come down quite to the water on all sides, with hardly ever a strip of beach. As we move down from the wharf we disturb a heron, which rises with a scream from his hiding-place among the rushes, and flaps angularly away. Loons are seen ever and anon swimming on the surface of the lake; and overhead, soaring with pinions stretching wide and eyes that meet the sun, the American eagle holds his flight through the upper ether.

The general lay of the lake is northeast by south-west. The larger part of the lake is in Holderness, but portions of it extend into Ashland, Sandwich, Centre Harbor, and Moultonborough. The three counties of Grafton, Carroll, and Belknap come to a point in the lake. Leaving Cotton cove at our left, and the twin peaks of Rattlesnake hill, we steam out into the lake. Along the western horizon follow the Squam mountains, terminating in Mount Israel, the highest peak. Overlooking this range, we catch at times the towering crests of Mount Prospect and of Sandwich Dome. At our right, against the eastern sky, are the Red Hills, 2,000 feet in height, terminating in Colby hill, the lowest spur at the north. Beyond we catch a glimpse of Mount Ossipee, 2,500 feet in height, which lies ten miles away. Both of these mountains are in Moultonborough. Red hill derives its name either from the beautiful sienite which composes it, and which near the summit, where the ledges are exposed to the action of the air, has a reddish hue, or to the forests of uvæ ursi which cover its sides, the leaves of which are turned into a brilliant red by the early frosts.

Heading toward the upper part of the lake, the northern horizon bristles with stony and wooded crests. The hills and mountains crowd confusedly upon each other to look into the clear mirror of "Kusumpe pond." Yet they seem tranquil and in repose, and the whole atmosphere of that region is that of rest. The heights, which when seen near at hand have an alert and even savage aspect, like the gashed forehead of Whiteface, the sharp thorn of Chocorua, the uncompromising granite of Tripyramid, and the sullen bolt of Passaconaway, are veiled in the violet haze of distance, which softens their rugged features and puts them in harmony with the peaceful scene they overlook.

Fifteen

One mountain, indeed, presents as a symbol the type of peace. miles away, in Albany, rises the solid granite mass of Mount Paugus, 3,000 feet in height. This mountain reminds us of the old Norse god, with his stony heart. It is a huge pile of rock, scaled over with forests. On its side stands out a spur whose upper crest presents the perfect image of a gigantic sheep's head: eye, mouth, nose, ear, and forehead are exact, and even the chest and back of the animal are distinctly made out. There it has stood for centuries, unchanged, unmoved, symbol of the Saviour of the world, a thing to have been worshipped by the rude aborigines, if they could, like the old Egyptian, have seen anything of the deity in the representation of so meek and innocent a quadruped. It was only a few weeks ago that this singular formation was first noticed, but now it is pointed out to everybody on the lake, where it can be seen at almost

every point, and is one of the objects of interest to the visitor in this section.

The north-western extremity of the lake tapers into a picturesque fiord, from which it would not seem strange to see issue half a dozen viking ships, with their dragon or serpent prows, and their rows of bucklers along the gunwales. But it is only a fishing craft that one sees there, and the occupants are trolling for land-locked salmon, and have no thought of other plunder. There is a finished look along the shore. A regular wall of rock has been laid along to mark the limit of the water's encroachment, and in some places this wall rises to a height of a dozen or fifteen feet. Huge ledges rise out of the water on all sides, and only a narrow channel is found sufficiently deep for the advance of the little steamer. All these rocks and ledges are completely honeycombed by the action of the waves and the frost, and present a singular appearance. Honeycomb Cove, as it is appropriately called, marks the opening of the fiord, and Squaw Cove is the terminus, both of which lie in Sandwich, under the shadow of Squam mountain.

Squaw Cove derives its name from the fact that formerly there stood upon one of the ledges of the cove a block of granite that bore a strong resemblance to the draped figure of a woman. A few years ago the statue was taken away, and the stone squaw now lies prostrate, broken in twain in the front yard of a farm-house at East Holderness. The aborigines had a legend for everything which they could not account for in any other way, and while the sunshine gleams

on the ripples of the cove, and the Chelmsford lies at anchor, and the skipper smokes, and even the buoyant colonel checks his jokes and puns, we will recount the Legend of the Stone Squaw.

