FIVE DAYS ON MOUNT MANSFIELD. 93 
home-felt strain is this of “‘ Whistling Jack,” 
—a mountain bird, well used to mountain 
weather, and just now too happy to forego 
his music, no matter how the storm might 
rage. I myself had been in a cloud often 
enough to feel no great degree of discomfort 
or lowness of spirits. I had not decided to 
spend the precious hours of a brief vacation 
upon a mountain-top without taking into 
account the additional risk of unfavorable 
weather in such a place. Let the clouds do 
their worst; I could be patient and wait for 
the sun. But this whistling philosopher out- 
side spoke of something better than patience, 
and I thanked him for the timely word. 
Toward noon of the next day the rain 
ceased, the cloud vanished, and I made haste 
to clamber up the rocky peak— the Nose, 
so called — at the base of which the hotel is 
situated. Yes, there stretched Lake Cham- 
plain, visible for almost its entire length, 
and beyond it loomed the Adirondacks. I 
was glad I had come. J could sing now. 
It does a man good to look afar off. 
Even before the fog lifted I had discov- 
ered, to my no small gratification, that the 
evergreens unmediately about the house were 
