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Midsummer m 
 Wliittier's Country 
 

Midsummer m 
 \V liittier s Country 
 
 A Little Study oi Sanjwick Center 
 
 By ETHEL ARM ES 
 
 WitK Sketckes ky tke Autkor 
 
 PnUisIicJ at BirmiatfliaiB. AlaWsM 
 By Advance Preae 
 
"biK^c 
 
 
TO 
 
 MY COMRADES OF THE HILLS 
 
 ALICE 
 
 AND 
 
 H. P. J. 
 

 
 Fo 
 
 rewori 
 
 This little study of Sandwich Center, 
 tells quite simply the brief and almost 
 uneventful annals of the town from its 
 waking in the reign of George III 
 throughout its term of active service 
 in behalf of the colonies to its sleeping 
 time today. It also gives quick 
 glimpses of a few of the little people 
 and places of delight in and around 
 the village, and relates the Indian leg- 
 ends and traditions told roundabout 
 there, the story of famous Mount Cho- 
 corua and the myths of Ossipee and 
 Lake Asquam. 
 
 The quotations running throughout 
 are from Whittier's verse, as will 
 readily be seen, and the sketches were 
 done out under the open sky on the 
 high hill tops, in apple orchards by 
 
winding roads and in long grasses of 
 the fields, so that in those places 
 where the student's touch has failed, 
 artist charm may be dreamed into 
 them by whosoever knows these sweet 
 mountain meadows that were the Qua- 
 ker poet's golden fields, and likewise, 
 it is prayed, into the book. 
 
/. From the Little Path on the 
 Apple Hill. 
 
 II. In the Red Sunset Caravans 
 of the Old Days Pass. 
 
 III. The Little People of the Vil- 
 lage. 
 
 IV. "/ Lean my Heart Against 
 the Day.'' 
 
 V. Indian Legends Float in 
 the Breezes. 
 
 "It is as if the pine trees called mc 
 
 From ceiled room and silent books. 
 To see the dance of woodland shadows, 
 ..And hear the song of April brooks! 
 
I. 
 
 FROM THE LITTLE PATH ON 
 THE APPLE HILL. 
 
 "I would I were a painter for the sake 
 of a sweet picture " 
 
 Not far up along the road to Ossip- 
 pee, just a quarter of a mile beyond the 
 village, there is a little hill where 
 rocks and apples grow. A stone wall, 
 put up in the time of George IIL, 
 shuts out a mischievous tangle of 
 blackberry briars, and helps support 
 the heavily burdened arms of one of 
 the oldest of the trees, some of whose 
 rosy apples hang right over a tiny gate 
 going into the hill. A few other ap- 
 ples have tumbled down among tall 
 grasses which flirt, in the wmd, with 
 dashing groups of black-eyed daisies — 
 there, in the very face of the little 
 path — and such a tattle tale of a path! 
 Off it runs to each one of the ancient 
 apple trees, winks naughtily in the 
 shadows, then hides in the spears of 
 the red-top grass away from the lis- 
 tening leaves. Pretty soon, shaking 
 itself free from the field flowers and 
 the long reaches of the circling trees, 
 15. 
 
it climbs up the steep side of the hill, 
 shudders by some big savage rocks 
 that stretch out like an ogre's arms to 
 grab it, and then — suddenly — before it 
 is aware, is way up high on the tip-top 
 of the little hill, all by itself, looking 
 out to the whole wide world alone! 
 * * * * 
 
 "Through Sandwich Notch the west 
 
 wind sang 
 Good morrow to the cotter ** 
 
 From this little path on the apple 
 hill, the small white houses of the vil- 
 lage appear like snow flakes. Some 
 of them reach out in long, glistening 
 lines, — they are white apron strings 
 trying to hold back the runaway roads, 
 for the little village is the mother 
 place of a hundred highland roads, 
 those truant chieftains of the New 
 Hampshire Hills. Miles and miles 
 through the purple mountains, by the 
 white lake shores, they wind, — under 
 gleaming birch belts, by dusky maple 
 groves, along deep intervaels where 
 the elms and willows droop, and where 
 sing the sirens of the pines. Some- 
 times they stop for breath in the low- 
 lands where the sun burns hot, and, 
 out of sight of their mother's eyes, 
 they make golden love to the flowers 
 there. Graceful forms of a thousand 
 i6. 
 
Mx tAe. u.i,nd.'ina oT tV too.<i.S 
 
ferns lean over them; fragrant elder 
 bushes hurry forth their rare white 
 lacework; fading tones of the flowers 
 of milkweed and iron-rust cast their 
 glances as falling eye lashes; pale cel- 
 andine trails her bridal veil before 
 them, — daisies, buttercups, rich golden 
 rod, — all the maiden flowers of mid- 
 summer time, tiptoe close to the en- 
 chanters — with no modesty whatever! 
 But on go the flying chieftains, ferns 
 and flowers clinging to their kilts! 
 They round stone walls and fences 
 made of the roots of giant old pines, 
 hurry by deserted farms and abandon- 
 ed mills, up and down, over streams, 
 by long lanes and bridle paths, on and 
 on, rising and falling, past cornfields 
 and orchards in the sky, until — like 
 the little path on the road to Ossip- 
 pee, they climb right up into the 
 clouds, and are lost forevermore! 
 
 The only sound from the village is a 
 tinkle of cow bells in the rock pasture 
 near the school house; for, even in 
 midsummer, with all the strangers 
 here. Sandwich Center is quiet as a 
 snow-fall. Tall spires of the little 
 white churches, gray shingled roofs, 
 red brick chimneys and green blinds 
 of the snowy houses, their snug barns 
 and wood shelters, wells, orchards, and 
 herb gaidens, framed by the stone 
 i8. 
 
walls, curve in and out of the trees in 
 a play of fresh, bright color. The 
 roads are silent as forest trails. 
 Across from the postoffice is Dorr's 
 hotel with its wide sheltered porches. 
 Down the road a piece is Maybelle's 
 house and the little white home of the 
 twins, Ruth and Dorris, the minister's 
 children. Marston's and Dr. White's 
 are further on, and then, — beyond four 
 willow trees, — the house where Mil- 
 dred lives. The new school is but a 
 stone's throw off. The old school was 
 yonder down by Little Pond, there 
 where Master Ladd, the lame teacher, 
 taught for forty years. Mildred's fa- 
 ther and her uncle used to draw him 
 to school every day in a sled, and 
 sometimes the other pupils helped. 
 Near the store on Main street is May- 
 belle's favorite place, the shop of the 
 harness maker and clock mender. At 
 the point of the road near the Spokes- 
 field Pines is the Burleigh House, the 
 old Sandwich Inn, and farther up, 
 Diamond Ledge House and Miss Fos- 
 ter's going by Perry's studio on the 
 way. 
 
