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Updated: May 2, 2025
On entering Pumpkintown a cluster of five or six small, whitewashed blockhouses, toeing squarely on the highway the only inhabitant we saw was a small boy, who was as frank and simple as if he had lived on pumpkins and marrow squashes all his days.
Or you can bend your steps eastward over the Eastern Branch, up Good Hope Hill, and on till you strike the Marlborough pike, as a trio of us did that cold February Sunday we walked from Washington to Pumpkintown and back. A short sketch of this pilgrimage is a fair sample of these winter walks.
The delight I experienced in making this new acquisition to my geography was of itself sufficient to atone for any aches or weariness I may have felt. The mere fact that one may walk from Washington to Pumpkintown was a discovery I had been all these years in making. The day was cold but the sun was bright, and the foot took hold of those hard, dry, gritty Maryland roads with the keenest relish.
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