1884 numbers of the Bay state monthlyBe the first and subjects of first 10 volumes and List of por.

The Granite monthly, a New Hampshire magazine, devoted to literature, history, and state progress (Volume 53) online

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agreed that it would be much easier
for us, but a bit hard on the authori-
ties, for in this case they would be
paying us about nine million twenty-
cent pieces.

We got down the mountain at eight
o'clock. It had not rained much as we
descended but the bushes were very
wet, and so was the tall meadow grass
near the lower end of the trail, which
we had waded through. We were
pretty well soaked from our necks
down, but it didn't bother us one bit,
and we had really had a great trip.
We had finished our chocolate coming
down and had drank again at the Cas-
cades and at Lorgilancet Spring.

We must have looked like two
drowned rats as we came into camp.
Everyone was laughing at us and
wanted to know if we weren't sorry
we had gone. Tbink of that ! They
found out pretty quick, I can tell you.
We wouldn't have missed that trip for

for— —well, for all the girls we

guided that day, and there were one
hundred and six of them.

As for the ducking, concerning my-
self, I told Lem it was no more than
what he would have given me if we



MORE QUILLS THAN NOSES



383



had stayed at camp. And he said may-
he I was right. Lem had the habit of
concealing some very cold water in our
"shack" each night; in the morning
he would turn the liquid in my face
( i f I were not awake ) , or he would
give me a shower as I was beginning
to dress.

ed with what water was
one of my own rubbers,
had been filled the night
hidden under Lem's bed.
was glad to know it was
able rubber.

The hedge-hog- nose brought its
twenty cents. I told Lem he had
earned the most of it, but he made me
take half because I had held the candle
and had also borne my part of the
animJal's distasteful music.

We surely had a wonderful trip, and
if we didn't get much in the way of
views, we had seen a lot of nature and
had had a most interesting adventure.

In concluding, friends, let me assure
you that this information is not given
for the purpose of leading the public
to climb mountains when weather con-



One morning I got shower-
contained in
The rubber
before and
Anyhow, I
a non-leak-



ditions are unfavorable. I give you
the facts as they occurred ; there has
been no attempt at exaggeration. The
trip Lem and I had up Mt. Moosi-
lauke turned out to be more exciting
in one respect, if less interesting in
so far as views are concerned, than it
could have been even had the weather
been perfect. In this I feel certain,
you will agree with me. A more un-
usual feat, although without adventure
with hedgehogs or other animals, was
my ascent of Mt. Moosilauke at mid-
night in late September, accompanied
by another companion with a
climbing disposition.

Editor's Note — Since Mr. Knowles
spent the night he has described on the
summit of Mount Moosilauke, the Tip
Top House has been presented to the
Dartmouth Outing Club by Edward K.
Woodworth, Dartmouth '97, and Charles
P. Woodworth, Dartmouth '07, and now
forms a part of the chain of camps
which that famous organization main-
tains. The climb taken by Mr. Knowles
and his comnanion is now one of a series
of regular trips taken from Lost River
under the auspices of the management
there, guides taking up parties every
Monday and Thursday during the season.



THE MUSIC OF THE FOREST.

By Amy J. Doll off
(Ashland)

There is music in the forest

That the waiting soul can hear

When attuned to God and heaven
And no mortal voice is near.



Sweeter than the liquid fluting
Of the silver throated bells;

Purer than the sparkling waters

Flowing through fern bordered dells ;

As holy as a Mother's pleading
For the children of her care,

Is the music of the forest

To those who God's spirit share.



JOHN SADLER'S RETURN



Bv Charles Nevers Holmes



The clock in the tower of the old
church at the village center, half-a-
mile distant, was striking the hour of
two, when John Sadler descended
from the dingy local train to the plat-
form of the little station at Holton.
For six years John Sadler had been
far away from Holton. He had left
his native town to take a business
position in a great city, and he had
prospered far beyond his expecta-
tions. Now he was back again for a
short visit. Indeed, it was really his
first opportunity to return to Holton,
for the business position he had taken
confined him closely to his office ; but
after six years of incessant hard work,
he decided to have a vacation, — a very
brief one, — and he had come to spend
a part of this vacation at Holton.

John Sadler glanced about him.
The station-agent was a stranger, and
he remembered that Mildred had
written that old Mr. Sanborn had re-
signed. He did not loiter, but took
at once the familiar "short-cut path"
leading to the narrow road which
passed Mildred Martin's house. He
was going to call upon her, first of all,
and then he would visit other former
schoolmates and friends. Some of
these schoolmates and friends had,
like himself, departed from this quiet
town to seek their fortunes elsewhere,
but, somehow, he felt very sure that
Mildred was still living in Holton.

