The air, not often sultry in this elevated region, nearly two
thousand feet above the sea, was now sharp and cold, like that of a
clear November evening in the lowlands. By morning, probably, there
would be a frost, if not a snowfall, on the grass and rye, and an
icy surface over the standing water. I was glad to perceive a
prospect of comfortable quarters in a house which we were
approaching, and of pleasant company in the guests who were
assembled at the door.



OUR EVENING PARTY AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.

WE stood in front of a good substantial farm-house, of old date in
that wild country. A sign over the door denoted it to be the White
Mountain Post-Office,--an establishment which distributes letters
and newspapers to perhaps a score of persons, comprising the
population of two or three townships among the hills. The broad and
weighty antlers of a deer, "a stag of ten," were fastened at the
corner of the house; a fox's bushy tail was nailed beneath them; and
a huge black paw lay on the ground, newly severed and still
bleeding, the trophy of a bear-hunt. Among several persons collected
about the doorsteps, the most remarkable was a sturdy mountaineer,
of six feet two, and corresponding bulk, with a heavy set of
features, such as might be moulded on his own blacksmith's anvil,
but yet indicative of mother wit and rough humor. As we appeared,
he uplifted a tin trumpet, four or five feet long, and blew a
tremendous blast, either in honor of our arrival or to awaken an
echo from the opposite hill.