FOLLOWING A LOST TRAIL. 
45 
the upper end of Swift River valley, instead of 
having to travel sixteen miles to a post-office, 
doctor, minister, or store, could touch civiliza¬ 
tion by driving about eleven miles. 
At half past four on the morning of Satur¬ 
day, July 30, I drove rapidly away from my 
red-roofed cottage towards the southern foot of 
Paugus. Long days of parching heat had been 
brought to an end by a series of three heavy 
thunderstorms, which had drenched the country 
during the preceding evening. Nature had 
revived. The sky was bluer, the forest greener, 
the gold of the goldenrod more intense. Every 
particle of dust had been washed out of the air 
and off the many-tinted garments of the earth. 
For nearly a fortnight the mercury had been 
among the nineties as often as the clock struck 
noon. To face a cool breeze, to see everything 
sparkling with moisture, to have the air feel 
and appear thin and clear, was inspiring and 
exhilarating. To find the lost trail into the 
Swift River valley was now a matter of delight¬ 
ful interest. 
At the southern foot of Paugus is a ruined 
mill and an old lumber camp. A good road 
leads thither from the highway, and the house 
at the point where the lumber road begins is 
the home of Nat. Berry, farmer, lumberman, 
hunter, trapper, surveyor, carpenter, and pub- 
