In the midst of this gloomy hollow in the hills we found a slab village. A dozen or fifteen houses stood here, but no smoke curled from their chimneys. Last September every house was occupied; now the foxes roam through the deserted settlement unmolested. The sawmill which had created the village had been burned and the whole population had vanished almost as swiftly as the smoke of the ruins. Not so the hideous scars left by the lumberman’s axe. They will remain for many a day.
By a series of sharp ascents we gained and passed through the rift in the mountain wall made centuries ago by the imprisoned waters. In this rift at the eastern foot of Bear Mountain, only a few steps from the roadside, are the picturesque falls of Swift River. The treacherous ice and the gathering darkness forbade our going to the giddy margin of the fall, and we dashed on into the hidden valley, the narrow, mountain-girdled intervale of which we were in search. As we left the forest fringes of Bear Mountain behind us and emerged in the plain, a gorgeous winter sunset gave us welcome. Over the blue of the upper sky, in which Jupiter alone sparkled faintly, were scattered countless flakes of rosy cloud. Below them a broad black band of cloud cut the sky at the level of several mountain peaks, and below this sinister bar, showing only in the gaps between the mountains, was a space of greenish silver, into which thousands of spruces reared their slender spires.
Taking fresh courage, our horse carried us over the fifteenth mile at racing speed. The road was level. On the right the flat, white intervale shone in the pale light as in distant ages the face of the great mountain lake shone in silent winter nights. Westward, across the end of the intervale, were Tripyramid, Kancamagus, and Osceola mountains; northward, Green’s Cliffs, Carrigain, Lowell, Owl’s Head, and Tremont Mountain stood shoulder to shoulder in double rank. Behind us, dark Bear Mountain concealed Moat, while spurs of Chocorua reached down to the road. On the left was Paugus, crouching at the foot of Passaconaway, which dominated over the valley with gloomy majesty. A bright light gleamed through the spruces, the Carrigain House lay there between black forest and pale snow, Mayhew’s lantern swung to and fro, and his deep voice welcomed us to his cheerful home in the heart of the wintry wilderness.
Those who live in the city have an idea that it is hard to keep warm in these northern farm-houses, with their single windows, thin walls, and wood fires. They are wrong. There is a degree of heat attainable in a small room, armed with an air-tight stove, which burns birch sticks or slabs almost as fast as they can be fed to it, that is able to hold its own against the equator at midsummer. It takes courage, on a cold morning before sunrise, to leave a warm bed to start a fire in one of these stoves; but when the fire is fully aroused, cold is put out of the question, or at least out of doors.
After a hot supper we put on our coats and furs and went out into the night. I had the same feeling of reverence and quiet that I have in going into a dimly-lighted cathedral. The stars flickered on high, the snow gleamed below, on every side mountain peaks guarded the narrow valley. In the spruce woods, which reach from the road back to Paugus, the darkness was intense. We listened. At first there seemed to be no sound to hear. Then the whisper of Swift River came out of the north, and the bark of a dog far up the valley told of a fox prowling too near the farmyard. Suddenly, from a bank of silver light back of Carrigain, two long tongues of pallid fire shot upward into the sky and trembled there, only to disappear as abruptly as they came. Although the dim auroral glow stayed in the north for some time, I saw no more radiating light.
It was but little after eight o’clock when we sought sleep and found it quickly between feathers below and mighty piles of blankets and comforters above.
Untroubled moonlight flooded Swift River intervale all night, and there was still more of moonlight than of daylight when our host came into our room in the morning to light our fire. The winter working-costume of our host deserves mention. His brown cardigan jacket was not remarkable, but his legs were marvelously encased. They began at the body with ample woolen trousers, half way between the hip and knee gave way to tightly-fitting scarlet wrappings which reached to low rubbers, covering the feet. Nimble of foot, and of wiry frame, the wearer of these remarkably unpuritanical nether garments was a most enlivening figure in the snow.
Encouraged by our fire, we arose with the sun. The mountains in the north were bathed in rosy light. Dark as were their forests, each of these mountains presented snow-covered ledges, or avalanche scars white with snow. Upon these white surfaces the sunlight fell with that soft blush which makes a winter sunrise so charmingly full of promise. We hastened out of doors as soon as dressed, and were at once greeted by joyous voices. A red squirrel in the dark spruces was whirling his watchman’s rattle; far away in the forest a woodpecker was drumming on a resonant tree-trunk; but near at hand, only across one snow-covered field, a chorus of bird voices quivered in the still, cold air. The air was cold, that was true. Zero was the point the mercury held to, and as we took long breaths of the pure air we spouted forth columns of white steam through our ice-hung beards. Trotting up the road, we sought the birds. We found them at the next farmhouse, perched by dozens on plum-trees, maple saplings by the road, and on the tips of a row of spruces opposite the farmyard. Some were in the road, others in the dooryard on the soiled snow where oxen had stood. In all, over a hundred were present. As we drew near, they rose and flew in waving circles over us, every bird singing until the whole air seemed tingling with sound. Then they came down in undulating lines, curves, angles, and plunges, which turned aside into a second flight in the sunlight. As they settled in groups in the various trees, I swept my glass over one cluster after another. Crossbills were the most numerous species, with goldfinches a close second, and pine finches third. The crossbills were in all stages and conditions of plumage, from rich red males blazing like dull coals plucked from the fire, to dingy brown. No white-winged crossbills seemed to be among them. Three months before, on a cold dewy morning in September, I stood on this spot and saw a flock of thirty crossbills in these same trees. Then a number of them were feeding in the edge of the pasture at a place where cattle had been salted in a shallow trough. I saw the birds tearing off fibres from the wood of the trough, so eager were they to get the salt which the wood had absorbed. This morning the salt trough was covered with snow, save one edge which protruded; but all around it the crossbills had trodden the snow into a path, showing that they were still salt-hungry. Acting upon this hint, I sprinkled the ground with grain and rock salt; but although birds were in all the trees, they paid no heed to my offerings.
After watching the crossbills for nearly an hour we walked westward. The birds had been more restless than we. Few of them remained still more than two or three minutes at a time. With sharp calls the crossbills would dash off, followed by the finches, and together, or in scattered detachments, they would wheel from one quarter of the heavens to another, perhaps returning in a moment to the same perch, perhaps vanishing in distance, not to reappear for many minutes. All the time that they were on the wing the air was full of their fragments of music.
Our way led for a mile through the level fields of the intervale. Five or six farmhouses or wood-cutters’ huts faced the straight road. At almost every house a few birds were seen, probably parts of the main flock. We also caught a glimpse of a large flock of snow-buntings flying helter-skelter over a field where yellow grasses were waving above the snow. At length our road came to an end at the banks of Swift River near the upper end of the intervale. The river was shallow, and so was a broad brook flowing into it at this point. The latter we found no great difficulty in crossing dry-shod, by going from one pile of stones and ice to another. Beyond the stream we entered a bit of primeval forest, only partly destroyed by lumbermen of an earlier generation, who seem to have been less grasping than their successors. In these woods we heard bird voices, and recognized the “quank, quank” of the red-bellied nuthatch, and the “chick-a-dee-dee-dee” of the titmouse. To call them nearer I hooted like an owl, and soon after, sharp alarm whistles almost exactly like those of a robin came from some unknown birds in a bunch of firs at a distance. Upon hooting again, I was pleasantly surprised to get a reply from a barred owl. A moment or so later we heard blue jays scolding him not far away.