 In the other direction towards Four 
 Corners, the old blacksmith shop and 
 the saw mill are passed on the right, 
 then the marsh, and Wentworth's 
 Pines and the lonely cabin of the 
 
 19. 
 
strange old man of Sandwich, on the 
 left, while at the very top of the hill 
 are the Wentworth manor house and 
 Adams's place where a massive stone 
 wall extends for miles like some old 
 Roman fortification. 
 
 All through this region of North 
 country the call of the Indian is min- 
 gled with the voice of England's reign. 
 Side by side on the guiding stones, 
 with the musical Indian names, run 
 the quaint letters of Tamworth town. 
 North Conway, ^I^redith, Sandwich, 
 South Chatham and Moultonboro. 
 
 The valley where Sandwich Center 
 sleeps is encircled by the hills as by a 
 vast jeweled coronet of ever changing 
 colors, purple and rose and red and 
 gold;— Israel, Black Mountain, Sand- 
 wich Dome, Red Hill, Ossipee, White- 
 face, Paugus, Passaconnaway, Wonna- 
 lancet, and, stirring in the distance, the 
 horn of Mount Chocorua. Mightier 
 ranges tower to the north, but none is 
 more strange or beautiful than the 
 mystic Sandwich range, guardian of 
 Asquam and Winnepesaukee,— Smile 
 of the Great Spirit,— of Bearcamp wa- 
 ter and Lake Chocorua. Here was the 
 beloved ground of Whittier,— here, 
 where Indian legends float in the 
 breezes. And when the little mists 
 rise over the mountains, all the people 
 
 20. 
 
say, "Look! the ghosts of the Indians 
 are abroad this morning on Ossipee!", 
 or "See, — they are smoking the pipe of 
 peace on Israel!" 
 
 
 
 21. 
 
II. 
 
 IN THE RED SUNSET CARA- 
 
 VANS OF THE OLD DAYS 
 
 PASS. 
 
 The Center's days of business and 
 bustle have long since gone. It basks 
 in the sun now, and is content to try- 
 no more climbing of mountains. 
 Sometimes it dreams. In the red sun- 
 set caravans of the old days pass. 
 Down through Sandwich Notch come 
 the endless line of red sleds, drawn by 
 oxen, and burdened with lumber for 
 the building of the colonial settle- 
 ments, or laden with pines for the 
 royal navy. In those years, the New 
 Hampshire white pines were stalwart 
 trees standing high two hundred and 
 fifty feet or more, and there grew not 
 one in all that Sandwich region that 
 was not destined to mast the royal 
 navy, and branded with the broad ar- 
 row by order of the king. For a set- 
 tler to cut such down was, under Brit- 
 ish law, a felony and punishable by a 
 fine of one hundred pounds. 
 
 In that time the only roads through 
 the valley were these old lumber trails 
 
 22. 
 
and the trails of the Indian, the moose, 
 the bear and deer. Prospectors sur- 
 veyed Sandwich valley nearly two cen- 
 turies ago and built the first cabins of 
 the village on the wooded banks of 
 Little Pond, near Lower Corner. The 
 town was granted by Colonial Gov- 
 ernor Wentworth in 1763. Two years 
 later, according to the old Sandwich 
 records, Orlando Weed was granted, 
 by vote of the proprietors at Exeter, 
 seven hundred acres, seventy pounds 
 of lav/ful money and seven cows, on 
 condition that he would settle seven 
 families in Sandwich, and build seven 
 substantial dwelling houses, and clear 
 forty acres of land within three years. 
 The Wentworths erected their state- 
 ly home with columned portico and 
 solid walls, the one still standing on 
 Wentv/orth Hill, the old capitol of 
 Sandwich: 
 
 "Still green about its ample porch 
 
 The English ivy twines, 
 Trained back to show in English oak 
 
 The herald's carven signs." 
 
 A number of other families celebrat- 
 ed in early New England history, set- 
 tled in the growing township, among 
 them, the French, Sherman and White 
 families, the last allied to the house 
 
 23- 
 
of Oliver Cromwell. Peregrine White, 
 the father of Dr. White who settled in 
 Sandwich in that early period was the 
 first child born in New England. 
 
 Many of the survivors of the French 
 and Indian war, men of the 4th New 
 Hampshire regiment, migrated to the 
 new township. With Spartan law and 
 Spartan courage the daring little maid- 
 en town of the wild hills was builded 
 to a youth of activity and strength. 
 During the Revolution she sent forth 
 her sons to battle, gave them their 
 shields, — return thou with them or 
 upon them, — and they returned with 
 them. In the records of the battle 
 of Bunker Hill a Sandwich regiment is 
 honorably mentioned. Meanwhile a 
 marriage with a Quaker husband 
 brought forth new elements of thrift 
 and industry. Iron foundries, brick 
 kilns, saw mills and grist mills were 
 established, and shoes and clothing 
 manufactured for all the country 
 'round. The Sandwich cattle, Den- 
 mark breed, became noted in growing 
 New England, and there were no bet- 
 ter farms in all the thirteen states 
 combined. Thus, what, for the vil- 
 lage, was its golden age, came, lasted 
 for fifty years, — and went. 
 
 With the outbreak of the civil war, 
 again the martial clamor, the giving 
 
 24. 
 
of the shields, and the Spartan admo- 
 nition. This time the young men 
 came back upon their shields, and the 
 mother village bowed, never to look 
 up again. Little by little an alien ele- 
 ment crept in and took possession of 
 the farms whose younger masters had 
 either been killed or had abandoned 
 them for the west. At the present 
 time not more than five families, de- 
 scendants of the colonial settlers, re- 
 main in Sandwich. 
 
