2 FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA 



or six hours of this delightful panoramic 

 journey, and we leave the cars at Littleton. 

 Then a few miles in a carriage up a long, 

 steep hill through a glorious autumn-scented 

 forest, the horses pausing for breath as one 

 water-bar after another is surmounted, and 

 we are at the height of land, where two or 

 three highland farmers have cleared some 

 rocky acres, built houses and painted them, 

 and planted gardens and orchards. As we 

 reach this happy clearing all the mountains 

 stand facing us on the horizon, and below, 

 between us and Lafayette, lies the valley 

 of Franconia, toward which, again through 

 stretches of forest, we rapidly descend. At 

 the bottom of the way Gale Eiver comes 

 dancing to meet us, babbling among its 

 boulders, more boulders than water at 

 this end of the summer heats, in its cheer- 

 ful uphill progress. Its uphill progress, I 

 say, and repeat it; and if any reader dis- 

 putes the word, then he has never been there 

 and seen the water for himself, or else he is 

 an unfortunate who has lost his child's heart 

 (without which there is no kingdom of heaven 

 for a man), and no longer lives by faith in 



