND MEN AND WOMEN ARE LIFE-SIZE AUTHOR'S NOTE This book was written to cure a heartache, to ease a very real and bad case of homesickness. I wrote it just for myself when I was very nearly ten thousand miles away from home and knew that I couldn't go back to the U. S. A. for two long years. It is a picture of a little Yankee town, the town I tried so hard to see over ten thousand miles of gray-green ocean. When I was sailing from New York for South America that sunny June morning in 1913, about the last thing the last friend hurrying down the gangplank said was this: "Of course you are going to be homesick. But it's worth it." And I laughed. But before that long stretch of gray-green ocean was plowed under I knew--oh, I knew--that I was going to be most woefully homesick for the U. S. A. A certain tall Swede from New Jersey and I discovered that fact about the same minute Fourth of July morning. We were standing on the deck, staring miserably back over the awful miles to where somewhere in that lost north our town lay with flags fluttering, picnic baskets getting into trains and everybody out on their lawns and porches. We didn't look at each other after that first glance--that Swede and I. And we said the sunlight hurt our eyes. Three months later I was sitting under the velvet-soft, star-sown night sky of the Argentine cattle country. I had seen volcano-scarred Martinique and had watched the beautiful island of Barbados rising like a fairy dream out of a foamy sea. I had marveled at the endless beauties of Rio lying so picturesquely in its immense harbor and at the foot of its great, shaggy, sun-splashed, smoke-wreathed mountains. I had tramped through unsanitary Santos and loved it because it looked like Chicago in spite of its mountains and banana trees. I had witnessed a wonderful fiesta in Buenos Aires and had churned two hundred miles up the La Plata when it was bubbling with rain. And I had had a tooth pulled in Paysandu, the second largest city in Uruguay.