 The village is awake to things only 
 during the summer months, and here 
 gather from all the world the dream- 
 ing lovers of the White Hills. 
 
 
 
 
 25. 
 
III. 
 
 THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE 
 VILLAGE. 
 
 "A music as of household songs 
 Was in her voice of sweetness." 
 
 Mildred loves the little apple hill on 
 the road to Ossipee. She is not afraid 
 to go there alone because there are 
 not any witches there, like those in 
 the old float dam. There are fairies 
 instead, and all the things for the 
 fairies. 
 
 "Look! This is their brown bread 
 all ready for them, — only it got burn- 
 ed in the oven," Mildred will say, tak- 
 ing up a black-eyed daisy, "and oh, — 
 this buttercup, — this is their pretty 
 little butter dish full of butter!" Then 
 she will gather her apron full of 
 grasses and field flowers and bring 
 them to one of her summer ladies un- 
 der the apple trees. Mildred is a little 
 field flower herself with her blue eyes 
 and her light hair and her slight frail 
 little body. She is seven years old, — 
 "But I'm going to be eight, — my 
 mother says it!" she cries. Because 
 her father drives the stage to Centre 
 Harbor she is very proud and catches 
 26. 
 
her breath whenever the lumbering 
 old coach goes by full of the summer 
 folks. When Maybelle is mad with 
 her she turns up her nose and says 
 she need not think she is so much, for 
 a tinner is much better than a stage 
 driver! Maybelle's own father is the 
 tinner and she is proud of that, but 
 when Charlotte, the twins' big sister 
 breaks in, with, "A minister is better 
 than any," the children have not a 
 word to say for Charlotte's father is 
 the minister. 
 
 Maybelle often wears boy's blue 
 overalls and drives an old gray mare, 
 hitched to a red hay rake out into the 
 fields and works like a farmer until 
 sundown. She is as different from 
 Mildred and Dorris as high noon from 
 dawn. Her face is like a rosy apple. 
 She is sturdily built and proud of her 
 muscle and her long golden brown 
 hair which she wears in two thick 
 braids. Sometimes she takes Mildred 
 out to the fields too and lets her ride 
 on the old gray mare. They both talk 
 of the summer ladies then. O! the 
 ladies who come in the summer time! 
 Some of them have pink ribbons and 
 white dresses full of beautiful lace, 
 and embroidery on their petticoats. 
 Once, one of them named Miss Flor- 
 ence, had six gold rings, — and she 
 27. 
 
gave Mildren one of them! That lady 
 came from Boston. Mildred herself 
 was there once. "That is a city," she 
 says, "children cannot play in the 
 roads there. I have seen make believe 
 people there. I saw them in the store 
 windows. It was there I saw Santa 
 Clans. He was going down a chimney 
 in Boston. Oh, do you know, there is 
 one woman says Santa Claus isn't so! 
 She is Mrs. Hinson, — she says it!" 
 
 One morning, quite early Mildred 
 ran out of her house as the summer la- 
 dies passed going up to the apple hill: 
 "Oh, — did you see the Gipsies go by 
 this morning? Oh — oh — six waggings 
 of them! But they didn't get me! I 
 ran! Oncet they got Tom Clark an' 
 he bawled fer his mother so they took 
 him out an' strapped him to a tree an' 
 Indianed him an' left him there!" To 
 Indian anyone in Sandwich is to black 
 his face and hands. 
 
 Often at evening, sitting out on the 
 schoolhouse rocks Mildred chatters 
 away like a little sparrow: "I get up 
 in the morning at seven o'clock, I 
 pick up the dishes, then I strip the 
 beds an' make them, then I wash the 
 dishes an' water the hens. Then I 
 swing in the swinging chair with baby. 
 In the afternoon I play. I go to Hes- 
 ter's or I play with Maybelle or the 
 
 28. 
 
twins. We play mothers. I have six 
 dolls an' a lounge bed an' a cradle. 
 Then every night I lock the wood 
 house door. If my mama should say 
 to me, Mildred, you do not have to 
 do your chores today, — I would do 
 them just the same, — they help Papa. 
 Oh, yesterday I went to Meredith,— I 
 did! That is the place where I was 
 born. It is a little farm. We have, — 
 oh, a lot of hay an' a big large pas- 
 ture, an' we let other horses come in, 
 — we do." 
 
 Once Miss Florence said to Mild- 
 red: "I know such a dear little girl. 
 She lives in a house near me and I 
 think she is the best of all." 
 
 "Oh,— I know!" cried Mildred, "that 
 is me." 
 
 29. 
 
In the large heart were fair guest 
 chambers open to sunrise and to birds. 
 
 Dorris looks at you, — so — her deep 
 eyes clear as the waters of a mountain 
 spring. She puts her tiny little white 
 hand tenderly in yours if she loves 
 you and walks beside you in the ev- 
 ening wherever you go, without ques- 
 tion and without chatter, silently and 
 superbly as a star. She always takes 
 Ruth by the hand also and if Mars- 
 ton's dog or George Smith's red cow 
 comes along the road Dorris will 
 stand in front of Ruth to protect her. 
 Sometimes the little ones, — and they 
 are only just five years old, — *will come 
 hand in hand to a fence that encloses 
 summer boarders and look in by the 
 hour. Once Ruth and Dorris got lost 
 in the old mill pasture. That is a lone- 
 ly place at all times, most gray and 
 dismal, — and to be lost there is ter- 
 rible. They were looking for thor- 
 oughwort for Miss Mary Jane and 
 they got off the road little by little, 
 and under a fence and off in the hazel 
 bushes before they knew it. Then 
 they were lost. All at once, a big 
 gray building, hollow as a hollow tree, 
 all full of cracks and vines and spider 
 webs, came up out of the ground. It 
 was the haunted old grist mill left 
 alone even when their own mother 
 30. 
 
was young. Stones v/ere piled up in 
 the old pasture as though it were a 
 grave yard. One tree lay dead on the 
 ground. Five mullein stalks, tall as 
 Ruth herself, grew on the rock 
 mounds. A gray cloud had fallen over 
 the place long ago and never lifted. 
 But over the broken fence was a 
 bright green bed of brake. Then a 
 bell broke the stillness and pretty soon 
 it came nearer and nearer and a pair 
 of terrible long sharp horns tossed 
 over the brake. It was Smith's red 
 cow! Dorris made Ruth lie down be- 
 hind the stones and she knelt in front 
 of her. There was no way to ever get 
 out any more. "Cow do not come! 
 Cow do not come!" Dorris prayed 
 holding her hands over Ruth. The 
 bushes parted by the dry mill run. 
 Dorris closed her eyes but she did 
 not move. And — it was not the cow — 
 it was a lady, one of Dorris's own 
 summer ladies with paints and a pic- 
 ture. 
 
