https://www.omekaclassic4.nhlibraries.org/files/original/1db2ff6a51edf56d9090c653e2e66e58.pdf 81fb622e37a9f4158439dfbaa5764622 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 TROUBADOUR November 1947 The New Hampshire Troubadour 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 November, 1947 number b THE PRIMEVAL FOREST From “Among the Northern Hills” by W. C. Prime, published by Harper & Brothers, 1895. Reprinted by permission. Lonesome Lake cabin stands three thousand feet above the sea, in the primeval forest. It is reached by a zigzag bridle-path, cut in the mountain-side, which leads up from the Franconia Notch road. The cabin and lake are a thousand feet above the road. Both road and bridle-path go through the primeval forest. No axe of lumberman has, hitherto, desecrated this forest sanctuary. The expression “primeval forest” is little understood by many who use it. While there is an almost universal desire to preserve portions of our American forests from the saw-mill, there seems to be everywhere a prevalent notion that this end can lie accomplished by a judicious system of forestry, which includes the plan of thinning out the woods, selecting and cutting from year to year some of the older trees, guarding the younger to grow up and grow old, thus preserving and cherishing a perpetual succession of shadowy groves. Well meant though this plan doubtless is, and suited to preserving parks, it would, if carried out, be destructive to theprimeval forest, whose grandeur in things large and beauty in things small can only be preserved as they have been created, by letting alone. The forest can take care of itself, but is jealous of interference. It is not a park, nor docs it resemble a park. The one is mere nature, the other is art. The natural forest is a world of innumerable creatures, animate and inanimate, who have from time immemorial lived in community. You can never tame the wildness of those people. Why not call trees people? — since, if you come to live among them year after year, you will learn to know many of them personally, and an attachment will grow up between you and them individually. They will be companionable to you, as are your horses and your dogs, and after a while you will have the same sympathy with them that you have with the next higher order of living beings whom you call animals. First Connecticut Lake, Pittsburg, where the deer hunting season continues through iVovember. HAROLD ORNEThere are hundreds of white-birch trees on the mountain-side, and on the ridge, and around the lake, each of which I know, and of these there are perhaps twenty or thirty with which I have had long relations of friendship. 1 would not have the woodman's axe touch any tree on this mountain for any money. Every one is a friend. Some, I cannot say why, by reason of one or another peculiarity, are special friends. You would not find it very easy to say what characteristics, differing from those of other persons, make the friends you chiefly love specially dear to you. Nor would it be possible to say why certain trees in this vast forest always seem particularly precious in my eyes; whether it is because of stateliness, or grace, or firmness, or calm strength that speaks of trustworthiness, or because this one looks jovial and tosses his arms more recklessly, or that one is a seemingly sad old fellow, whose forlorn and weary look asks for sympathy. Often I have questioned one old friend concerning his life story, and he has silently told much of it; wherein is instruction. For the life of a ttce has its resemblances to the life of a man, and the latter may find good example in the former. His youth was passed among difficult surroundings, and the labor of living was arduous. He adopted early the motto of success, whether of a young tree or of a young man, “patience and perseverance.” The mountain-side was rocky, and the only soil was the dead dust of his ancestors, clinging among the stones, and mixed with the gravel of decaying granite. At the very start, when he sent out his young roots, they encountered bowlders on every side. Haste and impatience would have ruined him, and left the bowlders masters of the situation. He directed his roots warily around them, feeling along their sides, and drinking rain that dripped from them, and thus the youth grew strong with the help of the obstacles that were in his way. So his full strength was attained, and his roots reached far and interlocked with the roots of his young friends, and they helped one another to stand up.All the time there had been one bowlder especially obnoxious and obstructive. But he had been patient, and thrust a root between this and another, greater, which almost touched it. And that root thrived, and though strangely shaped and flattened between the rocks, was healthy, so that when the day of his strength arrived the bowlder was to him no more a trouble; for with the abundant force