University of Virginia Library

Meanwhile the river rose, and downward bore
Strange booty, stolen from the upper farms,—
A fence, a hen-coop, torn roots of old trees,
And once a little cottage, half unroofed.
That stopped the music, and the singers three
Leaned out in wonder, while their thoughts went up
To the stream's far-off sources.
And they talked,
While the slow day slid into afternoon,
Of Minta's mountain-home; of summits gray
Rising from mist, or hiding in deep cloud;
Of the great land-slips; and the placid lakes,
Mirrors of haughty peaks; of the strong flood
Rushing below them,—how its infancy
Lay cradled amid blue Franconia hills,
Laughing up at the Old Man of the Notch,
Whose stony face into far Nothing looks
With all a mortal wise-head's gravity;
Of Conway intervales, their carpets green
Laid broad and soft before the vast rock-gate
Into the sanctuary of the hills;
And of dark passes to that cloud-crowned peak
Which bears the name the New World most reveres.
And Esther, longing, said, “What think you, girls?
Can we afford to go?”
Pale Eleanor
Looked up, her face moonlighted with a smile
Of pleasure at the thought; while Isabel
Grew serious, thinking of her empty purse,
On which her ribbons flamed a commentary;
But said,—
“O, I know mountains well enough!
Hard-faced old neighbors in the wilds of Maine,
Where I spent all my childhood. I will wait
Here for my fairy prince and godmother,
While you go browsing on the Granite Hills.”