36 FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA 



The first thing a man is likely to notice 

 as he passes the last of the village houses, 

 and finds himself skirting the bank of Ham 

 Branch (which looks to be nearly or quite 

 as full as the river into which it empties it- 

 self), is the color of the water. Gale River 

 is fresh from the hills, and ripples over its 

 stony bed as clear as crystal. The branch, 

 on the contrary, has been flowing for some 

 time through a flat meadowy valley, where 

 it has taken on a rich earthy hue, to which 

 it might be natural to apply a less honorable 

 sounding word, perhaps, if it were a question 

 of some neutral stream, in whose character 

 and reputation I felt no personal, friendly 

 interest. 



Just as I came to it, that afternoon, I saw 

 to my surprise a white admiral butterfly sun- 

 ning itself upon an alder leaf. I hope the 

 reader knows the species, — Limenitis Ar- 

 themis, sometimes called the banded purple, 

 — one of the prettiest and showiest of New 

 England insects, four black or blackish 

 wings crossed by a broad white band. It 

 was much out of season now, I felt sure, 

 both from what my entomological friends 



