52 FROM BLOMIDON TO SMOKY. 



shelter of the great rock, and the homeward voy- 

 age begun. 



It was now my turn at the oar, and a thrill 

 passed through me as I grasped the great sweep 

 and wrestled over it with the waves. Night had 

 fallen. All color had died on the red cliffs of 

 Smoky. Stars had burned their way into the 

 dark blue sky, and among them stray meteors 

 fell seaward, or glided athwart the constellations. 

 A year before, I had spent the long hours of 

 the night on the peak of Chocorua, watching 

 these wayward waifs of space as they danced 

 behind the cloud curtains of the storm. Now, 

 with all a Viking's zeal, I tugged at my big oar, 

 pounded my tholepin, made deep eddies chase 

 each other in the dark water, and breathed joy- 

 ously deep breaths of the salt northern air. 

 What contrasts man may make for himself, in 

 his life, if he yields to the spirit of restlessness 

 within him! The Vikings yielded to it, and 

 swept the northern seas, and I felt in my weak 

 arms something of their strength and wanton- 

 ness as I urged the boat homewards under 

 Smoky's shadow. Black rocks, placid sea, bright 

 stars, dancing meteors, and breath of the north- 

 ern ocean, I had them all, even as the Norse- 

 men had them. 



A faint protest came from the other side of 

 the boat. We were not rowing a race ; there 



