[Illustration:  Georgiana falls.]

What haunts form a magic chain along the verdant shores of this charming lake!  The Wiers, Wolfborough, Alton Bay, Centre Harbor, each a name that moves the heart to thrill it.  A voyage across the lake will be remembered a life-time.  Says Edward Everett, commenting upon a sail from Wiers up the lake:  “I have been something of a traveller in my own country, though far less than I could wish—­and in Europe have seen all that is most attractive, but my eye has yet to rest upon a lovelier scene.”  A climb to the summit of Red Hill, at Centre Harbor, Starr King’s favorite haunt, well repays for the labor.  The lake presents a charming picture from its crest.  Across its waters can be seen the domes of Belknap and more distant Kearsage and Monadnock.  In the east are the Ossipee Mountains and bold Mount Chocorua.  Toward the north is a throng of lofty mountains overtopped on a clear day by distant Mount Washington, which towers king-like over all his neighbors.  In the west one has a view of Squam Lake, with its many islands bordered by beaches of white sand, the little village of Centre Harbor, Meredith, and that popular lakeside resort, the Weirs.

At the Weirs, which is a way-station of the Boston and Montreal Road on the borders of the lake, is a cottage city.  Here in front of each domicile is built the miniature wharf off which is moored the row boat or yacht, dancing feather like on the waves.  Lofty trees with dense foliage grow to the water’s edge, affording grateful shade.  Within the grove is an auditorium in one of nature’s amphitheatres where the weary people, assembled from their homes in the dusty city, listen to words of eloquence or exhortation while fanned by lake breezes.  On the sides of the hill the veterans of the Grand Army have erected barracks, and there they annually assemble, build their camp fires, recount old scenes, fight mimic battles, and close up their ranks thinned by time.  The approach to their camp is guarded by cannon, used to salute some honored comrade, and overlooked by an observatory on which stands no sentinel.

We had made up our minds “to do” the White Mountains, Molly, Fritz and I, the latter being an indefinite person, and we calculated on going prepared.  We had spent a fortnight reading Starr King’s “White Hills,” studying handbooks and Hitchcock’s Geology of New Hampshire, Then it took us a week to do the packing.  One bright summer day we started; night found us at Plymouth on the banks of the Pemigewasset, at the very gateway of the mountains.  We slept at the Pemigewasset House, where we were shown the room in which Hawthorne died twenty years ago, while on an excursion for health with his friend Franklin Pierce.  That will be what Plymouth will be famous for one hundred years hence—­the place where Hawthorne died.  “It is a pleasant place at which to die,” said Fritz, “but I had rather have been born there.”