File:At the north of Bearcamp Water; (1917) (14596810689).jpg

Identifier: atnorthofbearcam00boll (find matches)
Title: At the north of Bearcamp Water;
Year: 1917 (1910s)
Authors: Bolles, Frank, 1856-1894. (from old catalog)
Subjects: Sandwich Mountains, N.H. (from old catalog)
Publisher: Boston and New York, Houghton, Mifflin and company
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: Sloan Foundation

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alem tunnel was nodarker than the night on Saugus marshes, andeven the myriad lights of Boston reflected inthe Mystic only made the winter gloom morevisible. As I struggled through the Saturday-night crowd on the narrow streets near the sta-tions, and marked the faces of waif and thief,drunkard, jester, sordid vender of evil wares,weary workman or thrice weary workwoman,my heart was heavier than it had been in thewild valley back of Passaconaway. Even Bum-blebee, with his sick wife and five children,crowded into one room in that hut by SabbaDay Brook, had something of life of which thisfoul city humanity knows nothing. CertainlyBumblebees boys lack the chance to absorb thevirus of the slums which the wretched waifs ofthe streets have. As I waited for my Cam-bridge car, the stream of humanity surged andeddied round me and the foul fog hung overus. Swift River, plunging on resistlessly to-wards the sea, is seeking rest, far away; but thisstream of humanity, •— what is it seeking? To
Text Appearing After Image:
MOAT MOUNTAIN ANO THE SWIFT RIVER DOWN THE TORRENTS PATHWAY. 291 me it seemed to be seeking anything but therest, everything but the peace, to which its cur-rent ought to tend. Fast and furious as is the torrent of SwiftRiver, its beginning is in the heavens, and aslong as the noble forests cloak the hills andguard the springs, so long will its current besustained by fresh supplies of moisture drawnfrom the distant sea. This human current,coursing into and through the city, draws apart of its strength from the hills. All ourNew England uplands are draining their youthand strength into the cities, but the ocean whichthese life-streams reach gives back no gentle,purified life to fill the mountain farms. Ittakes all, pollutes much, but yields nothing inreturn. A deep-toned bell in the Old North Churchspoke to the foggy night. Answering voicescame from a dozen belfries. They seemed tocall in review the long year now drawing to itsclose. Years are as days to them in their highplaces far ab

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