in that root he quietly shoved the great rock out of his way and forgot it. So patience in the time of weakness prepares for victory in the time of strength. It is strange that with our changing llesh we bear always the scars of mishaps in childhood. It must be some hundreds of years since a squirrel in midwinter (when squirrels feed on the tender tips of birch branches) ate rather deep, and stopped forever in the sapling the growth of that twig. But just below the end was a branching twig, which the squirrel let alone. Why? I don’t know. HAKOLU orne If hat lovelier memory for a bride than a wilding in Xeu Hampshire! Here is a uedilinH scene of a few ueeks ago at the Union Church, Randolph. The bride's parents, the James S. Alexanders oj Scarsdale, Xeu' York, have a summer home at Randidph.How should I know what scared a squirrel on this mountain two hundred generations of squirrels ago? The tree’s history is recorded, but of the squirrel’s nothing can be known except this incident. How do we know it was a squirrel that bit off the twig? I answer, how can you account for it otherwise? Suggest a better theory, and we will accept it. That's the principle on which half the modern ologies go. Devise a theory and accept it as demonstrated truth, and rest your scientific faith on it, because no one has invented a letter theory. I believe in the squirrel, and the evidence that a squirrel bit off that branch is as good as the evidence for nine- tenths of the supposed truths in modern progressive science. The small ungnawed branch grew out nearly at a right angle to the main stem; and there, when I first knew my old friend, was a huge knee, close to the tree trunk, on one of the branches nearly a foot in diameter, where the twig had started out from the little stem. . . There is one mighty old fellow who stands directly on the top of a rock, three or four feet in diameter, and who sent his roots down on three sides of it. So the tree stood on the rock as on a pedestal, and you can see the big stone, hugged by the great roots, under the very centre of the trunk; and he is stout and green and rugged, good, apparently, for a hundred years more. Life and success with him are due to determination and making the most of his small opportunities. There is another, who stood close by my old friend, and who is like some old men, shabby in his attire and utterly regardless of his appearance. He had the best of land, and had grown fat on it and lived sumptuously, and when old age came he grew cynical, despised the young modern slips of trees around him, then grew misanthropic and selfish and careless. You never saw such rags as the old wretch wears. They flutter in the wind around his miserable old body from the ground up for forty feet, streamers of bark, some long and black and scarcely holding to him, some rolled up intight rolls, dingy and dirty. I remember him when he was a noble white-birch, and his dress was snow and gold, and when the afternoon sun shone slanting down the mountain I have seen the fringes of his robes touched with crimson and purple, and his apparel then was altogether royal. Why did not he go down instead of my kingly old friend? The woods are full of graves of great trees, long green mounds, mossy and beautiful. Why has not that old fellow, who has nothing to live for, lain down to be covered up comfortably, and forgotten? . . . One day I was walking down the path, and, as is my custom, sat down often to look at trees and plants and animals. A northwester was blowing, but this side of the mountain was sheltered, and only now and then a whirl of wind shook the treetops. I was looking down the hill-side towards my old friend. A red squirrel was standing on a dead branch, a few feet ofl", looking doubtingly at me. A woodpecker was at work on a trunk almost within reach of my hand. A white-throated sparrow was pouring out that long, sweet refrain which is most melodious of all iorest < hurcb time! A November scene near U ebstei 1 .ake. sounds when heard as the sun is going down. There was a rustle of the breeze, and a sudden rising of the sound of the river down in the valley, which showed that for the moment the current of air was from the southeastward. And then there was a loud, crashing crack, and after it silence. What internal shock.what violent emotion, what that, to the tree, was like the sudden memory of a threat joy or a great grief to an old man, had broken the stout old heart of my friend I cannot tell. Was it that breath of wind? He fell towards it. not away from it. In the silence that followed the sound of the heart-breaking be seemed to be looking downward for a place to lie. Then slowly his lofty branches glided across among the branches of the other trees, and swept gently downward through them. Two of his companions reached out strong arms to catch and hold him up, but he slipped quietly out of their hold — vain hold now that all was over — and so lay down among the mosses. But he did not lie comfortably with his body on some small bowlder, and he lifted himself up with a convulsive spring, and then lay down again. Nor was he yet at ease. For a moment he turned a little, this way and that way, till he secured his lied of rest, along among the rocks, and then there was perfect quiet. The south wind stole in softly over him. And the shabby old fellow, who ought to lie lying there, fluttered his dirty rags, and seemed to be shaking himself from head to foot with unseemly laughter. Much as I abhor an axe, I am tempted to cut down that old tree. Better — some wet October day 1 will set fire to his rags, and see the column of flame shoot skyward around him. It will not hurt, only purify him, and he may send out young branches and be a better tree. No; there is no science of forestry which can preserve the solemnity and beauty of the primeval forest. The one only law to In- enforced from generation to generation is, “Let it alone.” Accessible parts of Franconia Notch were lumbered when the land was in private ownership. Twenty years ago a large tract in the Notch ivas acquired to be a forest reservation and state park for the purposes of providing “a memorial to the men and women of New Hampshire who have served the nation in times of war,” and of preserving scenic beauty.—The EditorTHE TWO ARTICLES WHICH FOLLOW were written as essays last year in the classes of Miss Dorothy E. Potter at the Andover, New Hampshire high school. When she sent them to the Troubadour, Miss Potter said: “It seems to me rather lamentable that such a large percentage of the literature written which should enhance our New Hampshire traditions is written from the point of view of the grown man, and so little from the viewpoint of youth. True, the grown man may look back upon his childhood, and extol the glories of growing up in this bountiful environment, but his are reminiscences which may lead us to believe that those were the “good old days” which arc now lost. There is a need for evidence of the full, rich experience of youth in the process of living today, of their faith in their inheritance now. In these essays, unadorned and lacking in the skill of the more mature writer as they may be, I believe we sec reflected a spirit of faith in our tradition, and we know that there are young people now growing up in New Hampshire who recognize their inheritance and will keep it beautiful. “New Horizons was written by a girl, formerly of Lowell, Massachusetts, whose parents recently bought a farm in Potter Place. I'm a Country Girl was written by a sophomore girl who lives on a hilltop farm in East Andover.” I’M A COUNTRY GIRL Lj ^4nn (graves That’s right, I'm a country girl. I know the pleasure of teaching a two-months-old calf to lead, the thrill of skiing and snowshoeing over clean, fluffy white snow, and the pride of drawing off the first run of boiling hot maple syrup. I’ve walked over a crisp snow crust to skate on the lake in the moonlight. I’ve ridden a horse through the woods, and come upon a rabbit bounding across the path in front of me, climlx'd a tall tree and watched boats sail on the clear blue of the lake below.1 know the pride of raising a Guernsey heifer and the misery of having to sell the same heifer. I’ve hunted for kittens under the woodshed, under apple boxes, in the hay mows, and under the eaves of the shed and barn. I’ve taken fluffy yellow or black chicks out of boxes and put them on clean shavings under a brooder. I’ve played football on a muddy, harrowed field with a bunch of boys from prep school. I’ve eaten such big dinners when we’ve had guests that Thanksgiving dinner doesn’t seem at all big to me any more. I’ve had roasted pork, mashed potato, fresh green spinach, rich creamy gravy, pickles, and jelly, rich yellow carrots, homemade bread and butter, plenty of milk with ice cream and pie to top it all off— all in one meal. I’ve seen fresh green hay cocked in a new mown field. I’ve also seen the same hay soaked with rain, brown and heavy. I’ve got up at 6:45, and walked a mile only to miss the school bus, and to walk two and a half miles more. I’ve walked home after basketball practice to gaze upon the sunset on Kcarsarge Mountain, or to see the mountain so clear against the sky that it looked like a movie- backdrop. I’ve got the cows in the rain, wearing a jeep hat and rain coat, barefoot and with my dungarees rolled above my knee. I’ve smelled the moist country- air on that same rainy day. I've hiked through heavy brush and rough terrain to marvel at high falls swollen with spring thaws, and to look at the surrounding hills and valleys from mountain tops. I’ve cried over a dead kitten. carried a newborn calf from ('.hildren in New Hampshire's rural country find much to interest them and to enrich their lives at all seasons. WINSTON’ POTF.the pasture to the barn. I’ve ridden our big old work horse