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Let me float down upon the pleasant stream.
How grandly these old branches heave their arch
Above my path-a dark, green canopy.

Scarce pierced by sunbeam! Shadows vast and brown
Drop through the intertwining boughs, and lie
Like sleeping giants on the huddled knolls,
And wrap the mouldering logs and mossy stones,
And this cool rivulet that prattles down
To gladden the dim vale. No carpet shines
On floor of Eastern king so royal-rich,

So softly fair as this green robe that spreads
Far as my vision goes. My gentle friends,
The waxen heath-flowers and the nameless plants
That spring not save in these dim solitudes,
Await my coming with a smile, and seem
To hear my stillest footsteps as they sink
Into this tufted floor that yields like wool.
The pyrola sends up its frail raceme

Of milky blooms that scatter a faint musk
Along the aisles. The glossy wintergreen
Plants on the graves of these slow-mouldering trunks
Its little groves that shine in endless youth;
And sturdy clusters of the prince's pine
Sprinkle the twilight's long and wavering robes
With their green glimmerings. Mitchellias
Climb o'er the roots and draw their thick festoons
Around the mossy swells and hide their bright
Red fruit in the club-moss that spreads o'er all
Its rigid network. From the rugged arms
That brace this tangled roof the lichen trails
Its long gray banner, and the hobble bush
Whose broad leaves wear beneath a fulvous down,
Whitens the shadows with its Summer snow,
And o'er the hollows leans its broad flat cymes.
The orchis, that sends forth two unctuous leaves
Close to the ground, large, glistening, orbic, smooth,
And lifts a little wand of pale-green flowers,
Welcomes me to its still and shady nooks.
In hollows of these aged trunks the owl

Hides her rude nest and rears her young, and when
The moonbeams, trembling in, fleck all the ground
With bars of ashen shade and silver flame,
Shivers the silence with her midnight cry,
Whilst the warm suns of June make gay the vales
With oxeyes and the hills with kalmia flames,
The dazzling tanager from Mexico,

And crested grosbeak flash along the boughs
Like fallen stars. The harsh and garrulous jay,
A bold cosmopolite, bends the topmost twigs,
Looking as if he had fallen from the vault
That just above him glows, so blue he shines!
And when the sun upon the Western hills
Burns low, and up these stately avenues,
And through these rocky gates thick-garlanded

With vine and fern, and blood-red columbine

Walks like a god, and meshes every bole,

And whorl, and twig, and ledge, and moss-hemmed pool,
In the warm tangles of his yellow hair,

Then from the inner shades floats out that most
Divine, most clear and silvery-sound of earth,
The hoarded sweetness which the hermit thrush
Pours to his mate upon her hidden nest.
How unlike this that other, riving sound

Which comes, the sharp, denouncing yell of steam!
What temple hath not man despoiled and razed?
On these majestic trunks the axe shall ring,
Until they rock and thunder to the fall;
These archways grand, ærial symmetries,
These noble columns, domes and oriels green,
Shall crack and shrivel in the humming fire;
The flames shall pluck these tender orchis wands,
And these tall rocks, so tufted, plumed and green,
Glitter like pyramids of naked bones,

And toss from their bald brows the Summer hail.

Yes, even here that gaunt, cold shadow stalks,
To which all other shadows are as noon,
The awful spectre, Death. Beneath these leaves
That moulder in the rains are mouldering bones,
And eyes that open not. The Indian brave-
The tiger in his heart-smeared, painted, plumed
To look the prime of fiends fresh-loosed from hell,
Here met his mortal foe; met, grappled, fell
Mangled and gashed, and smoking in his gore.
They heaped above his bones, of faded leaves
And crumbling mould, a nameless, sylvan mound,
Over whose surface moss and feathery ferns
Spread a green mantle. Those fierce-flashing eyes
And swarthy limbs now shine in other hues,
And wear another form. The savage died
And rose again, to live in fronds and flowers,
A peaceful, purer, fairer, gentler life.
The hairlike fibres of the hardy heath,
And burlier tangles of the beech and fir

Creep down and find his ashes; these, brought up
Through millions of attenuated cells
Into the fair and wondrous realm of life,
Smile from the gilded evening primrose flower,
Wave in these giant oaks, these whispering firs,
Whose crowded branches hide the noisy crow,
And this rhodora's flame-like blooms that glow
Above the plashy brook. So Nature round
And round in her relentless circle runs,
Upbuilding, undermining, changing all.
The reddest rose feeds on the dust of kings,
Or of the rose that withered from its place,
Yet in its flushing prime and noon of bloom,
The fungus-spore sprouts in its musky heart,
And death is but the snow-cold side of life.

