The light beneath the
evergreens was growing dim as we came out from their shadow into the
widespread glow of the sunset, on the edge of a grassy hill,
overlooking the long valley of the Gale River, and uplooking to the
Franconia Mountains.
It was the benediction hour. The placid air of the day shed a new
tranquillity over the consoling landscape. The heart of the earth
seemed to taste a repose more perfect than that of common days. A
hermit-thrush, far up the vale, sang his vesper hymn; while the
swallows, seeking their evening meal, circled above the river-fields
without an effort, twittering softly, now and then, as if they must
give thanks. Slight and indefinable touches in the scene, perhaps
the mere absence of the tiny human figures passing along the road or
labouring in the distant meadows, perhaps the blue curls of smoke
rising lazily from the farmhouse chimneys, or the family groups
sitting under the maple-trees before the door, diffused a sabbath
atmosphere over the world.
Then said the lad, lying on the grass beside me, "Father, who owns
the mountains?"
I happened to have heard, the day before, of two or three lumber
companies that had bought some of the woodland slopes; so I told
him their names, adding that there were probably a good many
different owners, whose claims taken all together would cover
the whole Franconia range of hills.
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