Stately and awful was the form of Tahawas, the old
scarred warrior king of the mountains, and yet it owns
pines that sing like the sea, brooks that warble like the
robin, and flowers that scent the air like the orange-blossoms
of Italy.
Alfred B. Street.
Resuming our march through Indian Pass, under old Wall-Face Mountain, we reached a comfortable farmhouse at sunset, near North Elba, known by the name of Scott's. The next morning we visited John Brown's house and grave by the old rock, and read the beautiful inscription, "Bury me by the Old Rock, where I used to sit and read the word of God."
From this point we went to Lake Placid, engaged a lad to row us across the lake—some of our party had gone on before—and strapped our knapsacks for another mountain climb. We were fortunate in having a lovely day, and from its sparkling glacier-worn summit we could look back on all the mountains of our pleasant journey, and far away across Lake Champlain to Mount Mansfield and Camel's Hump of the Green Mountains, and farther still to the faint outlines of Mount Washington. We reached Wilmington that night, drove the next morning to Ausable Forks, and took the cars for Plattsburgh. The ten days' trip was finished, and at this late hour I heartily thank the Tahawas Club of Plattsburgh for taking me under their generous care and guidance. We took Phelps, our guide, back with us to Plattsburgh. When he reached the "Forks," and saw the cars for the first time in his life, he stooped down and, examining the track, said, "What tarnal little wheels." I suppose he concluded that if the ordinary cart had two large wheels, that real car wheels would resemble the Rings of Saturn. He saw much to amuse and interest him during his short stay in Plattsburgh, but after all he thought it was rather lonesome, and gladly returned to his lakes and mountains, where he slept in peace, with the occasional intrusion of a "Bar" or a "Painter." He knew the region about Tahawas as an engineer knows[page 207] his engine, or as a Greek professor knows the pages of his lexicon. He had lived so closely with nature that he seemed to understand her gentlest whispers, and he had more genuine poetry in his soul than many a man who chains weak ideas in tangled metre.