gleaming brightly between the trees. No fairer valley can be found in
our land than that of the Saco; and as for skies and sunsets, stop at
North Conway and see what cannot be matched in Italy or the Orient.

That is what we did. A broad, level plain, five miles long by three
wide, is the site of the village, which is a quiet and picturesque rural
hamlet of the average size of country towns. Far in the north towers the
lofty Presidential Range, in full sight, the distance softening all
harsh and rugged outlines into beautiful curves and combinations, Mount
Washington wearing a snowy forehead often through the entire heated
term. The swelling summit of Mount Pequakett rises at the north-east of
the village, a lone sentinel, guarding the gateway of the mountains with
bold and unchanging brow. On the western side extends a long range of
rocky hills, with the single spire-like summit of Chocorua far beyond,
piercing the blue vault of heaven.

Sitting on the cheerful piazzas of any of the many hotels, one can
breath the mountain air as freely as if they sat under the tower of
Fabyan's or the French roof of the Twin Mountain House, but much of the
grandeur of course is missed. The mountains do not seem to frown down
upon you; they smile rather, and seem to beckon and wave as if desiring
to gain your closer acquaintance. To know the mountains you must visit
them, press their scarred rocky sides, feel their cool breezes on your
forehead, then you will love them, reverence them. And this privilege is
free to every one. Great railroads penetrate into the very heart of the
hilly region, and the cost of travel is reduced to such a minimum that
the poorest man can once in a while take his family for a pleasant
sojourn among the mountains. One can start from Boston in the morning,
take a dinner at the Pemigewasset House, Plymouth, and at night eat his
supper at Fabyan's. And even a short visit is so refreshing, so