https://www.omekaclassic4.nhlibraries.org/files/original/abdd59544e11cee0f3885a48404d161d.pdf e51e79fc7355511a968cd04d4d5adb90 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The New Hampshire Troubadour Subject The topic of the resource Troubadour Description An account of the resource The New Hampshire Troubadour was a publication of the State of New Hampshire's State Planning and Development Commission in Concord, NH from 1931-1950s. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource The State of New Hampshire Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available The State of New Hampshire Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1930s-1950s Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource NHSL Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource State of New Hampshire Troubadour PDF files of the Troubadour OCR OCR of the Troubadour XVT/^ New Hampshire Troubadour, ' ' )( ( ' \ } - August 1947The House of Baldwin at Concordroubadour ^Jhe ^ Jew ^ Jfampshire COMES TO YOU EVERY MONTH SINGING THE PRAISES OF NEW HAMPSHIRE, A STATE WHOSE BEAUTY AND OPPORTUNITIES SHOULD TEMPT YOU TO COME AND SHARE THOSE GOOD THINGS THAT MAKE LIFE HERE SO DELIGHTFUL. IT IS SENT TO YOU BY THE STATE PLANNING AND DEVELOPMENT COMMISSION AT CONCORD, NEW HAMPSHIRE. FIFTY CENTS A YEAR ANDREW M. HEATH, Editor VOLUME XVII August, 1947 NUMBER 5 ANTIQUE SHOP h Drederich W. branch The past crowds close about us here To tell its story written clear In pewter, luster, copper, glass, In candle sticks of tarnished brass, In blanket chests and earthen crocks, In trundle beds and wooden clocks: For gathered all around us is The salvage of the centuries, From cubby-holes of house and shed, Attics, and timbers over head, Where thrifty people tucked away Things they discarded yesterday. And there they stayed until at last Enough slow-footed time had passed To bring the days when they should be The treasures of posterity. The village of Tamuxtrth WINSTON POTE THOSE AUGUSTS IN BOSCAWEN ■Lra 2. m son Boscawen is my mother’s native town; and all our childhood Augusts were spent there, with the result that Boscawen is to us a warm, fragrant, green place where crickets, tree-toads, and whippoorwills enliven the night, where great white summer clouds shoulder their way across the hill, and where berry-patches and cornfields are always ripe and waiting. From hearsay, I understand Boscawen also enjoys the rest of the seasons; but my memories are made up exclusively of Augusts. 4 The August 1947Usually some of our cousins were visiting Grandmother at the sume time we were; so that there were sometimes as many as nine of us to climb about the barn, or play in the garden under the crab- apple trees, or go single-file among the pines on the hill, scooping up acorns and pine-cones which we would later fashion into necklaces or weird animals. There were long, sunny days in the fields at haying time, too, and slow, luxurious rides from field to barn on top of the fragrant, swaying loads. There were wild dashes with the Hose Company when the fire alarm sounded; for Grandfather was Fire Chief, and each of his grandchildren felt a personal responsibility to see that town property was adequately protected in such emergencies. The best day of all — the frosting on the cake of our vacation — was Old Home Day. For us that started early in the morning, when we hurried to the Picnic Grove to climb over the bandstand erected there and run in and out among the wooden benches brought down from the Town Hall for the occasion. There were swings for the children, which would fly high among the tall pines; and horseshoe pitching for the men. For the women — broad tables where they could spread the lunches when the others grew hungry! Gradually, the Grove would fill with friends, neighbors, and visitors from far corners of the country, returned especially for the reunion. Frequently during the day, as we went busily about the Grove on the absorbing business of enjoying ourselves, unfamiliar grownups would stop us to ask our family name. When we had identified ourselves, we might be regaled with some anecdote about our mother when she was a little girl; and how we crowed when this happened to be some piece of mischief which, for the sake of maternal dignity, she had been attempting to keep secret! In the evening, there was an entertainment at the Town Hall, usually a play. In some years, Grandmother took part; and, if she had but one line, we would all applaud her vigorously when she spoke it. Occasionally the Entertainment Committee would callupon our mother a week or two ahead of time and ask if we children would take part in the show. This courtesy always pleased us exceedingly. I remember one year, when I had just mastered the acrobatic feat of kicking the back of my head, that I interpolated this into a classic toe dance. How my teacher would have shuddered if she could have seen that performance! Fortunately for me, I had left her far behind in New Jersey. On one of these occasions, the impulse seized me to slip out of the hall during the entertainment and walk home by myself. Probably because I had never before been out so late alone, that mile walk down the highway through the beauty and silence of the night remains one of my most delightful memories. The town seemed deserted. Scarcely a light twinkled from the windows I passed; and the dark, splendid