100 IN THE WHITE 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. The air 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 



