50 FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA 



open at this late date, many as the plants 

 are, — and at one or two other places to 

 pluck a tempting maple twig. Sated with 

 the magnificence of autumnal forests, hill 

 after hill splashed with color, the eye loves 

 to withdraw itself now and then to rest upon 

 the perfection of a blossom or a leaf. Wag- 

 onloads of tourists come down the Notch 

 road, the usual nightly procession, some si- 

 lent, some boisterously .singing. Among the 

 most distressing of all the noises that human 

 beings make is this vulgar shouting of " sa- 

 cred music " along the public highway. This 

 time the hymn is Jerusalem the Golden, 

 after the upper notes of which an unhappy 

 female voice is vainly reaching, like a boy 

 who has lost his wind in shinning up a tree, 

 and with his last gasping effort still finds 

 the lowest branch just beyond the clutch of 

 his fingers. 



"I know not, oh, I know not," 



I hear her shriek, and then a lucky turn in 

 the road takes her out of hearing, and I lis- 

 ten again to the still small voice of the brook, 

 which, whether it " knows " or not, has the 

 grace to make no fuss about it. 



