The perfect clearness of the sky lasted until nightfall, then a narrow line of golden orange light separating a pale silvery sky from a deep violet earth was all there was of sunset.
AMONG THE WIND-SWEPT LAKES.
The first thing which I saw as I opened my eyes Monday morning was the tip of Passaconaway’s pyramid, rosy with the sun’s earliest rays, and hanging like a great pink moon between the soft gray of a hazy sky and the cold gray of the misty forests. It was a soft morning with a southerly wind and a cloudy sky, yet with a chill in the air which hinted of snow. As the damp wind swept across the snow-covered peak of Chocorua, its moisture was condensed, and from the rock, trailing away northeastward like a huge white banner, a cloud streamer waved for an hour in the hurrying wind. Then the peak was overcome by the cloud and hidden for the rest of the day in a slowly thickening and descending pall.
In all the years which I had spent in wandering over these fair hills, I never had explored Whitton Pond. Looking down upon it from the snow-covered mountain yesterday, it had seemed so pleasant to the eye that I determined to view it from all sides, and to see the mighty form of Chocorua reflected in its clear waters. Towards Whitton Pond, then, I directed my steps this gray morning.
Taking the Conway road from the Chocorua House, I walked northward upon it rather more than three miles to what is known far and near in this country as the Bell Schoolhouse in Albany. Perhaps the bell uses its tongue in dark nights when the wild storm-wind sweeps down from Chocorua, and the forest groans under its stripes. Certainly its tones are not heard in the sunlit hours, as the bats in its belfry and the spiders in its schoolroom can bear witness.
As I passed up the eastern side of Chocorua Lake, under the great pines which guard its shore, a flock of ducks rose from the water and flew towards the south, then wheeling, returned and vanished far in the north. There were seven of them, six flying neck and neck in an even row, and one lagging behind. The six were apparently snowy white with dark markings on heads and wings; the laggard was dark colored.
One often hears in February and March that signs of early spring are growing numerous, that red buds are swelling on the maples, catkins have come upon the alders, and that many another shrub or tree is pushing out its new life. Noticing the alder catkins swinging in the wind, I measured several and found them already from an inch to an inch and a half long. Some of the maples were noticeably ruddy in tone, so thick and red were their buds. Lucky it is for the grouse that buds do not wait for winter to go, before they pack away the sweet food of life under their snug jackets. The grouse could give an eloquent lecture on the pledges of the spring renaissance which are made every autumn by the budding trees.
At the Bell Schoolhouse I took the right-hand road, crossed the Chocorua River, a slender run at this point, and almost immediately after turned again to the right, taking an old road leading eastward over the hills to Madison village. The road was a new one to me, but I knew that it led through one of the saddest regions in the Bearcamp valley. A generation ago the “North Division” was comparatively thickly settled. More than a dozen comfortable sets of buildings were tenanted on those sunny slopes. Children flocked to the little school-house, corn rustled in the fields, and farmer’s “gee” echoed back to farmer’s “wah-hīsh” from the plowings or wood-lot. Now the porcupine and the skunk, the chimney swift and the adder are the undisputed owners of the deserted farms. The people have gone as though the plague had smitten the land, and houses, barns, fences, bridges, and well-sweeps are mouldering away together. Why is it? Ask the West and the great cities, which between them have drawn the young blood from New England’s rural families, leaving the old and feeble to struggle alone with life on the hills. A kindlier region than this could be depopulated by such a process.
The most remote and the highest farm in the North Division shone, as we approached it, like a brass button. Carpenters, painters, and home-makers had been at work upon it until the hills and trees knew it for its old self no longer. Nevertheless it was as empty and silent as the decaying farmsteads below. Gazing from its terrace upon the far view of Ossipee Lake, the broad Bearcamp valley, and the semicircle of hills and mountains from Wakefield to Chocorua, I understood why its present owner came from the shores of Lake Michigan to spend his summer in its beautiful quiet.
Behind this redeemed fragment of the North Division rises a granite ledge, from which matchless views of many mountains, lakes, and sleepy hollows can be obtained. I found the ledge covered with snow, and the spruce woods on its steep northern slope as full of snow as the thickets on Chocorua’s ridges. At this season a slight elevation and shade make all the difference between summer and winter.