To an outsider the whole trip into the upper valley of the Deerfield River is a delight. At Hoosac Tunnel the big train gets tired of the long climb and plunges into the very heart of the mountain. But the little narrow-gauge road takes up the ascent most determinedly. The boy’s-size engine snorts and chu-chus up astounding grades, winding into defiles where the mountains close in on each side and almost squeeze the track into the river. At some stations the stop is on such a slant that the engine puffs and grinds for minutes before any progress at all is noticed. The town comes down to see the struggle, and the small boys call the conductor and engineer by their first names and rail at their railroading. “Hey, Bill,” says one. “What’s your coffee mill grinding to-day?” Then, as the imperceptible first motion accelerates to a snail pace, they stroll along with the engine and continue their chaff till the hills shut down and cut them off. Yet after all, when you consider the grades, the curves and the stops, the whole trip is made at a good pace, the twenty-four miles being covered in about an hour and a half. Coming down is coasting, and the speed is limited only by the requirements of safety. Vermont whole-heartedness runs through the train chaff, however, and the favorite salutation is “neighbor.” To take the trip is like attending a lodge meeting, and long before the final stop you feel a friendly interest in everybody present. If you don’t know most of the others by their first names it is because you have not kept your ears open. At this season at least you learn how strong a hold the good old business of sugar making still has on the hearts of the people of the Green Mountain State, and the gossip of the groves and farms is yours without the asking. The free, wholesome air of the mountains is in it all, and as you breathe more and more of it you feel that the good old-time New Englander does not need to come back. He is there, up under the purple shadow of Haystack, talking maple sugar and drawing its essence of vitality from the white wood of mighty trees that clothe mountain slopes with the kindly peace of their stately groves. XIII NATURE’S MEMORIAL DAY _How Earth and Sky Observe this National Holiday_ Up to the brow of Cemetery Hill The serried battle ranks still press to-day. The saxifrages in Confederate gray Charge to the robin’s bugle, piping shrill. In Union blue the sturdy violets still Shoulder to shoulder in the battle sway And, rank on rank, the rising onslaught stay, While cheers of song-birds through the woodland thrill. And yet peace reigns, and both the gray and blue Mingled in garlands on the field will lie Marking a soldier’s grave, or blue or gray, Shoulder to shoulder waiting, who shall say? We only know they wait beneath the sky While garlands deck them, wet with tears of dew.