 "I will not let the cow hurt Ruth, 
 my little Dorris," she said, "she is 
 really a good cow and she does not 
 want to hook anybody. She only 
 wants to find something to eat for her- 
 self, — but we will go down this way 
 across the branch. It is not far to 
 your home." Then the lady lifted 
 
 31. 
 
them over the Red Hill stream, and 
 they were in Adams' wheat field right 
 oflE and on the side of the road! And 
 the cow did not get them at all. She 
 just kept on eating. 
 
 32 
 
« « 4: * the sodden forest floors 
 With golden lights were checkered." 
 
 The way to the old float dam begins 
 not far from Mildred's house, just 
 back of Dr. White's cornfield. After 
 leaving the cornfield and jumping a 
 fence, there is a little space of quiet 
 meadow, crescent shaped, half hidden 
 by the trees and full of fair light gras- 
 ses and sunlit daisies. The pines with- 
 draw their dark shadows far back. 
 The gleaming branches of a solitary 
 white birch form an arc of light just 
 over the entrance into the mysterious 
 wood, the beginning of the long trail. 
 A log fallen over the marshy place, 
 just here, makes a bridge to higher 
 ground. Then but a little while, and 
 the heart of the pines beats fast. Theif 
 breath falls sweetly, and the ground 
 underfoot is golden brown and soft 
 with spears of the pines, piled there 
 33- 
 
deep as snow in the long winter. Only 
 a few glances of the sky pierce the 
 deep rich green. Far darkening hol- 
 lows roll down from the trail off into 
 the maze of aisles and tree columns, 
 blue crypts of the ancient cathedral. 
 In many places, tiny mushrooms 
 gleam like pearls and opals dropped 
 by ghostly queens of long ago. 
 Indian pipes, cold in color as old mar- 
 ble, lift their slender shafts out of the 
 gloom, — mist arises, — the smoke of 
 yesterday's seven thousand years. So, 
 through the way of dreams, passes the 
 trail. Then it stops. A noisome, 
 brackinsh stream lies across it like a 
 snake crushed by a broken wall of 
 Cyclopean rocks, and all beyond is bog 
 and mire and swamp bound in by the 
 everlasting pines. Out of the poison- 
 ous marsh springs some strange wild 
 flower red as blood. 
 
 34. 
 
"The valley holds its breath 
 
 No leaf of all its elms is twirled." 
 
 A gray shaggy bowlder high on the 
 ridge of a hill, — one apple tree lean- 
 ing near, — that is Sunset Rock, the 
 nearest point to the village where a 
 view of all the mighty ranges may be 
 had in one grand sweep. 
 
 One summer a solitary stranger, 
 some sweet-natured Thoreau, came to 
 Sandwich and pitched his tent in the 
 shadow of this rock. For two weeks 
 he camped there speaking to no man, 
 given over to the silent watch of the 
 great hills. 
 
 Another summer a young girl who 
 sang, often stood upon the rocks. 
 Alone in the twilight there, her blue 
 dress like a bit of the dawn sky, and, 
 with arms outstretched to the glowing 
 hills, she would sing the love songs of 
 the masters, — yearning of the ages — in 
 saecula saeculorum. 
 
 35. 
 
I 
 
 '111 \'t?>?ifi^ 4 ife, 
 
 
 IV. 
 
 "I lean my heart against the day." 
 
 A journal of the days runs all to clouds: 
 Rich purple twilight, a mystery of red, the 
 sad, fading red that glows and burns 
 against the mountains, and lasts till all 
 the other sky has grown dark and full of 
 
 stars Cloud shadows over the valley ^ 
 
 fain on Sandwich Dome, — white mist 
 veiling it— low rain clouds breaking over 
 it^the rain slanting down — and — com- 
 ing — coming A clear, valiant blue 
 
 sky, billows of snow white clouds rolling 
 over all the hills — but over Osstpee— little 
 
 purple mists like violets blowing 
 
 Vast domes and palaces of clouds floating 
 over the mountains at sunset— gold wings 
 arising in the twilight— long streamers of 
 color,— lavender, rose pink, old gold, edg- 
 36. 
 
ing the hills,~then again that rich, warm 
 red, beating like a great full heart-burn- 
 ing into the night far behind the hills 
 
 Today, tenderness and sweetness in 
 
 the far far light blue— dear with baby 
 
 clouds On Burleigh Hill, —a mighty 
 
 black cloud brooding over the sky,— but 
 toward the hills, light and white, the far 
 
 distance, soft with mists Savage 
 
 clouds suddenly gathering,— rolling dark 
 and gray— casting shadows of war- 
 through them tiny little maiden skies 
 trembling— white veils hiding their sweet 
 blue forms — torn in streaks by the fierce 
 thunder-heads leaping hard upon them— 
 ravishing them with a fearful delight. 
 
 37. 
 
*A lover's claim is mine on all, 
 I see to have and hold, — " 
 
 A Diary of tte Harvest Montk 
 
"I climbed a hill path strange and new 
 With slow feet, pausing at each turn, — 
 A sudden waft of west wind blew 
 The breath of the sweet fern." 
 
