242 FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA 



stood the little house, down upon which I 

 had looked with such rememberable pleasure 

 on my first visit to Agassiz, I know not how 

 many years ago. Then a man was cutting 

 wood before the door. Now there is nobody 

 to be seen ; but the place must still be in- 

 habited, for I hear the tinkle of a cowbell 

 somewhere in the woods, and a horse is 

 pasturing nearer by. Only three or four 

 other houses are in sight — not reckoning 

 the big hotel and a few far-away roofs in 

 Franconia — and very inviting they look, 

 neatly painted, with smooth, level fields 

 about them. It is my own elevation that 

 levels the fields, I am quite aware (when I 

 stop to think of it), as it is distance that 

 softens the contours of the mountains, and 

 the lapse of time that smooths the rough 

 places out of past years ; but for the hour 

 I take things as the eye sees them. We 

 come to these visionary altitudes, not to look 

 at realities but at pictures. Distance is a 

 famous hand with the brush. To omit de- 

 tails and to fill the canvas with atmosphere, 

 these are the secrets of his art. A comfort- 

 able thing it is to lie here at my ease and 



