Twenty or thirty miles across the hills, on the way to the Green Mountains, lie some finished chapters of pitiful stories—­a few score abandoned farms, started in a lean land, held fiercely so long as there was any one to work them, and then left on the hill-sides.  Beyond this desolation are woods where the bear and the deer still find peace, and sometimes even the beaver forgets that he is persecuted and dares to build his lodge.  These things were told me by a man who loved the woods for their own sake and not for the sake of slaughter—­a quiet, slow-spoken man of the West, who came across the drifts on show-shoes and refrained from laughing when I borrowed his foot-gear and tried to walk.  The gigantic lawn-tennis bats strung with hide are not easy to manoeuvre.  If you forget to keep the long heels down and trailing in the snow you turn over and become as a man who fails into deep water with a life-belt tied to his ankles.  If you lose your balance, do not attempt to recover it, but drop, half-sitting and half-kneeling, over as large an area as possible.  When you have mastered the wolf-step, can slide one shoe above the other deftly, that is to say, the sensation of paddling over a ten-foot-deep drift and taking short cuts by buried fences is worth the ankle-ache.  The man from the West interpreted to me the signs on the snow, showed how a fox (this section of the country is full of foxes, and men shoot them because riding is impossible) leaves one kind of spoor, walking with circumspection as becomes a thief, and a dog, who has nothing to be ashamed of, but widens his four legs and plunges, another; how coons go to sleep for the winter and squirrels too, and how the deer on the Canada border trample down deep paths that are called yards and are caught there by inquisitive men with cameras, who hold them by their tails when the deer have blundered into deep snow, and so photograph their frightened dignity.  He told me of people also—­the manners and customs of New Englanders here, and how they blossom and develop in the Far West on the newer railway lines, when matters come very nearly to civil war between rival companies racing for the same canon; how there is a country not very far away called Caledonia, populated by the Scotch, who can give points to a New Englander in a bargain, and how these same Scotch-Americans by birth, name their townships still after the cities of their thrifty race.  It was all as new and delightful as the steady ‘scrunch’ of the snow-shoes and the dazzling silence of the hills.

Beyond the very furthest range, where the pines turn to a faint blue haze against the one solitary peak—­a real mountain and not a hill—­showed like a gigantic thumbnail pointing heavenward.

‘And that’s Monadnock,’ said the man from the West; ’all the hills have Indian names.  You left Wantastiquet on your right coming out of town,’

You know how it often happens that a word shuttles in and out of many years, waking all sorts of incongruous associations.  I had met Monadnock on paper in a shameless parody of Emerson’s style, before ever style or verse had interest for me.  But the word stuck because of a rhyme, in which one was