IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



It was early in June when I set out for my 

 third visit to the White Mountains, and the 

 ticket-seller and the baggage-master in turn as- 

 sured me that the Crawford House, which I 

 named as my destination, was not yet open. 

 They spoke, too, in the tone which men use 

 when they mention something which, but for 

 uncommon stupidity, you would have known 

 beforehand. The kindly sarcasm missed its 

 mark, however. I was aware that the hotel 

 was not yet ready for the "general public." 

 But I said to myself that, for once at least, I 

 was not to be included in that unfashionably 

 promiscuous company. The vulgar crowd must 

 wait, of course. For the present the mountains, 

 in reporters' language, were "on private view ; " 

 and despite the ignorance of railway officials, I 

 was one of the elect. In plainer phrase, I had 

 in my pocket a letter from the manager of the 

 famous inn before mentioned, in which he prom- 

 ised to do what he could for my entertainment, 