 Whiteface today! We left in the 
 dim cool mist just before dawn. There 
 were only four pale stars in the sky 
 and these, we soon lost in the shadow 
 of Israel. Long interminable veils of 
 mist hid the other ranges and covered 
 the valley. "There's rain on White- 
 face", said our guide. But far over 
 eastward bloomed a gentle flush of 
 rose color, — so we drove on. It was 
 to be one of the sun's blue days, how- 
 ever. He tried to be glorious, — but 
 Aurora and her maidens must have 
 been weeping, — so he was all upset. 
 He came out and went back several 
 times, then finally he stayed with the 
 tearful maidens. Thus the mist was 
 in nowise lifted when we reached the 
 wonderful intervale at the foot of the 
 slide-scarred mountain. After put- 
 ting up our teams in the big barn of a 
 comfortable farmhouse, there, we 
 found the trail, pressed through the 
 
 39. 
 
thick growth of wet hazel bushes, and 
 after shaping alpine stocks, we began 
 the ascent. There were two other 
 girls besides Alice and myself in the 
 party. They were from Concord, — 
 apostles of Thoreau, — and they paus- 
 ed with a quiet pleasure before every 
 little faintly sketched flower and 
 mountain plant along the misty trail. 
 Two superb, active hours, mounting 
 up through the pines, struggling under 
 fallen trees, scaling big bowlders, go- 
 ing higher and higher in the fast gath- 
 ering mist, singing old English bal- 
 lads; "Now gayly thro' the mountain 
 glen, the hunter winds his horn!" — 
 then all at once, shut in by the cloud, 
 — hurriedly gathering pine boughs for 
 a tent and stripping the giant birches 
 for ponchos and umbrellas, — building 
 a fire — watching the smoke crawl 
 around our shivering fingers, — then 
 suddenly all the skies opening and a 
 wild mad flood pouring down, — a gal- 
 lop to earth again, — back to the clean 
 farm kitchen, a warm fire and good 
 hot coffee. 
 
 40. 
 
"Through each branch-enwoven sky- 
 light 
 
 Speaks He in the breeze, 
 As of old beneath the twilight 
 
 Of lost Eden's trees!" 
 
 August 6th. 
 Last night I ran off secretly to the 
 Spokesfield Pines. I tip-toed away 
 from the house while everyone was 
 sound asleep, just as the late moon 
 was coming up over the hills. I hur- 
 ried along the white road by the 
 silent houses. Marstan's dog barked 
 furiously at me, but no one woke up 
 and I came safely to the last house of 
 the village. This was beyond the old 
 Burleigh Inn, and a light was in one 
 of the front rooms. Old Susan Wil- 
 ley was still sewing rag carpets! My 
 heart trembled as I left the light. I 
 felt as though I were about to enter 
 into some terrible but sweet adven- 
 ture, — some divine rendezvous! After 
 vaulting the fence just beyond the old 
 pump there I struck the trail and in 
 another moment was shrouded in the 
 darkness of the pines. Shadows have 
 41. 
 
such a fearful delight. I lay in them 
 until I was too frightened to get up. 
 There was a strange shape in front of 
 me that seemed to move. After a long 
 while, — it seemed hours — I thrust out 
 my hands, — and touched, — a black- 
 berry briar swaying in the wind over 
 an old stump. I drew closer and Z 
 saw it was the very stump whose rin^s 
 we had counted last Wednesday. The 
 tree had but recently fallen. Dr. 
 Wiggin used a magnifying glass to get 
 the records and we found that it was 
 five hundred years old. Ir certain 
 parts of the Spokesfield voods the 
 pines are grouped in curiously har- 
 monious lines. As things became more 
 distinct I could follow this fine group- 
 ing and the fantastic play of the light. 
 
 I stretched myself out full length 
 on the pine needles and breathed in 
 the cool freshness and looked up long 
 through the pine boughs. I wished 
 for more stars. I thought of a girl I 
 had met once five years before, from 
 far up in Duluth, one who had slept 
 in the pines along the great lake shore, 
 who had spoken to me of the large 
 stars before dawn, of the song of the 
 pines and the breath of the pines. I 
 saw her walking in the shadows with 
 her pale face upturned, and I knew 
 42. 
 
now, at last, how she had felt in the 
 pines, 
 
 I counted the sounds I heard. A 
 cock crew way off somewhere. A dog 
 barked, an owl hooted and a sleepless 
 squirrel dropped an acorn at my feet. 
 It made such a loud noise I jumped. 
 Then I lay quiet again. I marked the 
 swift changes of the moonlight on the 
 black trunks of the pines and in their 
 lofty boughs, the fast traveling and 
 checkered glow on the soft clean 
 ground and the long mellow sweeps of 
 light. 
 
 Then I wrapped my coat tightly 
 about me and slept long in the song 
 of the pines. I awoke desiring a lover. 
 
 43. 
 
"All through the long bright days of 
 
 June 
 Its leaves grew green and fair 
 And waved in hot midsummer noon 
 Its soft and yellow hair 
 
 August loth. 
 
 On Rock Maple Ridge today 
 
 "First, a lake, tinted with sunset; next 
 the waving lines of far reaching hills," 
 . . . .the might and majesty of Israel, — 
 then all at once a glory of golden 
 wheat on the very crest of the steep 
 hill, waving like hair in the wind, 
 shining like hair in the sun — a wonder 
 
 past the telling One dwarf like 
 
 old man wrinkled and long bearded 
 bent double over his scythe, — Hagen 
 stealing the gold from the Rhine maid- 
 ens. 
 
"Somewhere it laughed and sang; 
 
 somewhere 
 Whirled in mad dance its misty hair, 
 But who had raised its veil, or seen 
 The rainbow skirts of that Undine?" 
 
 August 15. 
 Today we drove to Beedis' Falls, — 
 the wonder road through Sandwich 
 Notch: 
 
 "The river hemmed with leaning trees 
 Wound through its meadows green; 
 
 A long blue line of mountains showed 
 The open pines between. 
 
 "One sharp, tall peak above them all 
 Clear into sunlight sprang, 
 
 I saw the river of my dreams. 
 The mountains that I sang." 
 