A long time ago, when only the Indians-the true children of the soil-inhabited this country, there lived a chieftain whose wigwam stood on the shore of this cove, far up under the beeches of the hill. His name was Mamon. He was old and wise, and his fame as a warrior was great among all the surrounding tribes. The wife of his youth had long been dead, and the sachem as he grew older longed to have his wigwam brightened once more by the presence of a woman. There were many maidens in his own tribe who would have rejoiced to become the bride of Mamon, but he had no love for them. Across the lake, where the pines and the elms grew together along the course of Asquam chemuke, there lived a maiden whom he had seen, and whom he loved.

The princess Amata was young and beautiful. She had the grace of a mountain deer, and the skill of a wise woman in concocting dishes for the woodland feast; and she and the young warrior Moowis loved each other;-but the proud chief, her father, had set his heart on wedding her to Mamon, his friend and ally. So the banquet fires were kindled, and Mamon rowed across the lake with his choicest warriors, to sit at the feast and wed the fair princess whom his heart loved.

Grand was the feasting among the braves, and lithesome the dances of the dusky Indian women, and among

them all none looked so grand and stately as Mamon, and none of the maidens were like Amata, whose form was like the river willow, and her eyes like stars, and her hair lustrous and glistening as the flash of the waterfall in the sunshine. But Moowis, the young brave, was not at the banquet his heart was too heavy, and his grief too great.

The full moon shone over the lake when Mamon returned with his bride. His heart was very happy, but Amata's face was sad, and the tears twinkled in her soft, dark eyes. He thought she wept because she left the home of her childhood, but it was because her heart was with the absent

young warrior, Moowis. Through all the night hours she prayed that the warrior she loved might come to see her once more.

In his wigwam, on a couch of sweet fern and beech leaves, the old chief slept the sleep of the aged, and by his side tossed the sleepless Amata. The curtains of the lodge flapped in the breeze, and she knew no one was near until a hand touched her forehead, and the voice of her lover whispered in her ear:

"I have come. My canoe dances on the lake, and the night is dark. My beloved, shall I go away with my heart sad and my arms empty?"

"Thou wert mine ere thou became his. My arms are strong, my arrows sure, my canoe staunch, yet light as a feather, and I love you. Come, O Amata."

His voice was sweet and musical as the ripple of running water over a mossy ledge in the hot summer noon, and her heart answered to his. And she stole out of the wigwam into the darkness and the storm, and the two lovers hastened down to the shore where his birch canoe was waiting. But as they fled the sagamore awoke, and by the gleam of the lightning caught a glance of the flying fugitives. Wrathful was the heart of Mamon as he saw the arm of a stranger around his bride, and her long, dark hair flowing over his shoulders. And he caught his strong bow and his quiver and rushed in pursuit.

Strong were the arms of Moowis and brave was his heart, but the heart of Amata was weak and waxed faint as water as she heard the stern voice of the sagamore through the tempest. And the storm grew yet wilder; the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled; the water came rushing down the mountain sides in torrents, and huge trees in the forest fell crashing to the ground.

"Oh! I cannot fly farther," cried Amata breathlessly. "Gitchie Manitou is angry with his child."

"If you love me, follow," cried the young warrior, and he seized her in his arms and bore her into the water.

Mamon arrived at the shore, and seeing by a flash of lightning the figures struggling in the water, discharged his shaft. A loud cry escaped the lips of Moowis, the water

grew crimson around him, and he sank with a despairing wail in the mad waves. Amata reached a ledge, and struggling upon the rock, stretched forth her round arms towards the shore.

May the lightning blast the fair, false wanton," cried Mamon,-praying, "Let Manitou make of her a signal and example to coming time." Even as he spoke there came a vivid flash, followed by a thunder peal that seemed to shake the earth to its very centre, and through the storm and darkness pierced the shrill voice of despair. Manitou had answered the chieftain's prayer.

