AMONG THE WIND-SWEPT LAKES . 217 
rivulet of to-day gives no suggestion of the force 
of water sometimes at work. 
From the outlet to the highway was less than 
ten minutes’ walk, a footpath bringing me to 
one of the many abandoned farms of unfortu¬ 
nate Albany. Unfortunate no longer, I hope, 
for with debt paid, taxes reduced, and lumber¬ 
ing on the decline, the township ought to revive, 
partly through ordinary settlement, but mainly 
through the influx of city people to one of the 
most beautiful spots in New Hampshire. 
My walk back to the hotel took me round 
Chocorua Lake, while pictures of Whitton Pond 
were still vivid in my memory. I confess to a 
sudden feeling of jealousy for the newly ex¬ 
plored pond when I looked at the simpler out¬ 
lines of my favorite water, and wondered how a 
wooded" island and bluff headlands would be¬ 
come it. Whitton Pond is certainly too exqui¬ 
site a bit of nature to remain long a wilderness; 
while to give up its lofty ledges to quarrymen 
would be little less than a crime. 
As I crossed the bridge between the lakes, 
the coloring was full of sadness. The long-de¬ 
ferred rain was coming across the mountains. 
Their tops were concealed, and only the dim¬ 
mest, most tearful vision of their flanks re¬ 
mained. Gray and cold, cold and gray, moun¬ 
tain, sky, forest, and lake, all were the same. 
