AT THE FOOT OF PASSACONAWAY . 271 
We strolled up the road for a mile or more 
beyond the camp. At several points deposits 
of logs had been made at the sides of the road. 
Several hundred logs lay in each pile. Near 
by, hemlock bark was stacked in long rows, 
flanking the road. We crossed the torrent 
twice on spruce bridges, and each time gained 
a magnificent view of Passaconaway. It was 
framed in black clouds, rushing masses of vapor, 
and dark hillsides still laden with forests. In 
the foreground was the foaming stream, boulder- 
choked, bounding towards us. From this side 
Passaconaway shows no peak; it is simply a 
somewhat worn cube, to whose precipitous faces 
the forests cling and the snows freeze. Its 
coloring is dark in any light, but as we saw it 
through the gathering storm of that late Decem¬ 
ber day a more forbidding mountain mass could 
hardly be imagined. It was so near us, yet so 
high above us; so black, so cold, so lonely, yet 
so full of nature’s voices, the wailing of wind, 
the cruel rush of waters, the weird creaking of 
strained trees. The stream, with its greenish 
waters hurling themselves over the boulders and 
fretting against the ice sheets projecting from 
the banks, seemed like a messenger rushing 
headlong from the mountain to warn us back 
from impending danger. 
Resting for a while under the shelter of a 
