The Heart of the White Mountains, Their Legend and Scenery. Drake Samuel Adams

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      I.

      MY TRAVELLING COMPANIONS

      ONE morning in September I was sauntering up and down the railway-station waiting for the slow hands of the clock to reach the hour fixed for the departure of the train. The fact that these hands never move backward did not in the least seem to restrain the impatience of the travellers thronging into the station, some with happy, some with anxious faces, some without trace of either emotion, yet all betraying the same eagerness and haste of manner. All at once I heard my name pronounced, and felt a heavy hand upon my shoulder.

      “What!” I exclaimed, in genuine surprise, “is it you, colonel?”

      “Myself,” affirmed the speaker, offering his cigar-case.

      “And where did you drop from” – accepting an Havana; “the Blue Grass?”

      “I reckon.”

      “But what are you doing in New England, when you should be in Kentucky?”

      “Doing, I? oh, well,” said my friend, with a shade of constraint; then with a quizzical smile, “You are a Yankee; guess.”

      “Take care.”

      “Guess.”

      “Running away from your creditors?”

      The colonel’s chin cut the air contemptuously.

      “Running after a woman, perhaps?”

      My companion quickly took the cigar from his lips, looked at me with mouth half opened, then stammered, “What in blue brimstone put that into your head?”

      “Evidently you are going on a journey, but are dressed for an evening party,” I replied, comprising with a glance the colonel’s black suit, lavender gloves, and white cravat.

      “Why,” said the colonel, glancing rather complacently at himself – “why we Kentuckians always travel so at home. But it’s now your turn; where are you going yourself?”

      “To the mountains.”

      “Good; so am I: White Mountains, Green Mountains, Rocky Mountains, or Mountains of the Moon, I care not.”

      “What is your route?”

      “I’m not at all familiar with the topography of your mountains. What is yours?”

      “By the Eastern to Lake Winnipiseogee, thence to Centre Harbor, thence by stage and rail to North Conway and the White Mountain Notch.”

      My friend purchased his ticket by the indicated route, and the train was soon rumbling over the bridges which span the Charles and Mystic. Farewell, Boston, city where, like thy railways, all extremes meet, but where I would still rather live on a crust moistened with east wind than cast my lot elsewhere.

      When we had fairly emerged into the light and sunshine of the open country, I recognized my old acquaintance George Brentwood. At a gesture from me he came and sat opposite to us.

      George Brentwood was a blond young man of thirty-four or thirty-five, with brown hair, full reddish beard, shrewdish blue eyes, a robust frame, and a general air of negligent repose. In a word, he was the antipodes of my companion, whose hair, eyebrows, and mustache were coal-black, eyes dark and sparkling, manner nervous, and his attitudes careless and unconstrained, though not destitute of a certain natural grace. Both were men to be remarked in a crowd.

      “George,” said I, “permit me to introduce my friend Colonel Swords.”

      After a few civil questions and answers, George declared his destination to be ours, and was cordially welcomed to join us. By way of breaking the ice, he observed,

      “Apropos of your title, colonel, I presume you served in the Rebellion?”

      The colonel hitched a little on his seat before replying. Knowing him to be a very modest man, I came to his assistance. “Yes,” said I, “the colonel fought hard and bled freely. Let me see, where were you wounded?”

      “Through the chest.”

      “No, I mean in what battle?”

      “Spottsylvania.”

      “Left on the field for dead, and taken prisoner,” I finished.

      George is a fellow of very generous impulses. “My dear sir,” said he, effusively, grasping the colonel’s hand, “after what you have suffered for the old flag, you can need no other passport to the gratitude and friendship of a New-Englander. Count me as one of your debtors. During the war it was my fortune – my misfortune, I should say – to be in a distant country; otherwise we should have been found fighting shoulder to shoulder under Grant, or Sherman, or Sheridan, or Thomas.

      The colonel’s color rose. He drew himself proudly up, cleared his throat, and said, laconically, “Hardly, stranger, seeing that I had the honor to fight under the Confederate flag.”

      You have seen a tortoise suddenly draw back into his shell. Well, George as suddenly retreated into his. For an instant he looked at the СКАЧАТЬ