The subtle, sensuous, philosophic Greek,
An atheist worshipping the beautiful,
Shuddering, beheld that wintry shadow fall
Across his foaming bowls and chill the young,
Light steps that to the silvery sound of reed
Or harp, through all the purple Summer pressed
The bladed velvet of Arcadia.

He loved the fair bright world, its streams and clouds,
And stars and flowers; he said, "It is my world."

Its fountains, faces, shores to him were dear,

And dear the music of the leaves and waves;

The lifeless marble flashing into life

And form beneath the sculptor's wondrous touch;
The glory of the sea green-islanded,
Olympus of the gods, the sacred grove,

The battle-hymn, the feast and feverish game;
And when that spectre rose upon his path
Rolling a blank and frozen night before,

He shuddered. Morning there was none for him;
World, roses, Dryads, Bacchus, all were gone!
So death to the mercurial Greek was hell.
That awful shape with stealthy footstep walks
These ancient groves, and yet I shudder not,
For here are sweet wild flowers, all bridal smiles,
All bringing some dear message from their home
In those far Gardens never trenched by spade;
And through my heart a still, Eolian breath
Of breezes rustling the Ethereal palms

Flows, whilst the birds are singing overhead-
A sound that strays from some green island moored
In those blue deeps that welter round the stars.
And I have passed another high, sweet hour
Amidst the woods, the fresh, bright things of God,
With God have walked his solemn temple-aisles,
Calm in the circle of His inmost calms;
Have felt the pulses of the gentle earth,
And heard her guardian spirits from the rocks
And round hilltops that whiten in the wind,
Call to each other o'er the drowsy vales.
Along the simmering flats below me shines
The whiteness of a robust buckwheat field,
And, creeping o'er its waste of honey-snow,
Up the long valley blows a Hybla wind.

THE WHITE MOUNTAINS IN SUMMER.

BY EDWARD L. WILSON,

WHITHER? Ah! that is a White Mountains—go once, and you will

question, short but imperative, which all who are able to get away from the noisy city during the heated term, begin to consider as soon as the lovely arbutus and the spring beauties appear in the wildwood, or even as soon, perhaps, as the crocuses peep out through the snow-crust. And it is a query, too, that presses upon all such persons until it is decided and settled and the matter all arranged.

With the man of family it is, Whither shall I take my wife and my bairnies during June, July and August, where they will have enough of fresh air, green grass, and general discomfort to make them enjoy their own comfortable home the other three-quarters of the year, and where I can relieve my toil daily, and sleep amid the sounds of the locusts and the owls, and the buzzing of the beetles and the glistening of the glow-worms? Whither? Ah! how many winding lanes and columns of the Ledger, or the Herald or the Post, must be traversed before this question is settled satisfactorily.

With those whose responsibilities are less numerous-the newly married and the over-worked clerk, and all who aspire to something beyond the other-the question looms up just as persistently and haunts them until it is settled-whither? Isn't it aggravating? But do you not know that there is a way of settling it forever? It will take a year or two to do it, but I know it can be done. First go everywhere-Cape May, Long Branch, St. Paul, Trenton Falls, San Francisco, Yellow Springs, Niagara, Yellowstone, Saratoga, Lake Superior, Adirondacks, Washington, (not in hot weather, if you please), and where not, and then-and then, no matter whether you have the "hay fever" or not, ever after go to the

never ask yourself whither? again. You will always have some of the symptoms, but then they will all wither when the dear, delectable, delightful White Mountains loom up in your memory.

