262 AT THE NORTH OF BEARCAMP WATER. 
was Pas s ac on aw ay. Northward the eye wan¬ 
dered downward over gently sloping tree-tops 
to the broad snowy intervale with its cozy farms 
and its one long, straight road, running from 
west to east, from the forests by Sabba Day 
Brook, down Swift Biver, through its gorges 
towards Conway. Above and beyond the inter¬ 
vale were the northern mountains which lock 
it in from the rest of the world, — Bear Moun¬ 
tain on the right, then Owl’s Head, Carrigain, 
Green’s Cliffs, Sugar Hill, and Kancamagus. 
The notch east of Carrigain is one of the grand¬ 
est rifts in the White Mountain panorama. It 
is like a black gateway opened for storms and 
wailing winds to sweep through. 
The black grove on its narrow tongue of 
land hanging between two gorges was alive with 
birds, and I fancied it to be their sleeping-place. 
Chickadees, kinglets, and a brown creeper were 
in possession and resented my intrusion. It 
was just such a place as I have always imagined 
a small bird’s dormitory to be. 
We returned, descending by another logging 
road leading due north to the intervale road 
about a mile below the Carrigain House. This 
logging road is one of the most picturesque I 
have ever seen. It follows closely a brook of 
considerable size which is one long series of 
pools, falls, and dashing rapids. The forest on 
