So thought we as the day that was breaking found us out in the lovely glen; hemmed in on all sides by lofty hills. The birds at this season of the year do most of their singing in the morning hours. Early as the time was, we were not the first to greet the coming dawn.

The blue mantle that clothed the mountains had been withdrawn so that the serrated points of spruce and pine stood out in bold relief against the pale blue of the morning sky. The stars, like far-off beacon lights along the mountain tops, slowly melted into the dawn. Over in the direction of Mount Willard the rich contralto of the wood thrush sounded; the white crowned sparrow's sweet, wavering whistle rang from the spruce crested slopes; from the telephone poles down by the railroad station the king birds were loudly disputing with the indigo buntings for full possession of the wires; flickers and downy woodp.e.c.k.e.rs called loudly or gave vent to their morning enthusiasm by beating a lively tattoo upon the dead pine stubs; while the ringing reveille of the cardinal must have awakened the sleepiest denizen of the forest.

But another song rises pure and serene above the general chorus of vireos and warblers. You saunter along a murmuring stream, scarce noting the fresh green of bush and tree, or the ferns, flowers and moss that are ma.s.sed in marvelous beauty. Nature has arranged her stage in the amphitheater of the hills for some great pageant. All the while you are listening to the rich melody coming from the shadowy depths of hemlock in the direction of Mount Willard. "It seemed as if some unseen Orpheus had strayed to earth and from some remote height was thrumming a divine accompaniment." Here among the majesty and stillness of the White Mountains was a song most fitting and infinitely beautiful to express their loveliness. It seemed to have in it the purity and depth of crystal clear lakes; the solemn and shadowy grandeur of hemlock forests, the faint, far-away spirit music of mountain echoes, the calm serenity of evening skies, the prayers and hopes and longings of all creation. With such a prelude as this did we behold the coming of the dawn. Nature had erected an emerald portal for the triumphal entry of the king of day. The curtains of misty green were drawn back at the signal of some nymph. Between the broken ridges of Mount Clinton and Jackson the sun appeared long after his first beams were old on the opposite side of the mountains.

While the swallows that built their nests beneath the eaves of the Crawford House were busy many hours with their family cares, the card-crazed players and the dancers of the night before were sleeping the troubled sleep of the idlers.

CHAPTER VIII

WHITE MOUNTAINS

The traveler who comes to the White Mountains should not fail to see Chocorua. "Chocorua," how rich and sonorous is that word. It has in it something expressing the wildness and loneliness of these lovely hills. Its rhythm suggests the sigh of the wind among mountain pines or the continuous and far-heard melody of distant waterfalls. This famous peak is everything that a New Hampshire mountain should be. It bears the name of an Indian chief. It is invested with traditional and poetic interest. In form it is ma.s.sive and symmetrical. The forests of its lower slopes are crowned with rock that is sculptured into a peak with lines full of haughty energy in whose gorges huge shadows are entrapped and whose cliffs blaze with morning gold, and it has the fortune to be set in connection with lovely water scenery, with squam and Winnepesaukee, and the little lake directly at its base.

"On one side of its jagged peak a charming lowland prospect stretches east and south of the Sandwich range, indented by the emerald sh.o.r.es of Winnepesaukee, which lies in queenly beauty upon the soft, far-stretching landscape. Pa.s.s around a huge rock to the other side of the steep pyramid, and you have turned to another chapter in the book of nature. Nothing but mountains running in long parallels, or bending ridge behind ridge, visible, here blazing in sunlight, there gloomy with shadow, and all related to the towering ma.s.s of the imperial Washington.

"And Chocorua is the only mountain here whose summit is honored with a legend. 'In the valley where the lovely forest-clad mountains tower above the blue lakes dwelt Chocorua, the last chief of his tribe. Here too lived a settler by the name of Cornelius Campbell.

