ect to
mention Cobble Hill, a bold pile of rocks, rising directly out of the
plain on which a portion of the town is situated.

But we had heard of the 'Walled Rocks of the Au Sable,' and Elsie and I
could not rest until our own eyes had witnessed that they were worthy of
their reputation. We left Elizabethtown at half past six in the morning,
our team a fast pair of ponies, belonging to our landlord. The previous
days had been warm and obstinately hazy, but for that especial occasion
the atmosphere cooled and cleared, and lent us some fine views back
toward the Giant of the Valley and the Keene Pass. The first ten miles
of road were excellent. We then crossed a little stream known as Trout
Brook, a tributary of the Boquet, and, by a somewhat rough and stony
way, began to ascend the high land separating the Boquet from the Au
Sable. This ridge includes the 'Poke a Moonshine' Mountain, a rude pile
of rocks, burnt over, and with perpendicular precipices of some three or
four hundred feet, facing the road which winds along the bottom of the
declivity. This cleft thus becomes another 'Pass,' and, with the huge
rocks fallen at its base, offers a wild and rather dreary scene. To the
north, near the foot of the mountain, are two ponds, Butternut and
Auger, which wind fantastically in and out among the hills. As we
descended the ridge, we looked toward Canada, far away over rolling
plains and hillocks, and soon after reached the sandy stretch of the
basin of the Au Sable, in the midst of which is Keeneville, twenty-two
miles from Elizabethtown.

By the wayside we passed a solitary grave, the mound and headstone in a
patch of corn and potatoes. Was the unknown occupant some dear one whom
the dwellers in the humble cabin near by were unwilling to send far away
from daily remembrance, or were they too poor to seek the shelter of the
common graveyard, or, again, had the buriers of that dead one followed
to the 'land of promise,' or departed to some other far country, leaving
this grave to the care or rather carelessness of stranger hands, and did
the snowy headstone recall no memory of past love to the laborer who
ploughed his furrow near that mound, or to the children who played
around it?

Ah! thus, not only in the mystical caverns of beauty, poetry, and
romance are hidden the graves of buried hopes, but even amid the corn
and potatoes of daily life rise the ghostly head and foot stones of
aspirations dead and put away out of