Herland by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

somewhat breathless.
    “No use,” gasped Terry. “They got away with it. My word! The men of this country must be good sprinters!”
    “Inhabitants evidently arboreal,” I grimly suggested. “Civilized and still arboreal—peculiar people.”
    “You shouldn’t have tried that way,” Jeff protested. “They were perfectly friendly; now we’ve scared them.”
    But it was no use grumbling, and Terry refused to admit any mistake. “Nonsense,” he said. “They expected it. Women like to be run after. Come on, let’s get to that town; maybe we’ll find them there. Let’s see, it was in this direction and not far from the woods, as I remember.”
    When we reached the edge of the open country we reconnoitered with our field glasses. There it was, about four miles off, the same town, we concluded, unless, as Jeff ventured, they all had pink houses. The broad green fields and closely cultivated gardens sloped away at our feet, a long easy slant, with good roads winding pleasantly here and there, and narrower paths besides.
    “Look at that!” cried Jeff suddenly. “There they go!”
    Sure enough, close to the town, across a wide meadow, three bright-hued figures were running swiftly.
    “How could they have got that far in this time? It can’t be the same ones,” I urged. But through the glasses we could identify our pretty tree-climbers quite plainly, at least by costume.
    Terry watched them, we all did for that matter, till they disappeared among the houses. Then he put down his glass and turned to us, drawing a long breath. “Mother of Mike, boys, what gorgeous girls! To climb like that! to run like that! and afraid of nothing. This country suits me all right. Let’s get ahead.”
    “Nothing venture, nothing have,” I suggested, but Terry preferred “Faint heart ne’er won fair lady.”
    We set forth in the open, walking briskly. “If there are any men, we’d better keep an eye out,” I suggested, but Jeff seemed lost in heavenly dreams, and Terry in highly practical plans.
    “What a perfect road! What a heavenly country! See the flowers, will you?”
    This was Jeff, always an enthusiast; but we could agree with him fully.
    The road was some sort of hard manufactured stuff, sloped slightly to shed rain, with every curve and grade and gutter as perfect as if it were Europe’s best. “No men, eh?” sneered Terry. On either side a double row of trees shaded the footpaths; between the trees bushes or vines, all fruit-bearing, now and then seats and little wayside fountains; everywhere flowers.
    “We’d better import some of these ladies and set ’em to parking the United States,” I suggested. “Mighty nice place they’ve got here.” We rested a few moments by one of the fountains, tested the fruit that looked ripe, and went on, impressed, for all our gay bravado by the sense of quiet potency which lay about us.
    Here was evidently a people highly skilled, efficient, caring for their country as a florist cares for his costliest orchids. Under the soft brilliant blue of that clear sky, in the pleasant shade of those endless rows of trees, we walked unharmed, the placid silence broken only by the birds.
    Presently there lay before us at the foot of a long hill the town or village we were aiming for. We stopped and studied it.
    Jeff drew a long breath. “I wouldn’t have believed a collection of houses could look so lovely,” he said.
    “They’ve got architects and landscape gardeners in plenty, that’s sure,” agreed Terry.
    I was astonished myself. You see, I come from California, and there’s no country lovelier, but when it comes to towns—! I have often groaned at home to see the offensive mess man made in the face of nature, even though I’m no art sharp, like Jeff. But this place! It was built mostly of a sort of dull rose-colored stone, with here and there some clear white houses; and it lay abroad among the green groves and gardens like a broken rosary of pink coral.
    “Those big