14000 MILES 



stopped to take breath many times on our way back to 

 the Flume House, and after a good look at the slides from 

 the upper piazza, we sought rest in our phaeton once 

 more. 



We forgot all about Lot's wife this time, and looked 

 back until it seemed as if our necks would refuse to twist. 

 The ever-changing views as you approach Campton 

 exhaust all the expressions of enthusiastic admiration, 

 but the old stage road through the Pemigewasset Valley 

 has lost much of its charm by the railroad, which in sev- 

 eral places has taken possession of the pretty old road 

 along the valley, and sent the stage road up on to a sand 

 bank, and at the time we were there the roads were in a 

 shocking condition. The many washouts on the stage 

 and rail roads had been made barely passable, and there 

 was a look of devastation at every turn. We spent the 

 night at Sanborn's, always alive with young people, and 

 were off in the morning with a pleasant word from some 

 who remembered our staying there over night two years 

 ago. 



From Campton to Plymouth is an interesting drive. 

 We had a nice luncheon by the wayside, as we often do, 

 but, instead of washing our dishes in a brook or at a 

 spring as usual, we thought we would make further 

 acquaintance with the woman who supplied us with milk. 

 We went again to the house and asked her to fill our pail 

 with water that we might wash our dishes ; she invited us 

 into the kitchen, and insisted on washing them for us — 

 it was dish-washing time — which was just what we 

 hoped she would do to give us a chance to talk with her. 

 She told us about the freshets as she leisurely washed 



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