John Sadler had not seen Mildred
since his departure from Holton. On
the afternoon of his departure, she
and he had strolled together down the
shady lane at the back of her mother's
house. It had been a glorious mbrn-
ing, the afternoon was just as pleas-
ant, and John remembered, as though
it were only yesterday, how blithely
the birds were singing all around
them. When they reached the sha-
dow of the old oak tree on the right
of the lane, John suddenly stopped



walking, as though he had made up his
mind to say something very important.
And, at this moment, Mildred abrupt-
ly looked away, as if she saw some
object in the lane which was far more
interesting than the young man beside
her. However, John Sadler uttered
not one word, he remained absolutely
silent. Although he had been presi-
dent of the Holton Debating Society
for several years, he acted as if his
tongue had suddenly and completely
lost its power of speech.

As he stood thus in embarrassed si-
lence, Mildred seemed to lose interest
in other objects in the lane, and she
turned her attention to the young man
beside her. "Isn't this a most roman-
tic spot, John?" remarked she. "Do
you know that mother always calls it
the 'lovers' lane?' "

For a -while, John remained as
speechless as before, then, at length,
some words crossed his lips. "Isn't
it a pity, Mildred, that you are going
to move away from this beautiful
place, and live in your mother's old
home?"

Mildred did not reply at once. At
last she said, rather slowly, "I am not
quite sure what mother will do. It
may be that we shall stay here after
all."

Then, suddenly, John looked at his
watch. "Gracious ! — 1 must be go-
ing ! It will never do for me to
miss my train. 1 guess we had better
return to your house at once. I have
just about time to say good-bye to
your njother."

Mildred made no reply, and they
hastened back to her home where John
bade both herself and her mother a
rather hasty farewell. He had not
seen Mildred since that pleasant after-
noon when she stood at her front
gate, waving him a very mournful
good-bye. They had exchanged let-
ters, less and less frequently, for two



JOHN SADLER'S RETURN



385



or three years, but for a long time
John had heard nothing whatsoever
from or about her.

John Sadler walked briskly along
the familiar "short-cut path," and
presently reached the narrow road
which passes Mildred Martin's house.
A few minutes later, he came in sight
of it. a large, old-fashioned farm
house, and it seemed to him as though
he saw a dainty, youthful figure stand-
ing at its front gate, waving him a
very joyful welcome. But John found
miore than one person standing at that
front gate, and, all over the farm
house grounds, indeed within the farm
house itself, there was gathered a
large and deeply interested crowd. It
took scarcely a glance to perceive that
an auction was in progress, and John
recognized the auctioneer, a short, en-
ergetic man, as one of his former
schoolmates.

John Sadler mingled with the
crowd, and, presently, he was asking
questions about this auction, of an old
gentleman who stood beside him. The
old gentleman looked him over, in
quisitively, and replied, "1 guess you
are a stranger hereabouts. This
property belonged to Mildred Mar-
tin^ she died last March — and her
heirs decided to sell it at auction." He
said something further but John did
not hear it. The surrounding crowd
faded entirely from his sight, and he
was standing speechless, once more,
within a "lovers' lane," beside a pretty
girl with golden hair and blue eyes,
who was remarking in a low and sweet
voice, "Isn't this a most romantic spot,
John?"

gentleman if he knew what had be-
come of Mrs. Mary Martin, Mildred's

Presently, he turned to ask the old
mother, but the elderly man had dis-
appeared in the crowd. "Probably,"
muttered John to himself, "both moth-
er and daughter are lying side by side
under the tall pine in the old grave-
yard." At that moment the clear
voice of the auctioneer broke in sharp-
ly upon his sad thoughts, — "Five dol-



lars I am offered for this valuable
heirloom —five dollars! — Ah! —five
dollars and a half !"- -Whereupon,
John, not knowing for what he was
bidding, almost without thinking, ex-
claimed, "Six dollars!"

When John Sadler made his first
bid, the auction had scarcely begun,
and it lasted more than two hours.
During that time he bought article af-
ter article, scarcely seeing what he
purchased, and not caring what price
he bid. He also bought the farm
house and land, including the "lovers'
lane," paying for the property a hun-
dred dollars more than his nearest
competitor. Of course it was not
long before everybody at the auction
knew the name and full biography of
the gentleman who was buying so
recklessly. "It's John Sadler," re-
marked Deacon Brown to the new
minister, "but I can't for the life of
me understand where John has got so
much money. None of the Sadlers in
this town was ever wealthy."

