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Show :FISHERMAN'S LUCK the edge of a grassy hill, overlooking the long valley of the Gale River, and uplooking to the Franconia Mountains. It was the benediction hour. The placid air of the day shed a new tranquillity over the consoling landscape. The heart of the earth seemed to taste a repose more perfect than that of common days. A hermit-thrush, far up the vale, sang his vesper hymn; while the swallows, seeking their evening meal, circled above the river-fields without an effort, twittering softly, now and then, as if they must give thanks. Slight and indefinable touches in the scene, perhaps the mere absence of the tiny human figures passing along the road or labouring in the distant meadows, perhaps the blue curls of smoke rising lazily from the farmhouse chimneys, or the family groups sitting under the maple-trees before the door, diffused a sabbath atmosphere over the world. Then said the lad, lying on the grass beside me, "Father, who owns the mountains?" I happened to have heard, the day before, of two or three lumber companies that had bought 202 It was the benediction bout |