against the irregular cliffs that rise behind it, the straggling little mountain-house suns itself, sheltering season by season, the lovers of Monadnock. From this tiny plateau start nearly all the trails that wind up through forest and ravine. Closely enfolded is this quaint hostelry by loving mountain-arms of descending green which enfold it as the slopes decline gently to the south and west, so that the setting of the house resembles a wide green harbor.
Up the road leading from the main thoroughfare which is more than a mile and a half away, come the casual visitors day by day; those who will scramble up the mountain by the main trail, rejoicing if they accomplish the ascent in record-time. But record-time and the Mountain Spirit have no common denominator. For most of these scrambling tourists the mountain is but a rough mass to be surmounted; stony paths to be trodden upon; a peak to be looked off from; a plateau to be eaten upon; crags to be descended from. But among