 At the place where we stopped first 
 the water flowed quietly over a great 
 wide sweep of solid rock. Wading 
 was slippery but full of delight. I 
 dropped all my petticoats and letting 
 fly my hair I leaped, feeling like a 
 deer, down over to the smaller rocks 
 45. 
 
where the water began to tumble and 
 I could be drenched in its tossing 
 spray. Flashes of the sunlight warm- 
 ed my wet legs and arms, and I danc- 
 ed every wild step I knew, — feeling so 
 free and glorious: 
 
 "The leaves through which the glad 
 
 winds blew 
 Shared the wild dance the waters 
 
 knew; 
 And where the shadows deepest fell, 
 The wood-thrush rang his silver bell. 
 
 "Fringing the stream at every turn, 
 Swung low the waving fronds of fern; 
 From stony clefts and mossy sod, 
 Pale asters sprang, and golden rod. 
 
 The turquoise lakes, the glimpse of 
 
 pond 
 And river track, and, vast, beyond 
 Broad meadows belted round with 
 
 pines 
 The grand uplift of mountain lines! 
 
 46. 
 
"We held our sideling way above 
 
 The river's whitening shallows, 
 
 By homesteads old, with wide fltmg 
 
 barns 
 Swept through and through with swal- 
 lows. 
 
 August 20. 
 
 Yesterday Alice and I drove along 
 by Israel by way of the old stage road. 
 We passed a dingy farm house where 
 the old people were left alone. A 
 quaintly fashioned letter box had been 
 put up years before in front of their 
 house, — when their only son went 
 west. Every day, when the stage pass- 
 ed they watched for a letter. Finally 
 two robins built a nest in the little 
 box. Every spring they came back; 
 no letter has ever disturbed them., .. 
 We came to another farm house de- 
 serted and forlorn, a haunted place, 
 far in the fields. Israel has many such. 
 It broods over them gloomily, but the 
 highland roads laugh in its grave face 
 and run carelessly by the abandoned 
 homes of its lost children. It was 
 warm yesterday; a drowsy sense even 
 in those gay roads, — O! the charm of 
 
 47. 
 
their sleep on the breasts of the maid- 
 en flowers! 
 
 "Along the roadside, like the flowers 
 
 of gold 
 That tawny Incas for their gardens 
 
 wrought, 
 Heavy with sunshine droops the gold- 
 en rod, 
 And the red pennons of the cardinal 
 
 flowers 
 Hang motionless upon their upright 
 
 staves. 
 The sky is hot and hazy, and the 
 
 wind, 
 Wing-weary with its long flight from 
 
 the south, 
 Unfelt; yet, closely scanned yon maple 
 
 leaf 
 
 With faintest motion, as one stirs in 
 
 dreams. 
 Confesses it. The locust by the wall 
 Stabs the noon silence with his sharp 
 
 alarm. 
 A single hay-cart down the dusty road 
 Creaks slowly, with its driver fast 
 
 asleep on the load's top. 
 
 Against the neighboring hill, 
 
 Huddled along the stone wall's shady 
 
 side, 
 The sheep snow white, as if a snow- 
 drift 
 
 48. 
 
Defied the dog-star. Through the 
 open door 
 
 A drowsy smell of flowers, — gay helio- 
 trope, 
 
 And white sweet clover, and shy mig- 
 nonette — 
 
 Comes faintly in, and silent chorus 
 lends 
 
 To the pervading symphony of peace." 
 
 So we drove and we drove, Alice 
 and I, — we followed the roads as the 
 flowers did, we embraced them, we 
 adored them, — and we did not blame a 
 single little aster! It was dark when we 
 turned homeward, — "See how those 
 clouds lown down turn to mountains," 
 said Alice, "and the pastures stretch off 
 smooth into space, — look, — the mist 
 sweeping up from the valley over 
 Israel.." Then we watched the stars 
 come out. With half closed eyes we 
 watched the mystic fairness of the 
 hills, — those brides of the night clouds 
 and the stars, — adorning themselves 
 for their sweet bridegrooms. 
 
 "How far and strange the mountains 
 
 seem. 
 Dim-looming through the pale, still 
 
 light! 
 The vague, vast grouping of a dream, 
 They stretch into the solemn night. 
 
 49. 
 
August 30. 
 Today, — today, — all day under the 
 apple trees! A big white cloud lumin- 
 ous with light arising over the sloping 
 gray roof — all the sky a clear and se- 
 rene blue — apples shining on the trees, 
 — mellow, — full of sweet fruit-smell, — 
 the sad leaves closing around them 
 tenderly — holding them fast, — know- 
 ing their loss is coming 
 
 50. 
 
V. 
 
 INDIAN LEGENDS FLOAT IN 
 THE BREEZES. 
 
 "Let Indian ghosts, if such there be, 
 Who ply unseen their shadowy lines, 
 Call back the ancient name to thee 
 As with the voice of pines!" 
 
 Although Israel is mighty and much 
 beloved, Ossipee sings to the heart 
 with the woman's love song. Its fair 
 brow, gold crowned, the rising sunlit 
 dome, like the one burning breast of 
 an Amazon girl, — the long, grace of 
 its firm lines, — the sweetness of the 
 little clouds, — its winged children — 
 playing over it, — then the transparent 
 blushing wonder of it when the twi- 
 light falls 
 
 Long ago, so the stories say, an 
 ocean of pines swept the vast hill from 
 base to dome; the very name in the 
 Indian tongue meant Mountain of the 
 Pines, and it was the Indian symbol 
 of the ideal. 
 
 The Ossipee Falls are the Falls of 
 the Song of the Pines. Some say that 
 late in November a plaintive note is 
 heard here. That is the last cry of an 
 Indian brave of the Pequaket tribe. 
 He took up arms against John Cham- 
 51. 
 
berlain, the murderer of Paugus, the 
 great chief, and he pursued him over 
 the valleys from Winnepesaukee to 
 Ossipee Falls. The pale face leaped 
 the falls, — the very spot is pointed out 
 today, — but the Indian fell in his haste, 
 and perished in the foaming waters, — 
 and his ghost has haunted the place 
 ever since, white spray of the restless 
 waters, mist of dreams. 
 
 52. 
 