"Chocorua had a son, nine or ten years old, to whom Caroline Campbell had occasionally made such gaudy present as were likely to attract his savage fancy. This won the child's affections, so that he became a familiar visitant, almost an inmate of their dwelling, and, being unrestrained by the courtesies of civilized life, he would inspect everything which came in his way. Some poison, prepared for a mischievous fox which had long troubled the little settlement, was discovered and drunk by the Indian boy, and he went home to his father to sicken and die. When Chocorua had buried his wife by the side of a brook, all that was left to him was his little son. After the death of the boy, jealousy and hatred took possession of Chocorua's soul. He never told his suspicions, but he brooded over them in secret, to nourish the deadly revenge he contemplated against Cornelius Campbell.

"The story of Indian animosity is always the same. Campbell left his but for the fields early one bright, balmy morning in June.

Still a lover, though ten years a husband, his last look was towards his wife, answering her parting smile; his last action a kiss for each of his children. When he returned to dinner, they were dead--all dead--and their disfigured bodies too cruelly showed that an Indian's hand had done the work.

"In such a mind, grief, like all other emotions, was tempestuous. Home had been to him the only verdant spot in the desert of life. In his wife and children he had centered all affection, and now they were torn from him. The remembrance of their love clung to him like the death grapple of a drowning man, sinking him down into darkness and death. This was followed by a calm a thousand times more terrible, the creeping agony of despair, that brings with it no power of resistance.

"It was as if the dead could feel The icy worm around him steal."

Such for many days was the state of Cornelius Campbell. Those who knew and reverenced him feared that the spark of reason was forever extinguished. But it rekindled, and with it came a wild, demoniac spirit of revenge. The death groan of Chocorua would make him smile in his dreams, and when he waked, death seemed too pitiful a vengeance for the anguish that was eating into his very soul.

Chocorua's brethren were absent on a hunting expedition at the time he committed the murder, and those who watched his movements observed that he frequently climbed the high precipice, which afterwards took his name. He was probably looking for indications of their return. Here Campbell resolved to carry out his deadly plan. A party was formed, under his guidance, to cut off all chance of retreat, and the dark-minded prophet was to be hunted like a wild beast to his lair.

"The morning sun had scarce cleared away the fogs when Chocorua started at a loud voice from beneath the precipice, commanding him to throw himself into the deep abyss below. He knew the voice of his enemy, and replied with an Indian's calmness, 'The Great Spirit gave life to Chocorua, and Chocorua will not throw it way at the command of the white roan.' 'Then hear the Great Spirit speak in the white man's thunder,' exclaimed Campbell, as he pointed his gun to the precipice. Chocorua, though fierce and fearless as a panther, had never overcome his dread for firearms. He placed his hands upon his ears to shut out the stunning report. The next moment the blood bubbled from his neck, and he reeled fearfully on the edge of the precipice, but he recovered and, raising himself on his hand, he spoke in a loud voice, that grew more terrific as its huskiness increased: 'A curse upon ye, white men. May the Great Spirit curse ye when he speaks in the clouds, and his words are fire. Chocorua had a son and ye killed him while the sun looked bright. Lightning blast your crops. Winds and fire destroy your dwellings. The Evil Spirit breathe death upon your cattle. Your graves lie in the warpath of the Indian. Panthers howl and wolves fatten over your bones. Chocorua goes to the Great Spirit--his curse stays with the white man.'

"The prophet sank upon the ground, still uttering curses, and they left his bones to whiten in the sun, but his curse rested upon that settlement. The tomahawk and scalping knife were busy among them; the winds tore up the trees, and hurled them at their dwellings; their crops were blasted; their cattle died, and sickness came upon their strongest men. At last the remnant of them departed from the fatal spot to mingle with more populous and prosperous colonies. Campbell became a hermit, seldom seeking or seeing his fellowmen, and two years after he was found dead in his hut." (footnote: From The White Hills, by Starr King.)

As we looked out over the sylvan beauty of the scenery that is unsurpa.s.sed, we realized that long ago the curse had been removed. The hills are intersected by charming labyrinths of wood that lead to peaceful valleys. These dreamy forest solitudes, with their deep foliage and singing rills which wander here and there, lull your senses like an enchantment after the noise and scrambling bustle of the busy manufacturing centers from which you no doubt have so recently come.

