At our right lay Mount Tom in deep
shadow; the pines on Mount Jackson to the east cut the blue
vault of the sky with their serrated edges. The drooping birch
trees stood silent as if awaiting a benediction. The sky all
along the eastern horizon was a broad belt of old rose which
deepened to crimson, then crimson was succeeded by daffodil
yellow. Far up in the mountain above a wood thrush poured forth
his clear notes. "The last rays that lingered above the purple
peaks were slowly withdrawn into that shadowy realm called
night." Only the wind sighed again among the faint silvery
clashing of distant waterfalls. How like a prayer was that vast
sea of changing colors. The poem of creation was written
unmistakably upon the evening sky. Out here God himself is
teaching his grandest lessons, but alas! how few there are who
really hear them.
How wonderful the dawns and twilights; how vast and changeable
the ocean; how pure and deep the lakes; how strong and high the
mountains; how infinite and full of mystery the sky, yet how few
there are who really see and enjoy them.
If only all people would accept the invitation froth that sweet
singer of the Wabash, Maurice Thompson, we would hear fewer
people say, "It isn't much," or "We are exceedingly disappointed
in it."
"Come, let us go, each pulse is precious,
Come, ere the day has lost its dawn;
And you shall quaff life's finest essence
From primal flagons drawn!
Just for a day to slip off the tether
Of hot-house wants, and dare to be
A child of Nature, strong and simple,
Out in the woods with me."
How calmly and soothingly night came on! Over the quiet glen at
Crawford's notch, the sunset, moonlight, and starlight were
weaving the mysterious spell of the night. On the very edge of a
mountain ridge glowed the evening star. There was no sound
except the rhythmical murmur of the pines and far-heard sound of
waterfalls. Presently a night hawk rose from a wooded ridge and
uttered her weird cry, then a bat darted "hither and thither, as
if tethered by invisible strings." Then began the real serenade
of the evening. Down in the waters of Lake Waco the frogs broke
the silence. We moved slowly to the edge of the water,
disturbing some of the members of the aquatic orchestra, who
kept springing into the lake with a final croak of disapproval.
We made our way back to the hotel across the velvety grass,
already wet with dew, to find a crowd of splendidly attired
tourists, poring over their cards or dancing away those rare
hours, at the close of "one of those heavenly days that cannot
die."
"Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds."
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 woodpeckers
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 massed 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.
