"Arriving late evening before the storm began you watched the first flakes falling over the village. Now at dawn there is a lazy blanket of snow outside your window. Strapping on snowshoes and pulling a woolen hat over your ears you step into a quintessential New England landscape. The snow drifted dirt road is narrow and the surrounding forest is buried in white. Church bells ring faintly in the distance floating between the snow laden boughs of the tall pines. The flash of cardinal red can be seen darting from limb to limb and the soft trickle of the brook sounds more like a river the closer you approach. There is a hint of coffee on the cool winter breeze coming from the village and it evokes images of hotcakes, blueberries and maple syrup. Suddenly you reach the crest of a knoll pausing in awe (as you always do) at the beckoning entrance of      The Covered Bridge at Whisper Hill!" — paragraph printed on back of card