A WINTRY WILDERNESS. 
231 
fall a warm haven in one of the snug farmhouses 
in the middle of the intervale. 
The township of Albany knows no priest or 
physician, squire or shopkeeper, and in its coat 
of arms, if it had one, the plow and rifle, axe 
and circular saw, would be quartered with bear 
and porcupine, owl and grouse. From the head 
of the intervale the people are forced to travel 
nearly thirty miles to reach and bring home 
their mail and groceries. In spite of these 
drawbacks, the permanent residents are intelli¬ 
gent, thrifty, well-housed, and well informed 
of the world’s doings. Though their only road 
to the outside is long and rough, they let no 
moss gather on it in summer, and no snowdrifts 
blockade it in winter. 
Setting out for this far valley in midwinter, 
I felt something of the explorer’s thrill as he 
turns towards the unknown, and leaves home 
and comforts behind. The distant and the diffi¬ 
cult of attainment are always seen by the mind 
through a golden haze, and although no fair 
Lorna drew me to her rescue, and no lawless 
Doones barred my way through the grim passes 
which led to the valley, romance and the spice 
of danger seemed mingled with my enterprise. 
As the journey progressed, and one stage of it 
after another slipped past, unreal gave way to 
real, and commonplace supplanted marvelous. 