old trees spread a thick canopy above me, blotting out the stars. It was so still I could hear clearly each little night creature singing to itself as I passed. I walked in the middle of the highway; and I am afraid I strutted a little, thinking myself some great one to be abroad alone so late. On the last morning of our stay, we always climbed the hill for a final view of Boscawen; and it is this that most frequently comes to memory. On the summit behind Grandmother’s house was a little cabin from whose porch we commanded the whole town, half buried beneath its towering trees. Our eyes could compass it all in one sweep, from the white spire of the Town Hall to the last big barn near the town line. YVe could see a miniature train running beside the Merrimack, and trace the broad convolutions of the river for miles. We could gaze far across the intervale to the Canterbury Hills; and we could drop our eyes almost straight down to the garden far below us, where two toy figures moved back and forth — our father and Grandfather, pitching the summer’s last game of horseshoes. —From The Christian Science Monitor The August 1947"TROUT-INTOXICATED AND REASSURED'* Associate Pastor oj the Madison Avenue Presbyterian Church, New York City Never have I enjoyed more a visit home — except for the absence of our dear father and mother, though they were present in lively memory — than I did last August. The fields and woods were a heavy green, the lawns and garden inefTably beautiful. The old home, furnished in antique loveliness (yet with every modern electrical contrivance), including the ancestral pieces which had survived the tear and wear of many generations of irresponsibles, bestowed delight, sheer and unalloyed. One sister quickly broke the joyous news that there was a new power lawn-mower. I confessed complete inadequacy in dealing with such a complicated contrivance. At once I was taught to run the contraption. That was all right, but I soon found out that the lawn had been considerably extended; so there was no gain to record in the labor ledger! Then my other sister broached one of her ardent passions — that the old wood- road to the far pasture be “swamped out” again — the road which had been partly obliterated by the birches, Anticipation: Camera fun will snap a picture when her husband hooks a trout. Mas- coma River, Lebanon BOUCHARDalders, hemlocks and pines. Naturally I wished to cooperate, but did you ever tackle an overgrown wood-road after many months of continuous desk exercise? Anyhow, 1 pitched in (with the help of both sisters, who, it seemed to me kept glaring at my waist line and listening to my wheezing!). 1 would not like to boast, in public at any rate, but I did make a fairly good start at it, though I know not why we chose the hottest afternoon of the month to hack our way to the foot of the mountain. Ah, me! Yet there was a sequel. The girls trekked home at last and my path led up the river to the spot where only we few initiated ones ever go. There I secured eight good trout and the dusk-walk home was triumphant joy. No more help around the house from me. The river henceforth uttered imperious commands. (Sisters and wife to their own devices!) The very next day was one of those river days. Clouds, showers. Good old Fred had left the key to the lock on the chain of his noble scow. So, with my brother’s tackle (commandeered again without a single conscience twinge), with abandon I curried the stream. With astounding success, if I may say so, humbly boasting. Proof I have that I brought home the legal limit of specklers on this second foray; you will have to take my word for it that ten of them lined up side by side under a single clump of overhanging bushes, and came aboard Fred’s trim and trusty skiff seriatim. Wouldn’t you have returned for the other five left behind, as I did, the next day which was, alas, the last? And wouldn’t you tell the world about the old man river, about the river and the old man, now young again? In all honesty, dictated by a sometimes irritating “New England conscience,” the trout weren’t large, though they all cleared the law and some were of whole-meal size. But after all, New Hampshire is not a large state! And so, back to the city, trout-intoxicated and reassured. Thanks, girls, and next year never mind the lawn and the road in the far pasture, but hold that river and get that key again! 8 The August 1947A LIFT SHORTENS THE DISTANCE TO BEAUTIFUL CENTER SANDWICH e, Witui ju. In the Boston, Massachusetts, Globe So lovingly the clouds caress his head — The mountain-monarch; he, severe and hard, With white face set like flint horizon-ward. —From “Clouds on Whitejace” by Lucy Larcom. From the hills above Whiteface intervale, on the old road down from VVonalancet, the massive peak of Whiteface shows at its best. Here the vast, high ledges are spread out in full view, and the tremendous bulk of the mountain makes itself evident. It is, I suppose, especially impressive to me, because many years ago I sat one day above those bare cliffs and lunched with Swampscott’s Robert Leonard on the last tid-bits of a once-full pack ... a small tin of anchovies. Today I stick to an easier trail than that which led us to that perch 4,000 feet above the sea. I do my mountaineering here on a friendly road where a rustic sign says “Look to the Mountain,” and I heed it and llranches of a niant pine