152 FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA 



ing, like woman's work, is never done. If 

 the apple in Eden was as pleasant to the 

 eyes and half as good to eat, then I have no 

 reflections to cast upon the mistress of the 

 garden. In fact, it seems to me not unlikely 

 that the Edenic apple may have been no- 

 thing more nor less than a Franconian rasp- 

 berry. Small wonder, say I, that one taste 

 of its "sciential sap" "gave elocution to 

 the mute." 



So I came up out of the Gale River 

 woods into the bushy lane — a step or two 

 and a mouthful of berries — and thence into 

 the level grassy field by the grove of pines ; 

 a favorite place, with a world of mountains 

 in sight — Moosilauke, Kinsman, Cannon, 

 Lafayette, Haystack, the Twins, and the 

 whole Mount Washington range. A pile 

 of timbers, the bones of an old barn, offered 

 me a seat, and there I rested, facing the 

 mountains, while a company of merry barn 

 swallows, loquacious as ever, went skimming- 

 over the grass. Moving clouds dappled the 

 mountain-sides with shadows, the sun was 

 good, a rare thing in August, and I was 

 happy. 