As soon as the auction was over,
John Sadler pushed his way quickly
through the crowd, and exchanged a
few words with the happy auctioneer.
Then, without speaking to anyone
else, he passed hastily through the cur-
ious throng, and walked off in the
direction of the shady lane at the
back of the farmhouse. This lane led
toward the old grave yard wherein
was the family lot belonging to the
Martins, and after he had entered the
lane, John walked along very slowly.

When we reached the shadow of
the old oak tree on the right of the
lane, he stopped, and looked pensively
around him;. The oak tree, the "spot,"
was absolutely unchanged, indeed the
shady lane looked exactly as it did upon
that pleasant afternoon, six years ago.
John Sadler gazed about him, mourn-
fully, and then he heard a voice be-
hind him calling, "Do wait a bit,
John!" The voice sounded very
familiar, and a he turned quickly
around, he found himself looking into
the pretty and smiling face of Mil-



386



THE (,U WITH MON'I IILV



dred Martin, who was holding out her
hand most cordially to greel him.

fohn Sadler gasped, then Ik- shrank
back as though he saw an apparition.

"Why, what's the matter?" in-
quired the "apparition," a lcok of
surprise commencing to bedim the
smile of welcome beaming in those
blight blue eyes. "Aren't you glad
to see me? Of course I haven't writ-
ten yon for several years but then you
haven't written me. I heard that you
bought almost everything at the auc-
tion—I wasn't there — and when 1 ar-
rived I caught a glimpse of you
walking toward this lane. I called
out to you several times but you didn't
hear me."

John gasped again. Then he
asked, rather hesitatingly, "Is it really
you, Mildred?"

"Certainly it is I !" exclaimed the
young woman. "Who do you think
it is, — a ghost?"

John reached out his hand and
grasped the small one, which was just
being withdrawn. "Why — I was told
you were dead!" exclaimed he.

"Dead?" — Then her laugh, happy
and musical as of old, rang out in the
shady lane — "Dead? I don't believe
so, John. Who told you that?"

"An old gentleman at the auction.
He said that Mildred Martin died last
March "

"Mildred Martin? — () - - I under-
stand — Annt Millie died last March,
-Don't you remember that I was
named for her, John? And two
years ago mother and I left this farm-
house, to live in mother's old home.
Then Aunt Millie moved in here. I
guess you and I stopped writing to
each other before that time."

John Sadler drew a long breath
and smiled rather faintly. He had
wholly forgotten that he was still
holding Mildred's hand. "Well-
honestly," said he. slowly, "I thought
you were dead."

Again he gazed pensively around
hint Mildred and he were in the
same shady lane, and there was the old



oak tree on their right, exactly as it
had been six years ago. However,
Mildred was not looking awav from
him, as though she saw some object
in the lane which was far more inter-
esting than the young man beside hsr.
Indeed, her face was turned towards
him, and even a chance observer
wo 'Id have detected a smite lurking
about her lips. ( )nce more the birds
were singing blithely all around them,
and the short lane seemed less shad-
owy and much brighter than usual,
as the gorgeous afternoon sun shone
through the pine trees upon their
pathway. It was certainly a cheerful
and beautiful moment. Evidently it
appeared so to Mildred Martin. Isn't
this a most romantic spot, John?" re-
marked she. "Do you know that
mother always called it the 'lovers'
lane?"

For a moment, John made no re-
ply. Presently he spoke in a firm, af-
fectionate tone, "Mildred, I want to
tell you something, — "

But his companion interrupted him
quickly. "John, I have something,
to tell you. It is very important.
I'm I'm not Mildred Martin at

all !"

"You are not Mildred Martin?" ex-
claimed John Sadler, in amazement.
"< )f course you are Mildred Martin,—
that is, if .you are not dead, and you
have assured me that you are alive."

"Yes, 1 am Mildred, but not Mar-
tin. You see, John, I was married,
two years ago, to Arthur Jordan, — so
-I'm Mrs. Jordan — now."

The birds were still singing blith-
ely all around the oak tree, but John
Sadler did not hear them. The gor-
geous afternoon sun was still shining
brightly through the tall pine trees,
but John did not see it. Gently he
released the small hand he was hold-
ing. "Mildred,," said he, "let me
congratulate you !" Then, with a
smile, he continued, "I shall miss my
train this time — 1 must see Arthur,
and congratulate him also."

A peculiar expression passed over






JOHN SADLER'S RETURN $$7

Mildred's features. "Mm." re- a mighty good fellow !— When do

marked she, "you can't see Arthur yon expect him hack?"
-he has gone away." "No, John, you don't understand.