Light mists, whose soft embraces keep 
 The sunshine on the hills asleep! 
 
 The little lake Asquam, meaning the 
 beautifui-surrounded-by-water-place, is 
 very fair. Like most inland waters it 
 is crystal clear, reflecting minutely ev- 
 ery change and tinge of color of the 
 clouds and trees and sky. It is only 
 two miles beyond Sandwich on the 
 road under the red oaks and maples 
 of Red Hill to Center Harbor. It is 
 not big, like Winnepesaukee, but it is 
 even more charming. The graceful 
 curves of its shore lines, the miniature 
 islands rocking on its waters, and the 
 mists arising at dawn and evening take 
 possession of every sense. 
 
 The Indian myth that lies sleeping 
 on the waters' breast wakes only in a 
 fierce thunder storm at night, when 
 the curse of old Wamego flashes in the 
 lightning, the moaning of Suneta 
 haunts the valley for miles around, and 
 the love song of Anonis yearns far in 
 the lonely hills. Long ago, the legend 
 says, an old Indian chief, the ugly 
 Wamego, whose squaw had died, lived 
 
 53- 
 
on the shores of Squam. Suneta, the 
 daughter of a neighboring chief, was 
 sold to him by her father, although she 
 was pledged to Anonis, a brave of her 
 own tribe. The marriage feast with 
 the ugly chief was celebrated. Before 
 many moons had passed, however, 
 when one night the old Wamego lay 
 sleeping heavily, Suneta heard her lov- 
 er's voice. 
 
 "Come! The night is dark and stormy, 
 My canoe is on the lake. 
 My beloved! I cannot live without you. 
 You are mine! 
 
 Death awaits me tonight if I bear you 
 not away in mine arms!" 
 
 Suneta sprang to him and they fled 
 though the shadows. Wamega 
 awoke, followed them and caught 
 them. With his tomahawk he killed 
 Anonis, and lifting up his voice over 
 the fainting Suneta, cried, "May fire 
 blast her! Let the Manitou make of 
 her an example to coming time!" A 
 flash of lightning and a savage growl 
 of thunder replied to his words. The 
 body of Suneta was turned to stone, — 
 circle of the sighing wind, miserere, — 
 the ever living Franceska and Paolil 
 Today all the people who come to 
 Asquam look upon the rock so 
 
 54. 
 
"Part thy blue lips, Northern Lake! 
 Moss grown rocks your silence break! 
 
 Tell the tale thou ancient tree! 
 Thou, too, slide-worn Ossipee! 
 Speak, and tell us how and when 
 
 Lived and died this King of Men!" 
 
 The mountain of all mountains 
 around Sandwich is Chocorua, the 
 Prophet's Tomb. It is known far and 
 wide beyond any other of the White 
 Hills, save Mount Washington alone, 
 and it is loved far more than any oth- 
 er. Even children may climb Cho- 
 corua, and its story is a tale told at 
 the New England firesides in the long 
 winter, even as the story of the Black 
 Douglas stirred the Scottish hearts of 
 long ago, Chocorua was a chief of the 
 Ossipee tribe. He was afraid of noth- 
 ing. He fought in many battles with 
 the white men to keep the home and 
 the hunting ground of his people. But 
 the settlers and the soldiers were too 
 strong for him. The Ossipee tribe 
 was driven, by foot, over the border 
 into Canada. Chocorua and a handful 
 of braves remained. They established 
 
 55- 
 
their stronghold on a nameless moun- 
 tain where roamed the bears and the 
 deer. The colony of Massachusetts 
 offered many pounds of silver tor 
 scalps of the Indians. Thus, for 
 blood money, one by one, Cho- 
 corua's men were killed. The long 
 winter came and Chocorua was left 
 alone. For many months no white man 
 dared go near the nameless moun- 
 tain for very dread. But when the 
 spring awoke and the white ramparts 
 of snow fell from Chocorua's fort, 
 every pass into the forest there was 
 guarded, and a hundred men assembled 
 to hunt down the fierce chieftain. He 
 retreated farther and farther up the 
 mountain, pressed on by his enemies, 
 until at last he reached the peak, that 
 sharp tower rock, like a leaning battle- 
 ment in the sky. His arrows were 
 gone; death or capture was before him. 
 With folded arms he stood silent on 
 the peak. A bullet whistled by him. 
 Then he lifted up his voice in a 
 prophecy of woe to the white man's 
 land, of sickness to the cattle, of death 
 to the young men. He sang the cry of 
 the abandonment of the land, then he 
 plunged into the dark sea of mist and 
 pines three thousand feet below. The 
 mountain was named his brave name. 
 It is graven there forevermore. 
 
 56. 
 
A huge gray bowlder lies today un- 
 der a giant birch not far from the 
 Half-Way House of Chocorua: — 
 
 "And there the fallen chief is laid, 
 In tasseled garbs of skin arrayed, 
 And girdled with his wampum braid. 
 
 "There shall his fitting requiem be 
 In Northern winds that, cold and free 
 Howl nightly in that funeral tree. 
 
 "O, peeled and haunted, and reviled, 
 Sleep on, dark tenant of the wild! 
 Great Nature owns her simple child." 
 
 "Yes, — dees be ze place where Sho- 
 coruay be buried," says old "Dutch" 
 Liberty, keeper of the Half-Way 
 House, "dees be ze place!" Liberty is 
 a French-Canadian by birth but he has 
 been in New Hampshire beyond folks' 
 counting, and by Carroll County logic, 
 smce it be not English that he speaks, 
 he must be a Dutchman. He is at any 
 rate an industrious toll gatherer. He 
 Knows by natural instinct every foot 
 oi the ground Chocorua trod, and, 
 even as the guides of Holyrood, he too 
 can point out drops of blood along 
 the trail and can speak the very words 
 of Chocorua's curse. 
 
 "Zen ze cattle zey die by one, by 
 
 57. 
 
two, by ze hunder, — all from Shoco- 
 ruay's curse." But Mrs. Liberty shakes 
 ber head mildly, "That be, so I hear, 
 om account of too much lime in tie 
 water. They gave the cattle soapsuds 
 an' they was cured. But when I mer- 
 ried Liberty an' come up here on the 
 mountain ter love, scarce a body 
 would plant foot on Shocoruay, That 
 be thirty year ago come next August, 
 an' here we be still." 
 
