Many memories
of bygone days fraught with gravest meaning are recalled at this
place.
"Charlemont has many places of historical interest. At the
western end of the village near the long bridge across the
Deerfield river is, the famous sycamore tree under which the
first settlers slept. Just back of it is the place where Charles
Dudley Warner lived, when he had the experiences related in
"Being a Boy." Back of the house on a hill is a monument marking
the resting place of Captain Rice and Phineas Arms, who were
shot by Indians in June, 1775. About two miles from the crossing
of the river on the Mohawk trail on a high ridge is a tall,
lonesome pine which marks the point where the aboriginal Mohawk
trail ascended the hills. The trail can be very clearly traced
at the present day from Cold river up the mountains and along
the ridge to the west for several miles." What a different scene
the road presents today when compared with that of two hundred
years ago!
What a charming location North Adams has in the hollow of the
hills! They seem to surround it on all sides like sentinels
watching over the birthplace of one of the world's great souls,
Susan B. Anthony.
A silvery brook comes stealing
From shadow of its trees
Where slender herbs of forest stoop
Before the entering breeze.
- Bryant.
The silvery stream seems to grow wider, dashing its mossy rocks
with foam, and swaying from side to side with its swift,
impetuous flow as it descends. Past leaning willows it goes;
past graceful elms and fragrant groups of gleaming birch;
whether fast or slow, morning or night, it fills all the
woodland with its liquid music. One turns again and again to
admire the white birch arranged in groups, each lovelier than
the one just beheld. It takes an artist's soul to really enjoy
these wonderful and harmonious scenes. We carried notebooks and
a camera, but used them slightly. Shall we ever forget the azure
sky, the gleaming yellow and white of the birch, the green
meadows, the silvery flashing of the happy streams, or the
bright green and blue of far lakes? No, they shall remain as
long as memories of beautiful things last.
What fine traveling companions these lovely New England brooks
make! What grace and freedom is theirs ! What songs of joy they
sing, telling of the grandeur of the hills through which they
flow! Gladly we followed their winding way, "asking for no
better friend or finer music." No wonder they are so cool and
refreshing, for in what crystal pure springs do they find their
source? Like well born children with a beautiful environment,
they bathe all the wood land flowers and trees with their
beneficent water until they leave a trail of richest verdure
from the mountain to the sea, where they mingle in the great
expanse of waters not to perish, but to be resurrected, into
glorious summer clouds, to carry life and health to the thirsty
plants of earth.
The very sight of their rushing crystal waters beside the
widening road on a hot day gives one a new lease on life. Truly
did Wordsworth say, "earth has not anything to show more fair."
All afternoon we wandered "by shallow rivers to whose falls
melodious birds sang madrigals." We, like the river, were
journeying "at our own sweet will."
Grand balsam fir sprang from the crevices of the rock, family
groups of white birch rose and spread their graceful masses of
foliage on either side of us; mounds of virgin bowers, wild
grape vines, and bittersweet crowned the rocky sides of the
cliffs, spreading from tree to tree or hung from them like
folded curtains; and the sunlight and shadow among pine and
hemlock where grew mosses, ferns and flowers, made vast sheets
of rich mosaic. The hermit and veery thrush sang in the woods
around, tree swallows cut the air above in graceful flight, and
even the lone scout out for a hike, carrying his supplies, had
yielded to his environment and sang such a rapturous strain (to
which a redwing whistled a gurgling accompaniment), we were
reminded of these lines from Roger's "Human Life": "And feeling
hearts, touch them but rightly, pour a thousand melodies unheard
before." He seemed to sing out of very wantonness, and his song
seemed to have that soft undercurrent of melody heard in the
chimes of Belgium - with just a hint of plaintiveness in it to
make the joy and the brightness of the day complete.
No wonder the Indians thought these majestic white mountains the
abodes of their god. Marvelous stories were told about great
shining stones that glittered on the cliffs through the darkness
of the night. Now and then specimens of crystal were shown to
white settlers which they said came from the greatest mountain.
The whites at first called it the "Crystal Hill."
"But," said the Indians to the whites, "nobody can go to the top
of Agiochook, to get these glittering stones, because it is the
abode of the great god of storms, famine and pestilence. Once,
indeed, some foolish Indians had attempted to do so, but they
never came back, for the spirit that guarded the gems from
mortal hands had raised great mists, through which the hunters
wandered on like blind men until the spirit led them to the edge
of some dreadful gulf, into which he cast them, shrieking."
These mountains were not discovered until 7642, when a bold
settler by the name of Darby Field determined to search for the
precious stones. It must have been wonderful, this trip through
these beautiful hills in June. He came to the neighborhood of
the present town of Fryeburg, where the Indian village of the
Pigwackets was then located.