frame a vista of a beach on Governor's Island. Lake W innipesaukee WINSTON POTEWINSTON POTE Covered bridge and Methodist Church at Stark. A special act of the AW Hampshire Legislature was passed in June 1947 to prot'ide financial aid to the town for repairing the bridge, now more than fifty years old and widely known for its beauty. It had been threatened with destruction to make way for a modern steel bridge. go in past a little red camp to gaze upon the grandeur of the hills. And when my eyes are satisfied and my heart filled, I go on down the Sandwich road again, to ponder now upon the thickening clouds. A bearded patriarch, armed with an ax, is slicing bark from a huge log in his dooryard; so I say, “Good-morning” to him and ask him what he thinks. “Might be showery,” says he, taking a quick look at the threatening sky. And then, with nothing more, he goes back to his task, and I walk on. Later, as I sit on a wall, some miles below. I wonder if the bearded man could have been Wes Tewksbury, “the oxen 10 The August 1947man,” whose picture, with his ox-team, appears on souvenir postcards. I had been told that he lived along this road. I have come now down past the little VVhiteface schoolhouse, at a crossroads where the Sandwich ways dips south, and along another two miles or so through a tiny hamlet with a river that comes tumbling down below it in a series of fine white falls. And, having arrived abreast this inviting wall (and having covered six miles of road, but having walked eight — for I had gone back, after the first mile, to get a forgotten camera) I tossed my pack among the ferns beside it and sat myself down. Here, as I make my notes, I lunch sumptuously on thick sandwiches of egg and ham, and wash them down with great drafts of water from a Wonalancet Mountain spring. Kenneth Hunt’s general store is the only store in the little village of North Sandwich; and there, seven miles from my starting point, I halt again to stock up on cigars and inquire about the road. Center Sandwich, I find, is still four miles away. I was out front, changing a roll of film, when Mr. Hunt said, “How about a ride down? This man's going that way.” Now a true pedestrian, I suppose, will never accept a lift. But in short order I was rolling on my way and getting acquainted with John Weed. New Hampshire Troubadour“This your home town?” I ask. “Yes,” he says, “I was born here, and my wife, too. We’ve just come back here to live.” And by dint of questioning 1 learn how they had moved to Boston when their son started in at Tech many years ago — Mr. Weed giving up his association with his father's prosperous construction business — how first he lived on Harvard Park in Dorchester, which I knew well, and later in Watertown. For 16 years Mr. Weed worked as a carpenter at the Middlesex Sanatorium at Waltham. But his roots were here in Sandwich all those years; and now he and his wife are back and in the old home for keeps. His son is with the Edison Company in Boston. In minutes we had come into this beautiful Center Sandwich village, with its great trees and fine old houses with white fences in front of them, its stone, tile-roofed Wentworth Library (which John Weed’s father, Larkin Weed, built, and on which John worked) and the later Weed-built home of the Sandwich Industries. founded 20 years ago by Mr. and Mrs. J. Randolph Coolidge. There are two wonderful old churches where the North Sandwich road comes in. I asked a woman about them. “That one,” said she, “is the Baptist, and that is the Methodist.” “No Congregational?” I asked; for it is a rare thing not to find an old Congregational church in a New England town. “No,” said she. “But there was a wedding at the Methodist Church recently, and the invitations called it the Congregational- Methodist Church. 1 never heard it called that before.” My lift had saved me four miles afoot and brought me to Sandwich when the afternoon still had hours to run. So I took the lake road, and in two miles was looking down the mirrored waters of Squam — Lake Asquam — which, of the smaller lakes, is the most beautiful I know. I cruised it ages ago with Arthur Graham, now’ of B. C.’s faculty, and learned its hidden rocks. But 1 had not been on this Sandwich shore in close to 30 years.So I stood on the little bridge at the head of Sandwich cove, thinking of those other happy days; and then I walked the two miles back to town again. 0 gems of sapphire, granite set! 0 hills that charmed horizons fret! 1 know how fair your morns can break In rosy light on isle and lake. . . . And evening droop her oriflamme Of gold and red on still Asquam. (Yes, Whittier again.) Country square dancing is popular the year round and is rapidly **catching on" with summer visitors of all ages. Here teen agers are demonstrating at the second annual Netv Hampshire folk festival at Peterborough, uhile Shaker ladies (on stage) and others look on. ERIC M. SANFORD Front Cover: A home in summer at New Castle. Color photo by Douglas Armsden. Back Cover: Along the docks at Portsmouth. Photo by Douglas Armsden. FOR DEMOCRACY The Amos Fortune Forum, which was started July 4 by a group of year-round and summer residents of the Monadnock Region, is a series of Friday evening forum meetings each week through September 5 in the Old Meeting House at JafTrey. Ten distinguished summer residents of the region have contributed their services as speakers. The Forum is named in honor of Amos Fortune, a negro who, by labor and loyalty, succeeded at the age of 59 in gaining his freedom. He came to JafTrey in 1781 and became a highly respected citizen and the best tanner in the region. When he died in 1801, he left to his church, now the Old Meeting House in JafTrey, one hundred dollars for a silver communion service, and to the town left a sum which is now about one thousand dollars for the support of public schools. Amos himself, born a slave, was never allowed to go to school. 