"The Appalachian mountains in their long majestic course from northeast to southwest rise to their greatest height in the New England states, culminating in Mount Washington, sixty-two hundred and ninety feet elevation, surrounded on all sides by lesser peaks, mostly from two thousand to five thousand feet high. "Bretton Woods," an estate of ten thousand acres, lies in a very picturesque section of these mountains. The Amonoosuc valley is somewhat less than four miles west from the head of Crawford's notch. Here a railroad and the one through highway skirt the east side of the Amonoosuc river; while on the west side a level meadow extends about a half mile directly across to a range of low foot-hills back of which Mount Washington rears his immense bulk. All through this region you will find the most ample accommodations that tourists could wish; along the tributary routes as well as in and about the mountains, you will find comfortable, well-kept rooms and good, wholesome food, and the finest of American resort hotels, with all the luxuries to be found in the city. Notably among the latter cla.s.s is the Mount Washington, a three-million-dollar hotel, and said to be the finest tourist hotel in the world.

When we left Crawford's notch the pine needles were still shimmering with sparkling points of light; the long bright green of the balsam fir and the silvery blue of the graceful hemlocks were full of glory and splendor; myriads of luminous green scalloped beech leaves sent back a million glinting beams of light as they caught the rays of the morning sun. The yellow and white birch waved their spicy branches soothingly above the songful streams, like emerald sprays of art. The vireo's cheery strain sounded from many points in the vast wilderness of foliage. This song coming from afar, only served to heighten the vast and lonely grandeur of the forest solitudes. From the wooded hills of southeastern Ohio to the Green Mountains of Vermont we heard his cheery notes. Whether in the morning when the pine needles glistened in the bright light; at noon when the heat flowed in tremulous waves; or at evening when the last rosy beam gladdened the west, his song was alike full of contentment and rarest melody.

As we proceeded on our journey we beheld country homes charmingly embowered among their trees and vines, yet the region still retains that wild and primeval beauty that defies civilization.

Boys and men were busy making hay and their industry proclaimed that they had heeded the proverb of "make hay while the sun shines." Now and then herds of cattle were grazing or standing up to their knees in the cool of streams. What pictures of homely contentment they made! How much they add to the beauty of pastoral scenes!

More and more we were impressed with the grandeur and grace of the restful, flowing outlines of these mountains. With the light gray of their granite walls and the vivid green of their forests, they make beautiful harmony.

We paused along a beautiful sheet of water, Echo lake. A bugler whom some tourists paid for his crude attempts was doing his best (which was none too good) to awake the echoes. How harsh and grating were the tones he made, seeming like the bleat of a choking calf; yet, with what marvelous sweetness were those rasping tones transformed by the nymphs of the mountains. After a few moments' pause they were repeated among the nearer ridges, but softer and with a rare sweetness as pure and clear as a thrush's vesper bell. Again a short pause and we heard them higher, fainter, sweeter, until they died away among the hills; too fine for our mortal ears to catch. It seemed as if some sylvan deity, some Mendelssohn or Chopin of this vast forest solitude heard those harsh notes and putting a golden cornet to his lips, sent back the melodies the bugler meant to make. As the last reverberations died away among the hills we thought of those lines in Emerson's "May Day":

Echo waits with Art and Care And will the faults of song repair.

How crude the attempts of man at producing the melodies of life!

How beautiful the discordant notes become when the Master Musician breathes into them the melodies of infinite love!

"O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on field, or hill or river Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever."

The water of the lake was so clear we could see the white pebbles at the bottom, or the pike that swam slowly to the edge.

How pure the mountains looked! How fresh and new the gra.s.s and flowers! The sky above was blue; the water of Profile lake was dark blue; the mountains wore a delicate veil of misty blue; blue were the myriads of delicate campanula that peeped from their rocky ledges; silvery blue was the smoke that curled from the forest's green from a dozen camp fires; and out of that mysterious all-pervading blue lifted the benign countenance of the Great Stone Face.