For ages and ages the Indian, roaming around the lake pointed to the stone, image as the form of the hapless Amata, petrified by God's judgment in her wanton flight, and there it remained till the white men came. Such is the story of the stone squaw and of Squaw cove.

Once more on the lake ;-how beautiful the scene! Did you ever see more fairy-like islands, more enchanting coves? Lovely is the lake now, hemmed in by the green hills and woodlands; but when the tints of autumn flush the wooded islands and the main land, and when sunrises and sunsets perform the daily miracle of turning these pellucid waters into wine, then the purple bloom of the mountains frames a revel of color that is bewildering in its beauty.

We return by the other side of the lake, and the most remarkable thing we notice is the changed aspect of the mountains, as we view them from different points. Only a very expert Appalachian can sling names around the whole bristling horizon. But that is Kearsarge's historic peak we discern in the far south, beyond a doubt. That bald granite crown is unmistakable anywhere. A breeze springs up, and it grows cool. We are glad we brought our summer overcoats with us. The nights are uniformly cool around the lake, although the middle of the day may be comparatively hot. Up there nothing is known practically of the heat as it is felt in the great cities. Blankets are not to be despised at night, and woollen clothing cannot long be dispensed with. For perfect beauty and healthfulness there are few places so richly endowed. Every day affords a feast for the eye and the soul. Though eventless in one sense, our lives are crowded with events. It is our business to see what the sun and wind and cloud are about, and to watch every change about the lake and the mountains. All the twentyfour hours of each day are good and precious. With the poet we can say,—

"Linger, O gentle Time!

Linger, O radiant grace of bright to-day! Let not the hour's chime

Call thee away,

But linger near me still with fond delay!"

ANNOUNCEMENT OF

Ben Perley Poore's Book.

:

Sixty years of a busy journalist's life at Washington are epitomized in Maj. Ben Perley Poore's two superb volumes. One of the admirers of the Major recently said that "at a judiciously ripe period of life the Major stopped growing old, and since then, like some of the choice Madeira of which he writes with so much feeling, he has only been accumulating bouquet and flavor." Maj. Poore has been one of the best known and one of the most knowing men in Washington society for a half a century. His is the sunny temperament delighting in bright, social intercourse. Yet his connection with daily journalism and his position in the U. S. Senate placed him always in the thick of political affairs and social gossip. He was ever in the Washington "Swim," breasting the waves with jovial vigor, and never failing to hear or see what was said and done.

The Major could never be very solemn, and in his ripened sketches of Washington life every phase reminds him of half a dozen amusing anecdotes. He has a rare gift in telling a story, and his anecdotes are inexhaustible.

His book will not only add lustre to his fame as a writer, but it is of so unique a character and so intensely interesting in matter that it will prove a valuable contribution to the literature of the country. It has mirth for the mirthful, wit for the witty, information for all, and we doubt if it has been equalled by any subscription book since the war.

It is being issued by the well known house of Hubbard Bros., and is sold exclusively by subscription.

AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AND ARS' YA, by Ivan Turgenieff, a Russian writer of great force and originality, has lately been published by Funk & Wagnalls.

It

SANBORNTON,

Illustrated.

A Strange Inheritance-a novel by F. M. F. Skene. 16mo, 25c.

Locksley Hall, Sixty Years After etc., by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 16mo, 25 cts.

Yeast, a Problem-by Chas. Kingsley, author of "Alton Locke," "Hypatia," etc. 16mo, 25 cts.

Of the Franklin Square Library, we have received:

No. 556. A Wilful Young Woman -a novel, by "Who is Sylvia?" 25 cts.

No. 557. The World Went Very Well Then-a novel, by Walter Besant. Profusely illustrated. 25 cts.

No. 558. She; a History of Adventure-by H. Rider Haggard, author of "Solomon's Mines." Profusely illustrated.

25 cts.