A WEEK ON MOUNT WASHINGTON 39 



Other, and you pick your way downward over 

 the boulders in Indian file, talking as you 1 go. 

 After a while you and the oldest of the Balti- 

 moreans find yourselves falling a little behind 

 the rest, and the conversation grows more and 

 more friendly. He has come to New Hampshire, 

 as he does every year, for the best of all tonics, 

 a dose of mountain climbing. He has been some- 

 what overworked of late, especially with a long 

 task of proof-reading. A new edition of his 

 treatise on chemistry is passing through the 

 press, and the moment the last sheets were cor- 

 rected he broke away northward ; and here he 

 is, walking over high places, where he loves to be. 

 " I am an old man," he says ; but his strength 

 is not abated. Far be the day ! At the lakeside 

 hands are shaken and good-bys said. You will 

 most likely never see each other again, but one 

 of you, at least, keeps a bright memory. 



It is a strange place, the Summit House. 

 Twice a day, as on the seashore, the tide rises 

 and falls. But the evening flood is a small affair. 

 The crowd comes at noon. It registers its name, 

 eats its luncheon, writes a postal-card, buys a 

 souvenir, asks a question or two, more or less 

 pertinent (" Can you tell me where the Tip- 

 Over House is?" one good woman said for 

 the rarified air plays, queer pranks with its vie- 



