290 AT THE NORTH OF BEARCAMP WATER . 
quickly until the train came and we were fairly 
homeward bound. The storm hid the moun¬ 
tains and half obscured Six Mile Pond and its 
ragged pitch-pine shores. Rain — cold, sting¬ 
ing, winter rain — beat upon the Bearcamp, 
Salmon Falls, the Piscataqua, and the Merri- 
mac. The night inside of Salem tunnel was no 
darker than the night on Saugus marshes, and 
even the myriad lights of Boston reflected in 
the Mystic only made the winter gloom more 
visible. As I struggled through the Saturday- 
night crowd on the narrow streets near the sta¬ 
tions, and marked the faces of waif and thief, 
drunkard, jester, sordid vender of evil wares, 
weary workman or thrice weary workwoman, 
my heart was heavier than it had been in the 
wild valley back of Passaconaway. Even Bum¬ 
blebee, with his sick wife and five children, 
crowded into one room in that hut by Sabba 
Day Brook, had something of life of which this 
foul city humanity knows nothing. Certainly 
Bumblebee’s boys lack the chance to absorb the 
virus of the slums which the wretched waifs of 
the streets have. As I waited for my Cam¬ 
bridge car, the stream of humanity surged and 
eddied round me and the foul fog hung over 
us. Swift River, plunging on resistlessly to¬ 
wards the sea, is seeking rest, far away; but this 
stream of humanity, —what is it seeking? To 
