100 IN THE WHZE MOUNTAINS. 
It does not require much imagination to be- 
lieve that these hardy vegetable mountaineers 
love their wild, desolate dwelling-places as truly 
as do the human residents of the region. An 
old man in Bethlehem told me that sometimes, 
during the long, cold winter, he felt that per- 
haps it would be well for him, now his work 
was done, to sell his “ place” and go down to 
Boston to live, near his brother. ‘ But then,” 
he added, “ you know it’s dangerous transplant- 
ing an old tree; you ’re likely as not to kill it.” 
Whatever we have, in this world, we must pay 
for with the loss of something else. ‘The bitter 
must be taken with the sweet, be we plants, an- 
imals, or men. ‘These thoughts recurred to me 
a day or two later, as I lay on the summit of 
Mount Agassiz, in the sun and out of the wind, 
gazing down into the Franconia Valley, then in 
all its June beauty. Nestled under the lee of 
the mountain, but farther from the base, doubt- 
less, than it seemed from my point of view, was 
a small dwelling, scarcely better than a shanty. 
Two or three young children were playing about 
the door, and near them was the man of the 
house splitting wood. Theair was still enough 
for me to hear every blow, although it reached 
me only as the axe was again over the man’s 
head, ready for the next descent. It was a 
charming picture, — the broad, green valley full 
