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, 
