'LECTION DAY , '92. 
227 
massed around its commander and mother, who 
was ironing a white apron on the kitchen table. 
Strong, plump, and smiling, she was proud of 
her little army, — a boy of fourteen, with soft 
black eyes, black hair, and the rich color of the 
Acadian peasant glowing on his cheeks; three 
tow-headed girls, with their mother’s blue eyes, 
and a fifth, a girl of two summers, with beauty 
and dignity enough for a duke’s darling. No 
overtures of mine were sufficient to conquer 
this haughty little being’s reserve. She would 
have nothing of me, and finally intimated a 
desire that I should move on, and leave her 
undisturbed in her apple-eating. This I did, 
taking a farewell look at the cozy house from 
the crest of the sand-hills which rose between 
it and the railway. From the ridge I could see 
many a mile of forest, and many a mountain 
peak, none fairer than Chocorua. A grouse 
rose from the scrub at my feet, and flew nearly 
an eighth of a mile before alighting. 
The little child’s beauty haunted me as I 
strolled down the railway track, and I won¬ 
dered what her future would be if she grew up 
in that snug nook in the woods and sand; what 
her character would be with its mingling of Cel¬ 
tic, Gallic, and Saxon elements; frozen in the 
northern winter and burned under the hot sum¬ 
mer suns of the Ossipee plains. 
At last the train came and bore me away 
