In looking--and she had not far to look--for worthy objects upon which to bestow her help, in a practical and sensible way, Eva Baldwin had long since found in Sprucemont, that little “deserted town” on the mountain-tops, an outlet for some of her benevolent impulses and surplus funds. A few generations ago Sprucemont had been one of the most prosperous towns on the hills, but influences which it would take too long to describe here had brought her very low, both in population and wealth. The church in Sprucemont had long since ceased to be self-supporting, and was dependent upon the generosity of Eva Baldwin and others of her kind. To awaken the interest of natives of the town who had removed, to stir the pride of those remaining, and to attract buyers for the abandoned farms, a celebration was planned in honor of the town’s settlement. For such an occasion it was only natural that the most distinguished native of the town, Reverend Ralph Cutter, filling a pulpit in Springdale, should be selected as the principal speaker. The day came. Up the long hills toward Sprucemont Center climbed teams and vehicles of various descriptions. The newest automobile, the stylish and luxurious up-to-date carriage with liveried driver and sleek, well-groomed pair, and the pleasure-seeker’s four-horse tally-ho, these shared the mountain road with ancient specimens of the carriage-makers’ art, broken and repaired with conspicuous lack of skill, and drawn by animals to whom the currycomb and oat-bin seemed alike strangers. Between these extremes were the comfortable and tidy conveyances of the middle classes. It was a perfect June day. The rock maples, the red beeches and the various birches were in their full summer luxuriance, and their light green foliage contrasted prettily with the darker, more somber shades of the spruce, the hemlock, and the balsam fir. The verdure of mowlands and pastures was sprinkled with the commonplace buttercups and daisies, while the roadside thickets were eloquent to the eye with the pink and white blossoms of the mountain laurel. The forests echoed with the silver bell of the wood thrush, while the rollicking, bubbling melody of the bobolink, and the clear, sweet whistle of the meadow lark filled every wayside field. The ancient meeting-house, where the services were held, was a fine specimen of old style, country church architecture. It had been built, nearly a century before, to accommodate eight hundred people, but the population of the town, had dwindled to half that number. “The strength of the hills is His also.”