"He has gone away?" exclaimed Arthur has gone away for good.

John Sadler. "Well, that's too bad. He died two years ago!"
I should like to see him.. Arthur is



THE WILL OF MILES STANDISH.

(1655)

By J. E. Bowman

(New Ipswich)

The Captain's hattles all were done ;
His fights in Flanders far away ;
His victories 'gainst "the savage" won
By Massachusetts Bay.

The Captain looked into the face
Of his last foe; no trace of fear
In his; and then, in briefest space.
Disposed of earthly gear.

Near graves of those who cheered his life.
With tender love, his grave should he
Tn Duxhury fields; for child and wife
He made his fond decree.

Moreover, to his eldest son,
He gave his lands, the schedule ran,
"At ( )rmstick, Borsonge, Wrightington
And in the Isle of Man."



The lands to which he might have claim
By virtue of his true descent.
In share of wealth that with the name
"Standish of Standish" went.

Stout Captain of the pioneers,
Like his their memory may last
Who, with a Faith in coming years
Claim treasure in the Past.



A COLLECTION OF
OLD NEW ENGLAND RUGS



By Ella Shannon Bowles.



On the floors of the inn known
as Pecketts-on-Sugar-Hill in New
Hampshire lie the rag rugs of various
kinds and designs representing the
collection made by Robert P. Peckett.
While roaming around the country-
side and visiting the outlying farm-
houses and village homes during his
boyhood, Mr. Peckett became inter-
ested in the rugs which the women of
the vicinity had been making for
generations, and when he remodelled
an old farmhouse into the present
hotel with its antique furnishings, he
began the nucleus of 'a collection
which is among the best in the
"Granite State."

The hooked-in or as they are
sometimes called drawn-in and pulled-
in rugs are the most valuable of the
collection, for the supply is running
low and comparatively few workers
make them now. Buyers for antique
shops, summer guests desiring them
for country homes, and collectors
have scoured the country for them,
and the finding of a well colored,
carefully made product of by-gone
days is now quite a rarity.

During the long winters, the
women of New England and the
Provinces passed away many hours
in designing and executing these
rugs. The designs most commonly
seen are divided roughly into three
kinds, floral, conventional and ani-
mal. The floral patterns are varied
and when mellowed by the passing of
years the colors are exceedingly soft
and beautiful. One particular rug
which is considered the gem of the
collection has a depth of coloring, a
unity of design, and a fineness of tex-
ture rivaling that of an Oriental pro-
duct, and inspires the feeling that the
woman who made it in the days of



long ago was a true artist. Three
particularly popular patterns among
the conventional patterns are the
diamond, the shell, and the small
circle described by the wife of a noted
French artist as being especially
Puritanical in effect. The animal
patterns are very unique and all
kinds varying from horses to par-
rots are seen. One rug, belonging to
Mr. Peckett, shows a frisky puppy
advancing toward a bowl which one
imagines' contains his supper.

In making a rug the worker care-
fully 'sewed a piece of burlap into
frames made for the purpose, drew
on the selected design with ink or
dye, and pulled the bits of colored
cloth through the burlap with a hook
resembling a crochet-needle. The
work was hard and tedious, as the
position at the frames was tiring, the
motion of pulling the cloth through
laborious, and the amount of work
accomplished in a day, small.

The braided rugs in the collection
are artistic and well-made, but with
the exception of a few remarkably
old ones are not nearly as rare as the
hooked-in variety. New England
women have made these braided rugs
since early Puritan days, and in vari-
ous parts of the country they are
still produced in considerable quan-
tities. The shapes most commonly
seen are the round, the oval, the rec-
tangular and the clover-leaf, and Mr.
Peckett has splendid examples of
them all. The real old-time braided
rugs were made in stripes "three and
thres" as the workers called them, and
these were followed by the shaded
kinds.

Collecting New England rugs is a
fascinating pursuit. It takes one to
quaint out-of-the-way spots among



A COLLECTION OF RUGS 339

the hills and valleys, and oftentimes the hobby of a man who by various

amusing as well as pathetic incidents devices is trying to keep alive an in-

are revealed. The collection belong- terest in an "American handicraft of

ing to Air. Beckett represents many the days of long ago.
fascinating experiences and reveals



WHERE THE HOME LIGHT GLEAMS.