14 Promoters of the non-profit lecture series believe the discussions of current issues by the forum resume, in important ways, the discussions held a hundred years ago in the same meeting house and in other gathering places in New England, believe also that such meetings were, and still can be, foundations of democracy. “I have motored through nearly every state in our country, and while opinions may vary with shifting scenes in many places, I always return to my first love — New Hampshire. There is no more charming or beautiful spot. “Particularly interesting to me is the view of Chocorua taken near Scudder’s gate. I have been there some part of sixty years. Then covered bridges, old houses, white churches, rocky fields and zigzag walls and fences — all of them forming the backdrop against which sunshine, snow and rain play a symphony of color, light and music of mystic charm and beauty. No wonder there are fine and gracious folk in New Hampshire. It could not be otherwise in such pleasant surroundings.” Wallace Tibbetts Wellesley Hills, Massachusetts The August 1947NEW HAMPSHIRE BOOKS AND AUTHORS Steeple Bush, by Robert Frost, Henry Holt, $2.50, is a new volume from the pen of the poet who has won the Pulitzer Prize in poetry four times and who has been the George Ticknor Fellow in the humanities at Dartmouth College since 1943. Journey into Fame, by Margaret French Cresson, Harvard University Press, $4.50, is about New Hampshire’s famous sculptor, Daniel Chester French. Born at Exeter, he molded the familiar Minute Man at Concord, Massachusetts, John Harvard at Cambridge and the seated Lincoln for Washington’s Lincoln Memorial. The author of the book is the sculptor’s daughter. Surveyor in the Woods is an article in July Harper's Magazine by Kenneth Andler (who has contributed many articles to The Troubadour) about the remarkable woodsman from whom he learned surveying. A historical sketch of The New Hampshire Historical Society (Concord) from its beginning in 1823 is contained in the April issue of the society’s Historical New Hampshire. Look at America: New England, by the editors of Look in collaboration with Mary Ellen Chase, Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, is a no- table addition to the travel literature of the area. It is a “handbook in pictures, maps, and text for the vacationist, the traveler and the stay-at-home.” SHOWER BATH ON A LEAF (From the Christian Science Monitor) One day while vacationing at Newfound Lake, N. H., I started out to climb a small mountain on the shore of the lake, after the sun reappeared following a summer shower that had saturated the foliage quite thoroughly. As I followed the trail the raindrops tumbled off the leaves as I passed along. I was dressed for it, so did not mind getting wet. I stopped frequently to watch for birds, which were much in evidence all around me. All of a sudden, I heard a peculiar sound right over my head. Looking up I saw a tiny hummingbird which was taking a bath by fluttering over the surface of a large leaf in such a way that he got a perfect shower bath from the raindrops that were clinging to it. M. H. K.The pageantries Of wealth and conflict of your early days. I walk along your shore, Deserted now By clipper ships whose sails long since were furled. They’ll anchor here no more, Nor bravely plough The ocean lanes and byways of the world. I stand in Market Square A little while, And find it is a busy, modern place. I must confess you wear Your blended style. Of past and presehl '^T< : ***& krming grace. ’ __ r*-.- - RUMFORD PRESS CONCORD.N.H. I Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 4677Troubadour194708 Title A name given to the resource The New Hampshire Troubadour August 1947 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource New Hampshire State Planning and Development Commission Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1947-08 Description An account of the resource The New Hampshrie Troubadour was a monthly publication of the New Hampshire State Planning and Development Commission. The magazine was printed between 1931 and 1951. Language A language of the resource eng Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant New Hampshire Provenance A statement of any changes in ownership and custody of the resource since its creation that are significant for its authenticity, integrity, and interpretation. The statement may include a description of any changes successive custodians made to the resource. New Hampshire State Library Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource No Copyright - United States Subject The topic of the resource New Castle, Portsmouth, House of Baldwin, Boscawen, covered bridge, Stark, African-American, Type The nature or genre of the resource Text African-American Boscawen covered bridge House of Baldwin New Castle Portsmouth Stark