the company, partly on account of the noise they made, and partly because of their “staring,” whenever we chanced to meet them. We, however, became thoroughly reconciled to them next morning, when they sent a greeting to me, and a request to sing to me on my departure.
Behold now, therefore, Mrs. S. and myself seated on buffalo-skins in the open travelling-wagon; and the company all assembled before the house, singing in quartette the touching and pretty song of “Sweet Home.” The singers stood on the piazza, and around them and our wagon were probably a hundred persons assembled, all with friendly, earnest countenances. It was Sunday morning; the sky clear and dark-blue, after thunder and rain yesterday; the atmosphere fresh and pure as that of my own native land.
I looked up to the bright sky, and thought of my home, of my beloved ones; and listening to that melodious song, “Sweet home! sweet home!” my heart swelled, and my eyes were filled with tears. I never received a more beautiful morning salutation. With this in my heart, and amid the waving and kissing of hands, we drove off in our open wagon into the verdant mountain region.
A New Hampshire farmer, strong as a giant, drove us, his horses being brisk and gentle, and his wagon like one of our ordinary carriers' wagons, resting, unlike those, on easy springs, so that it was extremely comfortable. We drove on, and our whole being was full of gladness, for the air was pure as crystal, the heat not extreme, there was no dust, and through the whole way, our road was bordered with beautiful forest, now fresh green after the rain, and before us we had the great mountains to which we were approaching nearer and nearer. There was now no snow upon their crowns, and they appeared rather green than white, and Mount Washington shrouded himself now and then in a wreath of light cloud. The scenery around us resembled the central portion of the northern mountain
