A most charming ride is that down the line of the Saco river to North Conway, whether by rail or stage.  The beauty and boldness of the scenery on either side alternately enchants and awes.

[Illustration:  View from bridge in Berlin.]

“It reminds me of Switzerland,” said Fritz, who had travelled on the continent, “only there are more rocks and ledges visible.  The lower Alps are clothed in green and the upper ones in perennial snow.  The Simplon Pass is not nearly so rugged as the Notch.  Only in the West among the Rockies is there anything to compare with this.  But below, a few miles, we have a view as pleasant as Christian and Hopeful saw from the Delectable Mountains.”

“And do we have to pass Doubting castle, as they did?” asked Molly.  “I don’t think I should care for their experience with giants and giantesses.”

[Illustration:  Mount Carter, from Gorham.]

“Here are castles and strongholds, but the giants, if there are any, are as helpless as Giant Pope was, who could only sit in the sun and gnaw his finger nails.”

The towering cliffs on either side smile like the walls of a prison.  We felt a relief when once they were passed, and we found ourselves in the broader valley below, stretching wide and green and beautiful in the summer sunshine—­the famous meadows of the Saco.  All of the savage aspects disappeared or were seen only at a distance.  Glimpses were caught now and then of charming vistas, with the waters of the Saco gleaming brightly between the trees.  No fairer valley can be found in our land than that of the Saco; and as for skies and sunsets, stop at North Conway and see what cannot be matched in Italy or the Orient.

That is what we did.  A broad, level plain, five miles long by three wide, is the site of the village, which is a quiet and picturesque rural hamlet of the average size of country towns.  Far in the north towers the lofty Presidential Range, in full sight, the distance softening all harsh and rugged outlines into beautiful curves and combinations, Mount Washington wearing a snowy forehead often through the entire heated term.  The swelling summit of Mount Pequakett rises at the north-east of the village, a lone sentinel, guarding the gateway of the mountains with bold and unchanging brow.  On the western side extends a long range of rocky hills, with the single spire-like summit of Chocorua far beyond, piercing the blue vault of heaven.

Sitting on the cheerful piazzas of any of the many hotels, one can breath the mountain air as freely as if they sat under the tower of Fabyan’s or the French roof of the Twin Mountain House, but much of the grandeur of course is missed.  The mountains do not seem to frown down upon you; they smile rather, and seem to beckon and wave as if desiring to gain your closer acquaintance.  To know the mountains you must visit them, press their scarred rocky sides,