From the ledge I could see the whole of Whitton Pond, lying just below me. It looked like a silver Maltese cross with its four arms reaching out to the four points of the compass. A small island and one or two single rocks rose from its surface. At least three bluff headlands, pine-crowned and rock-faced, stood out boldly into its waters. Just across its eastern side, and due north from the elevation upon which I was standing, rose an impressive hill whose precipitous southern side was formed of a series of polished ledges sloping directly towards the deep waters of the lake. In the depths below those ledges large trout are said to live in a state of haughty contempt for all except favored anglers. I once asked a native, presumably not a favorite of the Whitton Pond trout, whether he would advise me to go to the pond fishing. Turning his gray eye upon me, he said solemnly, “Young man, ef I had the ch’ice of fishing all day in Whitton Pond or in this sandy road, I’d take the road every time.”
A logging road led from the back of the ledge down to the pond. In the dark spruces near the water stood a tiny and dilapidated log hut and stable. So small was the hut, it seemed as though only one lumberman could have lived there. From the hut the road led straight to the lakeside, and to as lovely a view of the eastern flank of Chocorua as can be won anywhere. All that I had imagined yesterday as I stood on those far ramparts was now made real. Here was the ruffled water, the pine-capped headlands, the guardian ledges; there was the stern fortress lifting its rock face and ragged outlines high against the sky. As the mists hurried over the peak, they suggested smoke from cannon fired from this Gibraltar of nature. Here and there spruces, standing in the clouds upon the edge of the precipice, looked like the dim forms of men guarding the heights.
As the water was very low, a narrow pebbly and rocky strip of beach offered an easy way round the lake. I followed it through the eastern coves to the northern shore, where the slippery ledges, one above another, hung over me. Many boulders of large size and odd outlines lay upon the shore, with the waves raised by the south wind splashing against them. Here the beach failed me, and I had to force my way westward through the woods and undergrowth to the outlet of the pond. Considering that the lake was about a mile square, the stream which escaped from it was singularly small. I crossed it with a single stride. At high water it is probably much larger, for a dozen or more great logs pushed far up on the rocks show that the rivulet of to-day gives no suggestion of the force of water sometimes at work.
MOUNT CHOCORUA FROM WHITTON POND
From the outlet to the highway was less than ten minutes’ walk, a footpath bringing me to one of the many abandoned farms of unfortunate Albany. Unfortunate no longer, I hope, for with debt paid, taxes reduced, and lumbering on the decline, the township ought to revive, partly through ordinary settlement, but mainly through the influx of city people to one of the most beautiful spots in New Hampshire.
My walk back to the hotel took me round Chocorua Lake, while pictures of Whitton Pond were still vivid in my memory. I confess to a sudden feeling of jealousy for the newly explored pond when I looked at the simpler outlines of my favorite water, and wondered how a wooded island and bluff headlands would become it. Whitton Pond is certainly too exquisite a bit of nature to remain long a wilderness; while to give up its lofty ledges to quarrymen would be little less than a crime.
As I crossed the bridge between the lakes, the coloring was full of sadness. The long-deferred rain was coming across the mountains. Their tops were concealed, and only the dimmest, most tearful vision of their flanks remained. Gray and cold, cold and gray, mountain, sky, forest, and lake, all were the same. The cry of a pileated woodpecker and the sputtering complaint of a Hudson Bay titmouse rang in my ears. Birds of the north, strangers to these cherished spots, why were they here? Why were their voices full of weird warning? The rain came softly, surely onward, over the glassy water, and with a shiver I hurried towards the fireside. After all, men, like birds and insects, flowers and leaves, feel the chill of autumn and tremble at it. Full as the season may be of eternal promise, it is charged also with a message of present death and decay. Leaves wither and fall, flowers drop their petals and turn to seeds, the locust dies in the grass, the bird takes wing and saves his life by finding a gentler clime in the far south, and man, if he is to linger under Chocorua’s lee, must gather his corn into barns, pile his shed full of wood, and fortify his mind to endure long nights, intense cold, deep snows, the wailing of wintry winds, and the gruesome voice of the lake as the ice throttles it. If the heart is brave and serene, there is peace in the long nights, pleasure in the cold, joy in snowshoe races on the snow, and exhilaration in the wailing of the wind and the moaning of the lake. As the viking exulted in sailing his ship through the fierce gale of the north, so his offspring can find joy in the wintry breath of Chocorua.
’LECTION DAY, ’92.
Tuesday, the 8th of November, 1892, belongs to history now, but when it began it was only an ordinary ’lection day. Floods of night rain had washed the high peaks clear of snow, and at dawn the golden clouds swept eastward, and the fairest of November days began its course. All the horses and all the men turned their noses towards the wooden town-house in Tamworth village; and by nine o’clock long lines of wagons streamed under the two campaign flags, across the bridge over rushing Paugus River, and up to the stores where the smoke of pipes and the sound of laughter proclaimed the swarming of man. It was an occasion of more than usual interest, for not only was the great ex-president to test his tariff-reform lance against the silver shield of his once successful rival, but New Hampshire in general, and Tamworth in particular, were to try the Australian ballot system.