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 Pemigewasset 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 passing 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 passing 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 grass 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.
