Four straight country roads running at right angles. You cannot see where they begin because they have their beginning over the hills and far away, but you can see where they end at Four Corners, the hub of that universe, for there stand the general store, which is also the postoffice, the tavern, as it is called in that part of the world, the church, the rectory, and perhaps a dozen private dwellings. Four Corners is oddly mis-named, because there are no corners there at all. It is a circle. Maybe it was originally four corners, but today it is certainly a circle with a big open space in the center, and in the very middle of that stands a flag staff upon which floats the stars and stripes. The whole open space is covered with the softest green turf. Not a lawn, mind you, such as one may see in almost any immaculately kept northern town, with artistic flower beds dotting it, and a carefully trimmed border of foliage plants surrounding it. No, this circle has real Virginia turf; the thick, rich, indestructible turf one finds in England, which, as an old gardener told the writer, "we rolls and tills it for a thousand years

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