The Prodigal Parents by Sinclair Lewis

The hills were not so proud as their own Adirondacks, but softer, more feminine, thought Fred, as they came to Stonefield, a dormered and white-spired hamlet in the Berkshires. The tavern, where Fred again craftily registered as Frederick Williams, N.Y., was no Daisy Dell, but a competent grey-shingled inn, and the annex cottages were isolated on the slope of a hillside dark with pines, light with maples, gleaming with a cleared meadow.

In front, the Cornplows' cottage looked from a half-screened wide porch, through the columns of a pine grove, to a meadow, and to a pond which would be silver at dawn, blazing in late afternoon, a shield of rose and black just after sunset. At the back, from a minute brick terrace edged with gloxinia, it looked up to the hills, which led the exploring eye from a mountain ridge to ever higher ridges beyond. There were but three rooms: living-room, double bedroom, and kitchen with dining alcove. The cottagers could prepare their own meals or dine at the tavern.