It was some time before I could find out the secret. My good friend, Mr. B. W. Kilburn, "the White Mountain Photographer," whom I have told you about-and his goodness--before, and with whom I have had so many glorious times in the "White Hills," often says-when we are together watching the glories of a sunrise, as it awakens the cloudlets and sends them blushing from their hidingplaces in the cool shadows of the ravines, or the great clouds as they race and scud along, seemingly trying to see which can reach yonder mountain top and scalp it first-"well! I never-I never saw the mountains look as they do to-day!" It was, as I say, a good while before I could understand him, but now I can, and I will reveal it to you. The White Mountains never look twice alike, and what my friend Mr. Kilburn says so often is always true. I know it. I have seen them in mid-summer, in mid-winter, and in the autumn, when they were clothed in tints such as none can imagine who have not seen them, and each day in each season the scene changes. When you once learn to love them and understand them, our query becomes impertinent, and you do not even give it consideration.

A few years ago, when I first began to be considered fanatical on the subject, sympathizing friends on the road to Whither, would say, " What! Not to the White Mountains again?" Now they say, tranquilly, having become resigned to my insanity, "Well, I suppose you will go to the White Mountains, as usual." I confess to a weakness in that direction.

The best way to go is to take the most direct route. Our enterprising railway companies have arranged many pleasant "excursions," but you will want all your time at the mountains, and will be sorry for it if you potter on the way. Do not allow a reduction of the fare to induce you to stop everywhere as you go. The favorite approach is via Littleton, although many go via N. Conway. If by the former, arriving at Littleton, stagecoaches will be found waiting at the depot. Be the first to apply to the driver for a seat on the top, for you can see and enjoy so much more. If you are enterprising, you will secure this privilege by telegram.

You will probably arrive at Littleton about 5 P. M. Arrange it so you do, for then your drive to your mountain hotel will be during the pleasantest part of the day. As you leave Littleton you begin to ascend, for you are approaching the glorious mountains, and in a short time will be gliding along over the wellkept romantic mountain roads. It matters but little to which hotel we go first, for you must go to all. Whichever path you select, you

"Cannot err

In this delicious region."

The

We will, however, journey together to the Profile House first, it being eleven miles from Littleton, nearer than any of the others. Now we are in the very midst of the forest, creeping upward and onward. The smell of the evergreens invigorates us, and the rustling leaves lull our senses as we proceed. mixed medley of wild songsters, small and great, fills the woods, and now and then a frightened flock dashes almost against our coach. The falling nuts, and the crashing branches, and the saucy barkings of the squirrels, all add to the charming sensations we have while the breezes drive out upon us the smell of the wild-wood, and we at once begin to glory in the scene about us. At each opening we catch glimpses of the noble mountains, whose bases we seek, "so near and yet so far." By this route we see the highest ranges first, for we have

a full view of the whole extent of the White Mountain Range, and also the grand outlines of Mount Lafayette and its neighbors. In due time we reach the delightful little village of Bethlehem, bringing to mind Bethlehem of old, where He trod the well-worn roads to reach the mountains where He was wont to go to pray.

From Bethlehem we have a magnificent panoramic view. The whole horizon is fretted with mountains standing in great defiles, such as would delight the most enthusiastic artist with their beautiful lines, or dismay the most precise general with their utter carelessness. you have plenty of time, you will never regret spending a few days at Bethlehem before you form a closer acquaintance with the great immovable mounds which stand there for your pleasure and contemplation. There are good hotels there, and pleasant drives, but even without these you will receive as much as the heart can take in, if, "sitting down," you "watch" them "there," and do nothing else.

If we proceed we soon reach the Profile House, which is situated in the Franconia Notch, just while

"The forest glows as if
An enemy's camp-fires shone
Along the horizon,

Or the day's funeral pyre
Were lighted there.

Edged with silver and with gold,
The clouds hang o'er in damask fold,
And with such depth of amber light
The west is kight,

Where still a few rays slant,

That even heaven seems extravagant."

The Franconia Noteh is probably the most attractive of all the passes in the White Mountain region. It is about half a mile wide and five miles long. The Profile House is a very fine one, lecated right at the feet of Mount Lafayette in front and Mount Cannon on the other side, while Eagle Cliff towers up fifteen hundred feet in front with its bold defiles of bristling evergreen bayonets, always pointed unyieldingly heavenward, except when the wild winds of Lafayette come down upon them and make them

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Our Monthly, Volumen6