“Four inches of snow at the Profile House:” such was the word brought
to us at the breakfast table, the driver of the “stage” having
communicated the intelligence as he passed the hotel an hour or two
earlier. We were not surprised. It rained in Franconia night before
last, and yesterday, when the clouds now and then lifted a little, the
sides of the mountains were seen to be white. This morning (October 7),
although even the lower slopes were veiled, the day promised well, and
at the first minute I set out for the Notch.
It was evident almost immediately that at some time within the last
forty-eight hours there had been a great influx of migrating birds.
Song sparrows, white-throated sparrows, snowbirds, bluebirds, and
myrtle warblers were in extraordinary force. Soon I began to hear the
wrennish calls of ruby-crowned kinglets,--which have been very scarce
hitherto,--and presently more than one was heard rehearsing its pretty
song. What with bluebird voices, song sparrows’ warblings (no set tune,
but “continuous melody”), the cackle of robins, and the croaking of
rusty blackbirds, the air was loud. To these travelers, as to me, the
weather seemed to be changing for the better, though the sun did not
yet show itself, and finding themselves in so delectable a valley, they
were in exuberant spirits.
Just above the Profile House farm the road took me into a flock of
birds that proved to be the better part of half a mile in length.
The wayside hedges were literally in a flutter, snowbirds being the
most abundant, I think, with white-throats and myrtle warblers not
far behind. Hermit thrushes, winter wrens, chipping sparrows, song
sparrows, and ruby-crowns were continually in sight, and an unseen
purple finch was practicing niggardly, disconnected, vireo-like
phrases, as the manner of his kind is in the autumnal season.
Then, when the older forest was reached, there came an interval of
silence, broken at last by the distant, or distant-seeming, voice of a
red-breasted nuthatch and the cheerful notes of chickadees. Soon two
hermits showed themselves, facing me on a low perch, and lifting their
tails solemnly in response to my chirping; and not far away were a
winter wren or two, and a flock of white-throats and snowbirds. I had
never seen the dear old road birdier, even in May, though of course I
had often seen the number of species very much larger.
At the height of land I came upon the first snow, a ragged fringe left
on the shady side of the way. I made a snowball, for the sake of doing
it (or, as I said to myself, suiting the boyish act with a boyish
word, “for greens”), and decided all at once not to go down into the
Notch, but up to the top of Bald Mountain. From that point, if the
sky cleared, as I felt hopeful it would, there would be sights worth
remembering.
The mountain is only a little one, but it is steep enough--the upper
half, at all events--to give the eager pedestrian a puff for his money.
For myself, I had time to spare, and, fortunately or unfortunately,
had been over the path too often to be subject to the state of mind
(I know it well) which we may characterize as climbers’ impatience.
Unless something unforeseen should happen, the summit would wait for
me. Halfway up, also, a flock of blue jays, five or six at least, who
were holding a long and mysterious confabulation close by the path,
afforded me a comfortable breathing spell. For a moment I suspected the
presence of an owl, against whom the rascals were plotting mischief;
but their voices were much of the time too soft, too intimate-sounding,
too lacking in belligerency. Some of the birds might even have
been communing with themselves. Their whole behavior had an air of
preternatural gravity and cunning, and their remarks, whatever the
purport of them, were in the highest degree varied. One fellow was a
masterly performer upon the bones (jay scholars will understand what
I mean, and I should despair of explaining myself in a few words to
any one else), while another furnished me with a genuine surprise by
whistling again and again in the manner of a red-tailed hawk.
Well, the conspirators dispersed, the solitary climber pocketed his
curiosity, and in a few minutes longer his feet were at the top.
The rocky cone of Lafayette was still densely capped, but under the
fringed edges of the cloud there was plenty of snow in sight. All the
upper slopes of Kinsman, Cannon, and Lafayette were covered with it,
except that the deciduous trees (broad patches of yellow) stood bare.
Apparently the snow had stuck only upon the evergreens, and the effect
at this distance was very striking, the white over the green producing
a beautiful gray. I could never have imagined it. The hotel and its
cottages, nestled between the mountains, all had white roofs, but the
landscape as a whole was anything but wintry. Everywhere below me the
great forest still showed an abundance of bright hues,--red, yellow,
and russet,--a piece of glorious pageantry, though many shades less
brilliant than I had seen it two days before.
So I am saying to myself when suddenly I look upward, and behold,
the cap is lifted from Lafayette, and the mountain-top is clear
white, shining in the sunlight against the blue sky; a vision, it
seems; something not of this world; splendor immaculate, unearthly,
unspeakable. I feel like shouting, or tell myself that I do; but for
some reason I keep silence. Clouds still hang about the mountains,
their shapes altering from glory to glory with every minute. Now a band
lies clean across Lafayette, immediately below the cone, detaching the
white mass from everything underneath, and leaving it, as it were,
floating in the air.
A sharp-shinned hawk sails past me, nuthatches call from the valley
woods, a snowbird perches on a dwarf spruce at my elbow, a red squirrel
breaks into sudden spluttering, and then, with hands uplifted, sits
silent and motionless. I mention these details, but they are nothing.
What I really see and feel is the world I am living in: the sunshine,
the stillness, the temperate airs, the bright encircling forest, in
which my little hilltop is cradled, and the white peak yonder in the
sky. The snow lends it lightness, airiness, buoyancy. As I said just
now, it seems almost to float in the ether.
I remained with this beauty for an hour, divided at the last between
the luminous, snowy peak above me and the soft--ineffably soft--world
of leafy tree-tops below. Then, as I had done only day before
yesterday, I bade the place good-by. Probably I should not come this
way again till next summer, at the soonest. Good-by, old mountain.
Good-by, old woods. No doubt you have many worthier lovers, but let me
be counted as one of the faithful.
I was still on the cone, making my way downward, when a grouse
drummed and in a minute or two repeated himself. The sound struck me
as curiously wanting in resonance, as if the log were water-soaked
(though I do not believe he was striking one), or his breast not
fully inflated. Perhaps he was a young fellow, a new hand with the
drumsticks, and so excusable. Certainly the difficulty lay not in the
matter of distance, for between two of the performances I turned a
sharp corner, effectively triangulating the bird, and it was impossible
that he should be more than a few yards away. On all sides the
little nuthatches were calling to each other in their quaint childish
treble. I love to hear them, and the goldcrests also; but here, as
on the heights above, the birds were less than the forest. I was in
a susceptible mood, I suppose. The mere sight of the tall, straight
trunks, with the lights and shadows on them, gave me a pleasure
indescribable. Though the friend who had been my walking companion for
a week past (and no man could wish a better one) is sure to read this
column, I cannot refrain from saying that solitariness has its merciful
alleviations. I was no longer tempted to babble, and the wise old trees
took their turn at talking. If I could only repeat what they said!