of the gold opera-glass, who heard our laudatory remarks with the
composure of a veteran.

Such was our party, and such their ways of amusement. But on a
winter evening another set of guests assembled at the hearth where
these summer travellers were now sitting. I once had it in
contemplation to spend a month hereabouts, in sleighing-time, for
the sake of studying the yeomen of New England, who then elbow each
other through the Notch by hundreds, on their way to Portland.
There could be no better school for such a purpose than Ethan
Crawford's inn. Let the student go thither in December, sit down
with the teamsters at their meals, share their evening merriment,
and repose with them at night when every bed has its three
occupants, and parlor, bar-room, and kitchen are strewn with
slumberers around the fire. Then let him rise before daylight,
button his great-coat, muffle up his ears, and stride with the
departing caravan a mile or two, to see how sturdily they make head
against the blast. A treasure of characteristic traits will repay
all inconveniences, even should a frozen nose be of the number.

The conversation of our party soon became more animated and sincere,
and we recounted some traditions of the Indians, who believed that
the father and mother of their race were saved from a deluge by
ascending the peak of Mount Washington. The children of that pair
have been overwhelmed, and found no such refuge. In the mythology
of the savage, these mountains were afterwards considered sacred and
inaccessible, full of unearthly wonders, illuminated at lofty
heights by the blaze of precious stones, and inhabited by deities,
who sometimes shrouded themselves in the snow-storm and came down on
the lower world. There are few legends more poetical than that of