When Nature made this grand masterpiece, she set it on the topmost edge of Cannon Range so that all could see it. It may be seen from the edge of Profile lake, and stands in the midst of a magnificent forest preserve of six thousand acres, rising nearly two thousand feet above sea level. On either side are Profile and Echo lakes, vieing with each other in their crystal clearness; behind it are towering cliffs and wooded heights, and in every direction lead woodland paths and rocky trails offering ever-changing glimpses of wonderful White mountain scenery.

With what infinite patience has Nature sculptured this great face! Centuries ago among the American Indians there was a legend that in time there should appear in the valley a boy whose features would not only be a resemblance to, but be like those of the face on the mountain side. When the people of the valley heard the legend, they too looked for the coming of a great man who would tower far above the ordinary life of those who dwelt in the lowly valley. How long they waited in vain for the appearance of one with features n.o.ble, tender and serene as those upon which they gazed! How many years slipped by and only rumors came concerning those who were thought to bear a resemblance to the wonderful "old Man of the Mountains." Yet, those very people had infinite possibilities with their own faces while in their youth. Only by having a vision of some day attaining that far mountain height of purity and victory, as written on those features, could they carve out a countenance so divine.

Gazing out over the lake through vistas of maple and beech we thought of Hawthorne's words: "It was a happy lot for the children to grow up to manhood or womanhood with the Great Stone Face before their eyes; for all of the features were n.o.ble, and the expression was at once grand and sweet, as if it were the glow of a vast, warm heart, that embraced all mankind in its affections and had room for more."

Truly, this face appears like a great mountain G.o.d. A wreath seems to adorn his brow like that which was worn by the poets of ancient Greece. A faint light surrounds and illuminates his features scarcely discernible from the valley below. How one's earthly schemes seem to pale and fade, as did "Gathergold's"

fortune when he beheld the wealth and beauty of Nature about him! How sordid the striving for fame and power appear, which as quickly fade as did that of "Old Blood and Thunder" and "Old Stoney Phiz!" "Nature is the Art of G.o.d." How mighty the forces that lined these majestic features! How wonderful still the unseen hands at work to make life richer as the years go by!

You almost imagine you see the natural pulpit set in its rich framework of verdure and festooned with vines placid in a nook in the hills. You seem to hear the words of life uttered by the pure lips of Ernest because "a life of good deeds and holy love is melted into them." The ancient pines stand hushed and tranquil in the quiet light as if awaiting a message from those lips of stone. You gain new faith in the beauty and freshness of Nature out here. Those lips seem to say "do not live in the mean valleys of earthly ambition, but strive to gain higher conceptions of life with truer, n.o.bler aims, that soar above the sordid world until you attain that benign look of the Great Stone Face." It comes to you like a far-off echo of a divine chant, sweeter than any melody you have ever caught.

Many people on first beholding the Great Stone Face ascribe firmness to its features. They perhaps judge their fellowmen in like manner. They fail to see the depth of thought or honest sincerity of soul that shines forth from many a rough exterior, beneath which beats a heart of purest gold. How many seek high positions, notoriety, or public approbation, but alas! how few, like Ernest, put forth the effort to fit them for the places sought!

Almost as remarkable as the Great Stone Face itself are the cannon that seem to guard the abode of the Man of the Mountains.

Indeed, they have been sculptured so remarkably well that some tourists exclaim, "I wonder how they ever got those huge guns up there." On being told these guns too, had been carved out of rock and set in place to guard ever this beautiful and vast domain since the beginning of time, they still were not convinced that they were only harmless piles of stones, whose thundering tones never had awakened the echoes of this peaceful spot. One of the party said, "but see, up there are the gun carriages!" True, they were very like the original implements of destruction, but no lurid light ever profaned the night skies, and no warriors shall ever drag these guns across the ocean to do grim service in a "Meuse-Argonne."

