

CHAPTER VIII. 



THE WHITE HILLS. 



[ROM my boyhood days I have been 

 taught almost to reverence them ; 

 not taught, but naturally, from early 

 association, I looked up to them, 

 literally so ; for from the windows 

 of my home I could, on a clear 

 spring day, see the snow-clad peak 

 of Mount Washington glistening under the warm 

 sunlight. 



And, to be more practical, the first real feast of 

 apples I ever enjoyed was from a barrel, all my 

 own, sent to me by a good woman of North Con- 

 way, who said it was a pity "the boy couldn't, 

 for once, have all the apples he wanted." Could 

 I ever forget her, dear Susan Hanson, aftenvard the 

 wife of the late celebrated portrait-painter of our 

 city, Albert Hoyt? 



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