AMONG THE WIND-SWEPT LAKES. 213 
already from an inch to an inch and a half long. 
Some of the maples were noticeably ruddy in 
tone, so thick and red were their buds. Lucky 
it is for the grouse that buds do not wait for 
winter to go, before they pack away the sweet 
food of life under their snug jackets. The 
grouse could give an eloquent lecture on the 
pledges of the spring renaissance which are 
made every autumn by the budding trees. 
At the Bell Schoolhouse I took the right- 
hand road, crossed the Chocorua River, a slen¬ 
der run at this point, and almost immediately 
after turned again to the right, taking an old 
road leading eastward over the hills to Madison 
village. The road was a new one to me, but I 
knew that it led through one of the saddest 
regions in the Bearcamp valley. A generation 
ago the “North Division” was comparatively 
thickly settled. More than a dozen comfortable 
sets of buildings were tenanted on those sunny 
slopes. Children flocked to the little school- 
house, corn rustled in the fields, and farmer’s 
“gee” echoed back to farmer’s “wah-hlsh” 
from the plowings or wood-lot. Now the porcu¬ 
pine and the skunk, the chimney swift and the 
adder are the undisputed owners of the deserted 
farms. The people have gone as though the 
plague had smitten the land, and houses, barns, 
fences, bridges, and well-sweeps are mouldering 
