My lot to be sure is on the
further side of the water, not so familiar to me as the nearer
shore. Some of the wood is an old growth, but most of it has
been cut off within twenty years and is growing thriftily. In
these May days, when maples, poplars, oaks, birches, walnut, and
pine are in their spring glory, I go thither every afternoon, and
cut with my hatchet an Indian path through the thicket all along
the bold shore, and open the finest pictures.
My two little girls know the road now, though it is nearly two
miles from my house, and find their way to the spring at the foot
of a pine grove, and with some awe to the ruins of a village of
shanties, all overgrown with mullein, which the Irish who built
the railroad left behind them. At a good distance in from the
shore the land rises to a rocky head, perhaps sixty feet above
the water. Thereon I think to place a hut; perhaps it will have
two stories and be a petty tower, looking out to Monadnoc and
other New Hampshire Mountains. There I hope to go with book and
pen when good hours come.
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