By. Ruth Ward Temple.
(Hillsborough)

You may roam the wide world over,

You may seek a distant strand,
And see wondrous things of beauty

That are shown at every hand.
But no matter where you wander,

Or how wonderful it seems.
Your thoughts just leave it all and fly

To where the home light gleams.

You may tire of the country,

To the city take your flight,
And mingle with the happy throng

Where lights are grand and bright;
But oft times when you grow weary

Of style and Brilliant scenes,
Your heart just yearns and longs to be

Where the home light gleams !

When the shades of night draw closer,

And each busy day is through,
What a joy to know that loved ones

Are fondly waiting you !
And you thank God for your blessings,

Much more than wealth it means
To turn your steps and find your own,

Where the home light gleams!

And if our happy fireside

With one, homeless, we can share,
Who knows but it saves that mortal

From hunger and despair?
B often proves the life line,

Helps come true, one's fondest dreams
Of a smile that ever greets you,

Where the home light gleams.



NEW HAMPSHIRE POETRY



In its August issue the Granite
Monthly printed contributions, in
competition for the Brookes More
prize of $50, from poets resident in
2>7 states. Since its publication oth-
ers have been received from some of
the states of the Union not there
represented and from British Colum-
bia. We are confident that before
the close of the year every one of the
United States will have made an entry
in this contest. The quality of the
verse which comes to us in this com-
petition is quite as remarkable as its
quantity and is the subject of com-
ment from many of our readers as
well as by the press.

We are limiting our selections of
poems to be printed " this month to
those submitted by New Hampshire
writers and believe that they will be
found to lie a credit to the literary



ability of the Granite State. None
of them is by a professional writer,
the interesting collection of authors
including, instead, bankers, business
men, housewives, school teachers,
newspaper workers, farmers, clergy-
men, commercial travelers, govern-
ment officials, students, etc.

Interest in the contest has spread
so widely and New Hampshire poems
will be so largely outnumbered in
the collection upon which the judges,
Professor Bates, Mr. Braithwaite and
Governor Bartlett, finally will pass,
that it will be something of a surprise
if the prize comes to the home state
of the Granite Monthly; but in this
issue and in some previous ones of
the magazine we have printed verse
by New Hampshire writers worthy
of consideration in any company.



AFTERMATH.

By Alice D. 0. Greenwood
(Hillsborough)

A beautiful dawn so soft and tender,
A golden haze in the Autumn air.

O'er all the hills in his misty splendor

The sun has smiled and the world is fair.

A tiny barque with white sails flowing

Put out on the blue from a sunlit bay,

And we from the shore watch it dimmer growing,
Until in the distance it fades away.

The air grows chill, the sun is hidden,

The wind from the sea hath an ominous tone,

Tho bravely the barque the waves hath ridden.
At eve a wreck drifts in alone.

And thus tho we walk thru life together.

Your path the same that my feet hath known,

It is Fate's decree "All ties must sever."
And into the harbor each drift alone.



NEW HAMPSHIRE POETRY 391

STORM WARNINGS.

By M. E. Nella
(Portsmouth)

Somber and gray the storm clouds go scudding
Across the dark water and rocks flecked with foam;
Plaintive the sea gulls, call to each other
As inland they fly from their wild ocean home.

Past jagged, black ledges the mad waves come dashing.
Striking ths beach with a low sullen moan.
While high on the wave crest kelp streamers are floating
Dragged by its force from the depths where they've grown.

Tall wire grass crackles, sways in the cold wind,
Coated with ice like the low, scrubby tree;
But my light, that's revolving, throws far through the dark-
ness,
A message of cheer to the sailors at sea.



SEPTEMBER IN THE MOUNTAINS.

By Katharine Sawin Oakes
(Lancaster)

Cool mists of the morning, drifting thro the drowsy green;
Vague color in the garden, gleaming, hiding, graying
dim ;
On the soft, chill grass, aglisten, patterned threads flash
dew-drenched sheen ;
And the air crowds cold and vivid from the night's en-
circling rim.

Sentient heat from unspaced heights of burning sapphire
shimmers down ;
Far above earth's muted trees the winds of Heaven
drive spotless sail ;
Crouching to the maternal soil, a million tiny voices drown
Hot silences of noonday in their intermittent flail.

Glorious clc ::ds of tropic splendor trail across the western
sky,
And the eastern hills, opposing, glow God's jewels, in
that light, —
Huge and tender, cooling slowly as the fires of Heaven die,



Online Library1884 numbers of the Bay state monthlyBe the first and subjects of first 10 volumes and List of porThe Granite monthly, a New Hampshire magazine, devoted to literature, history, and state progress (Volume 53) → online text (page 40 of 57)