MY HEART ’S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 
No matter how tightly the body may be 
chained to the wheel of daily duties, the spirit 
is free, if it so pleases, to cancel space and to 
bear itself away from noise and vexation into 
the secret places of the mountains. Well it is 
for him who labors early and late at the desk, 
if his soul can thus spread its wings and soar 
to deep forests, clear lakes, and rugged moun¬ 
tain peaks, drawing from memory, imagination, 
and sweet forecast, something to inspire itself 
to patient action, and something to strengthen 
the heart in its wish to do its appointed task 
manfully. As these bright October days slip 
by and my wheel of daily duties spins round 
and round in that granite prison called Univer¬ 
sity Hall, my memory takes me back to fair 
Chocorua. I remember the 6th of October in 
the year 1884. The sun struggled through soft 
gray clouds and gazed upon a world of magical 
opposites. Every maple in a hundred town¬ 
ships blazed with scarlet or gold; yet soft and 
cold, wrapping the earth from Chocorua’s horn 
to the sand at the lake shore, the first snow of 
