They should call it -- let me see -- the White Way of Delight . Is n't that a nice imaginative name ? When I do n't like the name of a place or a person I always imagine a new one and always think of them so . There was a girl at the asylum whose name was Hepzibah Jenkins , but I always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere . Other people may call that place the Avenue , but I shall always call it the White Way of Delight . Have we really only another mile to go before we get home ? I 'm glad and I 'm sorry . I 'm sorry because this drive has been so pleasant and I 'm always sorry when pleasant things end . Something still pleasanter may come after , but you can never be sure . And it 's so often the case that it is n't pleasanter . That has been my experience anyhow . But I 'm glad to think of getting home . You see , I 've never had a real home since I can remember . It gives me that pleasant ache again just to think of coming to a really truly home . Oh , is n't that pretty ! '' They had driven over the crest of a hill . Below them was a pond , looking almost like a river so long and winding was it . A bridge spanned it midway and from there to its lower end , where an amber-hued belt of sand-hills shut it in from the dark blue gulf beyond , the water was a glory of many shifting hues -- the most spiritual shadings of crocus and rose and ethereal green , with other elusive tintings for which no name has ever been found . Above the bridge the pond ran up into fringing groves of fir and maple and lay all darkly translucent in their wavering shadows . Here and there a wild plum leaned out from the bank like a white-clad girl tip-toeing to her own reflection .
From the marsh at the head XXXXX the pond came the clear , mournfully-sweet chorus of the frogs .
Below as at because like of over since that to