FOLLOWING A LOST TRAIL . 
57 
the axe has rusted, the Canadian has been killed 
in a brawl, or has gone back to his River St. 
Lawrence to spend his old age under the shadow 
of the cross, but the brook still murmurs over 
its pebbles, and when snow falls by the trough 
and the hut it is cleaner and purer than the 
foot of the lumberman left it. 
Woe to the man who ventures into a “harri- 
cane”! Not content with the road which we 
had made and found over the ridge, we sought, 
as we turned homewards, to see whether another 
lumber road, which came into ours from the 
southeast, did not cross the ridge by an easier 
grade. Following it upward higher and higher, 
we came at last to an open ledge from which 
a beautiful view was gained. Northward of us 
frowned Bear Mountain, dark in its spruces. 
To its left were Lowell, Nancy, Anderson, and 
the rest of the proud retinue of Carrigain. 
Deep shadows lay in Carrigain Notch. Bluer 
and fairer, higher and more distant, the heads 
of Bond, Willey, and the Franconia Mountains 
rested against the sky. To the westward, above 
the long rampart of Paugus with its flat, gray 
cliffs capped by black spruce, towered the cone 
of Passaconaway, wooded to its very tip. South¬ 
ward, just across a deep ravine and behind a 
heavily timbered spur, was Chocorua, its great 
tooth cutting into the blue heavens. Though we 