 Mrs. Liberty is of Quaker blood and 
 Quaker gentleness. Her eyes are blue, 
 and her hair a soft, waving white. Her 
 face is fine and in spite of her sixty 
 odd years, fresh and rosy in coloring, 
 and her bearing stately and erect. On 
 sunny afternoons she sits for hours on 
 the steps of the Half-way House, knit- 
 ting little presents for her friends, the 
 visitors to Chocorua. She brings 
 them glasses of mountain water and 
 looks to their comfort in many ways. 
 
 The Halfway House is just a rough 
 three-roomed shack made of pine 
 boards. Red calico curtains are tack- 
 ed across the windows and scarlet 
 geraniums in old tomato cans blow on 
 the pine window sills. Mountain air 
 and the scent of the balsam fir fill the 
 bare, dean, little rooms. From the 
 front door the hill descends, past the 
 corali for the tourists' teams, far down 
 
 58. 
 
into the white birch belt. The incline 
 is steep from the rear of Halfway 
 House. A silver trout stream tumbles 
 down the hill as though it were going 
 to run straight into the back door of 
 the little house, but it takes a sharp 
 turn to the right just where the Lib- 
 erty trail begins. 
 
 "Be ye goin' ter climb Shocoruay 
 today?" Mrs. Liberty asks, "it be 
 blowin' strong on the peak today, but 
 there's fifteen gone before ye. But they 
 ain't done fixin' the teams yet so you 
 kin set awhile with me. Be I lonely? 
 Wa'al yes, there ain't never a soul 
 comes near Shocoruay long in the 
 winter, an' me an' Liberty we jest 
 sets here, an' does our chores, an' sets 
 here. I say to myself God hev set me 
 down here on Shocoruay, an' here to 
 stay, an' I prays ter Him an' takes my 
 lot. T'aint so hard when you come to 
 think. We got potatoes yonder an* 
 flour in the shack, an' bacon enough 
 ter last, an' thar be plenty of wood for 
 fire, an t'aint so cold about here as 'tis 
 in other places. It be cold enough 
 though, an' never a livin' body, but 
 along about Spring, though, all that's 
 changed, an' friends begin ter come, 
 an' keep a coming' till October sets in. 
 I'd rather be here than on the farm. 
 Sometimes me an' Liberty we shets up 
 
 59. 
 
the Halfway House an' goes to the 
 farm, but it is about the same wher- 
 ever we goes. Liberty an' me made 
 the trail up Shocoruay, — yes, there be 
 other trails, but they be full of harri- 
 canes. It keeps Liberty an' me work- 
 in' ter keep the trail in shape, an' this 
 be the only one folks travel on much. 
 The folks come from all parts, — all 
 over the world ter see Shocoruay. 
 There be one old lady my age gone 
 up there today, — there be a good many 
 old ladies hev climbed Shocoruay. 
 you'll take notice of the one gone up 
 today maybe. She has an spectacles 
 an' wears a cape with a red plaid lin- 
 ing, — I reckon you'll see her. Then 
 there's some comes from Boston every 
 summer an' New York. Everybody 
 knows about Shocoruay, though I 
 can't say as I see much ter it, — Shoco- 
 ruay be Socoruay." 
 
 In all the Sandwich region so stir- 
 ring with melodies of clouds and birds, 
 children, flowers and pines, and lakes 
 and hills; there is no chord more ma- 
 jestic, more sublime than this, — Cho- 
 corua! At first, in minor key, in pierc- 
 ing sweet, the young trail leaves the 
 glowing stream beyond the Halfway 
 House, and tenderly steps into the fast 
 vanishing zone of the white birches. 
 Embraced by the pale, slender arms 
 60. 
 
of those fairy trees, shadowed in long 
 arches of green leaves, it lingers pleas- 
 antly, — and sadly, — for a mile or more. 
 Then it dips low down into a stony 
 hollow, wet underfoot for a space, 
 then mounts sharply up with sturdy 
 strength into the black belt of the 
 pines. Streams of water, — myriads of 
 them, spring from the mysterious 
 rocks, and dance down the steep de- 
 scent like water sprites. Like slender 
 white threads they curve down under 
 the traveler's feet and wind off into the 
 deep forest, — magic ways to Fair Rosa- 
 mond. Enchanters appear in the shape 
 of wonderful vistas, now far ahead or 
 far back or to right or left, to lure the 
 pilgrim off the trail. But Chocorua's 
 summit is on ahead, — the donjon tow- 
 er, — and a view of the mighty keep, it- 
 self, Mount Washington, and all the 
 walls and battlements and towers and 
 turrents of the great castled land. Off 
 to the south the vast moat, — waters of 
 Winnepesaukee will glow, — again, in 
 the heart of the valley Sandwich Vil- 
 lage and all her little sister towns will 
 be seen in their quiet sleep, while far 
 off, miles beyond the hundred lakes, 
 far across the country a long pale line 
 will stretch, — the coast of Maine dim 
 in the mist of the sea. 
 
 6i. 
 
Though the promise is fair and rich, 
 the hillside is a wonderful thing— and 
 hard to leave. It is a dreamer, savage 
 and poetical — voice of the dying Moses 
 murmuring low, precious things of the 
 everlasting hills. 
 
 The way grows steep and bare. The 
 pines are dwarfs, the rocks are giants. 
 The earth begins to recede; the prom- 
 ise is about to be fulfilled. The re- 
 gions of the sky are here. With a 
 very trumpet's blast, the wild wind 
 charges down, armored in black rocks, 
 with boughs of the leaning pines his 
 lance and battle ax, spray of the green 
 pine his bright pennon — over all white 
 plumage of the clouds — laugh of Die 
 Walkure. 
 
 The joust is on — the tournament of 
 rocks and wind and sky. 
 Laissez aller! 
 
 A valiant step upward — a shouting 
 in the very air — behold the peak, Cho- 
 corua! 
 
 62 
 
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