I expostulated with myself. I said: "You are excited; you are stupid;
you are unworthy of the name of photographer. Light-writer! You ought to
write with a whitewash-brush!" The reproof was effectual, and from
that moment all went well. The plates dropped smoothly, the camera
was steady, the exposure was correct. Six good pictures were made, to
recall, so far as black and white could do it, the delights of that day.

It has been my good luck to climb many of the peaks of the
Adirondacks--Dix, the Dial, Hurricane, the Giant of the Valley, Marcy,
and Whiteface--but I do not think the outlook from any of them is so
wonderful and lovely as that from little Ampersand: and I reckon among
my most valuable chattels the plates of glass on which the sun
has traced for me (who cannot draw) the outlines of that loveliest
landscape.

The downward journey was swift. We halted for an hour or two beside a
trickling spring, a few rods below the summit, to eat our lunch. Then,
jumping, running, and sometimes sliding, we made the descent, passed in
safety by the dreaded lair of the hornet, and reached Bartlett's as
the fragrance of the evening pancake was softly diffused through the
twilight. Mark that day, Memory, with a double star in your catalogue!

1895.




A HANDFUL OF HEATHER