THE HEART OF THE MOUNTAIN . 
11 
petual coolness and shadow. No path leads to 
it and few are the feet which have found a way 
to its beauties. There is a peculiar charm in a 
spot unknown to the many. Its loneliness en¬ 
dears it to the mind, and gives its associations 
a rarer flavor. If besides being unfrequented 
it is singularly beautiful in itself, it becomes a 
shrine, a place sacred to one’s best thoughts. 
To me the heart of Chocorua is a shrine, all 
the more valued because of the weariness of 
flesh required to attain to it. 
Early on the morning of July 10, I set out 
across the pastures for the foot of the mountain. 
The sun was hot, the air hazy, and not a breath 
of a breeze made the aspens quiver. In the 
shaded hollows something of the night’s chill 
still lingered, and from them floated the psalm 
of the hermit and the gypsy music of the veery. 
Now and then the clear, cool phoebe-note of the 
chickadee reached the ear, in contrast to the 
trill of the field sparrows which came from the 
warmest parts of the grass-land. On the hill 
to the westward young crows with high-pitched 
voices clamored for food, and quarreled with 
each other on their shady perch in the beeches. 
The flowers which bloomed by the path were 
children of heat, types of midsummer. Buds 
were large on the goldenrod, the St. John’s-wort 
was in full bloom, and so, too, were the diurnal 
