of the tumbling Ammonoosuc, the wildest and most rapid stream in New
Hampshire, joins the Connecticut in its journey to the sea. The
highlands of Bath repay attention as we journey northward. Littleton is
a thriving village, which controls the business of this section, and
promises to be a northern metropolis.

A few miles from Littleton is Bethlehem, a regular mountain village,
with an altitude higher than that of any other village east of the
Mississippi. This is one of the most charming resorts in the White
Mountain region. The long, main street of the town runs along the side
of Mount Agassiz, and its elevation is such as to banish hay fever and
all kindred complaints.

After we had dined, Fritz, Molly, and I, proceeded to investigate the
place by carriage. The day was warm, but Bethlehem has the luxury of
admirably-shaded streets; and although tropic heat may flood the outer
world, they lie temptingly cool beneath the great boughs; delightful
breezes sweeping from the mountains, so that a ride is always enjoyable.
There are regulation drives, and there are other drives, for one can
take a different route every day for a month, and each drive will seem
to surpass the other. In fact, the drives, walks, and woodland paths
about this village, rival those of Central Park in New York City. The
hotels of the village are palatial, and compare favorably with the best
in much older communities. Their accommodations are fully appreciated by
the army of health and pleasure seekers who annually visit them.

[Illustration: VIEW ACROSS THE SUMMIT OF THE RAVINE.]

This village has lately been directly connected with the outside world
by a narrow-gauge road, which runs parallel with the street and joins