Again you gaze at Profile lake, the source of the wild and beautiful Pemigewa.s.set river, which is joined by a few, small streams the first few miles of its journey, then other branches unite with it to form the Merrimac, which, after gradually descending through Concord, supplies immense amounts of water power to Manchester, Nashua, Lowell, Lawrence and Haverhill before pa.s.sing majestically out to sea at Newbury port.

No wonder Whittier wrote so much about the Merrimac river and Lake Winnepesaukee, because both seem to typify the Indian name of the latter "The Smile of the Great Spirit."

In the immediate locality about the lake a botanist will find the hours pa.s.sing all too swiftly, for here is indeed a place to commune with Nature. You will find rare flowers and ferns, and to what rich and lovely places they lead you! Along lonely mountain roads where the golden song of the wood thrush comes from the cool depths and the sweet, pearly notes of the winter wren ripple down through the gloom; out along lonely forest lakes or where trout brooks wander beneath dark hemlock trees and lose their way in the shadows; high up on inaccessible mountain ledges where the river plunges in a solid amber sheet and breaks up into avalanches of shimmering rainbow mist, and down in the marsh where acres and acres of green gra.s.s and sedge stretch away like gleaming stars on a winter night. Going out to commune with Nature sounds very nice, but it requires the patience of a job, the eyes of a Burbank, the ears of a Mozart, and the great loving heart of a Burroughs if one is to gain the most from one's rambles. You will never learn the hymns that the forest and waterfalls have been singing for ages; never really know the song of the hermit thrush or the mystery and grandeur of mountains, if you are unwilling to pay the price. You must be willing to climb high mountains, scramble down rocky gorges and ravines, thread the almost impenetrable bogs and marshes, endure fierce heat, mosquito bites, hunger and toil, "but once you are admitted into the secrets of the out-of-doors you will begin to wonder why you ever dined in hot stuffy restaurants, spent your holidays in smoky, dirty cities, or did any of those conventional things that rob us of so many fine moments of life!"

We looked once more at the view across the lake. Someone said G.o.d never made anything more beautiful than the scenery at Franconia notch. But as we turned away from this entrancing scene, we saw a boy gazing in rapt admiration away across the lake, his face glowing with enthusiasm, his every gesture speaking of joy and love. Here, we said, is a work more beautiful than any mountain scenery. What infinite possibilities are wrapped up in the soul of a boy! Leaving him standing there we wondered what thoughts were pa.s.sing through his mind, we made our way along the mountain road.

The soul of music slumbers in the sh.e.l.l, Till waked and kindled by the master's sped, And feeling hearts--touch them but rightly--pour A thousand melodies unheard before.

CHAPTER IX

BOSTON

What could be more delightful than a visit to Boston? Those motoring through the New England states will find it both interesting and profitable to tarry a while in this quaint old place. There are so many places of interest in this city that s.p.a.ce forbids an enumeration of only a few of the most important. You will probably want to see the State House with its gilded dome which was once covered with copper plates rolled by Paul Revere. The corner-stone of this building was laid by the Masons, Paul Revere, Grand Master, July 4, 7795. Three times the original building has been enlarged--an extension to the rear in 7889, later a wing on the east, and very recently a wing on the west.

What a throng of past memories cl.u.s.ter here! Near the intersection of Boylston and Tremont streets lies the old Central burying ground, noted as the final resting place of Gilbert Stuart, the famous artist. You will not want to miss seeing Park Street church, for it was here William Lloyd Garrison delivered his first address and "America" was sung in public for the first time. "Standing on the steps of the State House, facing the Common, you are looking toward Saint Gaudens'

bronze relief of Col. Robert G. Shaw, commanding his colored regiment. This is indeed a n.o.ble work of art and should not be overlooked. "The Atheneum is well worthy of a visit, and if you have a penchant for graveyards, you may wander over the Granary Burying Ground, where rest the ashes of Samuel Adams, Hanc.o.c.k, Sewell, Faneuil, Otis, and Revere."