rods from it, or rather did, till the past winter, when it was
burned, and its site is now marked by a few charred timbers. Old
Crawford's memory will live, as one of these eternal hills bears his
name. He lived to a good old age, and for many years in rather awful
solitude here, and at the last with some of the best blessings that wait
on age, 'respect, and troops of friends.' His son--whose stature, broad
shoulders, and stolid aspect bring to mind the Saxon peasant of the
middle ages--is driver, in the season, and sportsman in and out of it.
He stood at the door this morning as we were driving off to the Falls of
the Ammonoosuck, with his fowling-piece in hand, and asked leave to
occupy a vacant seat in the wagon. My father was a sportsman in his
youth--some forty years ago; his heart warms at the sight of a gun, and
besides, I fancy, he had some slight hope of mending our cheer by a
brace of partridges; so he very cheerfully acquiesced in Crawford's
request. Alice and I plied him with questions, hoping to get something
out of an old denizen of the woods. But he knew nothing, or would tell
nothing; the 'tongues in trees' were far more fluent than his. But even
so stony a medium had power, afterward, to make my heart beat. I was
standing near him at the Falls, and away from the rest, and I asked him
(Sue, I confess I have been either thinking or dreaming of that
'fugitive' all night) if he had seen a foot-traveler pass along the road
last evening or this morning. 'No; there was few travelers any way in
October.' He vouchsafed a few more words, adding: 'It's a pity folks
don't know the mountains are never so pretty as in October, and sport
never so smart!' Was there ever a sportsman the dullest, the most
impassive, but he had some perception of woodland beauty? While we were
talking, and I was seemingly measuring with my eye the depth of the
water, as transparent as the air, my father and sister had changed their
position, and come close to me. 'Oh!' said the man, 'I recollect--I did
see a _stranger_ on Mount Willard this morning, when I went out with my
gun--he was drawing the mountains; a great many of the young folks try
to do it, but they don't make much likeness.'

Perhaps this timely generalization of friend Crawford, prevented my
father and Alice's thought following the direction of mine. I _know_
this youth is not Carl Heiner, it is not even possible he should be; and
yet, the resemblance that in my one glance I