bare- back and got horsehair all over the seat of iny pants. I’ve smelled freshly-cut clover and wild roses. I’ve picked big lush lx*rries. I’ve dreamed out of a schoolhouse window at warm spring weather. I’ve fallen to defeat with the rest of our team in many basketball games. I’ve worshipped and admired players on the town baseball team. I’ve gone swimming in the late afternoon to wash off the sweat and hayseed from the day’s haying. I’ve helped lead cheers to spur our boys’ basketball team to victory. I’ve gone to square dances at our town hall and learned an old- fashioned polka. I've had to go seven miles to see a movie. I’ve ridden on a hay load that I loaded myself only to go over a bump, and have three-quarters of it slide ofT the truck. I’ve slid on a homemade sled of skiis and a wooden box. I’ve been in a buggy behind a runaway horse. I’ve done all this and much, much more. Only a country girl could know the freedom and fun of a country life, the abundance of food, and the love of animals that go with a New England farm. To a person who has always lived in a house in the city and only read about Life in the Country, the buying of an old farmhouse has been a dream-comc-truc. To be able to stand on our own hill and look over our many fields and woods is something I had never imagined; to stand in our house or barn that are both substantial after over a hundred years of busy life; to pick vegetables from our own garden and then cook them for our dinner are all new experiences to me. When my mother told me that the timbers in our house and barn were all hand-hewn, I felt sorry for the builders, little knowing then how much pleasure there is in making NEW HORIZONSthings so that your home may stand the test of many generations. When I stop to think that city people have to work a long time to enjoy a short vacation in our midst, I am very happy that my folks chose a place where interesting scenery, as well as all summer and winter sports are our everyday life. To me, the purchasing of a hilltop farm in the country seems the most valuable experience of my summer months because it means I now have a home to work in, a farm to improve, with the feeling that someday in the distant future when the farm belongs to me, I can say, “This farm has been owned by my family since 1946.” This remarkable photo was taken during the past summer by David Byers of the Umbagog Sportsman's Camp in Errol. The cow moose was observed by him and photographed while crossing the entire expanse of Umbagog Lake — a distance oj more than three and a half miles —from Maine into New Hampshire. She sivam from the vicinity oj Dutton's Island to Black Island Cove on the New Hampshire shore, without the slightest sign oj exhaustion.Front Cover: Hunter and dog near Littleton. Color photo by Wesley M. Kretschmer. Back Cover: Snow-capped peaks of the Presidentials from highway 16 at North Conway. From the left: Monroe, Washington, and Adams. Photo by Winston Pote. Frontispiece: A New Hampshire forest scene by the Sawyer Studio. TOAST TO NEW HAMPSHIRE Ernest Poole in The Great White Hills of New Hampshire credits the late Senator George H. Moses of New Hampshire with the following toast: “The songbirds sing the sweetest — in New Hampshire, The flocks and kine are neatest — in New Hampshire, The thunder is the loudest — the mountains are the grandest — and politics the damnedest — in New Hampshire!” Title to the Flume Reservation in Franconia Notch was transferred to the State of New Hampshire from the Society for the Protection of New Hampshire Forests in ap propriate ceremonies held at the reservation on October 3, where the society’s annual forestry conference was held on that date to commemorate 20 years of administration of the Flume Reservation by the society. NEW HAMPSHIRE BOOKS AND AUTHORS The Troubadour has received an interesting small volume. Sunsets and Thank-you-mums, by Herbert Francis Quimby of Derry, New Hampshire, giving an account of 50 years of his parents’ married life on the same farm at Unity, New Hampshire. At the time of the golden wedding in 1899 there had not been a death in the immediate family for 50 years, with the exception of a son’s first wife, so there were twelve children (counting the in-laws) and seventeen grandchildren. The elder Mr. Quimby’s two brothers and their wives also lived to celebrate their golden weddings. “Can any reader of the Troubadour tell me of a man who has made or is still making ox yokes?” — Haydn S. Pearson, 50 Hinckly Road, Waban 68, Mass.From Wheeler’s History of Xew- f>ort, j\'ew Hampshire, 1766-1878: Silk. The mania for the raising and manufacture of silk prevailed here lietween 1838 and 1850. It was introduced by Calvin Mcs- singer. The first mulberry used for the raising of silk not proving satisfactory, it was soon supplanted by the Mortis multicaulis, in which for a time there was a wild speculation. Mr. Messinger and the Rev. John Woods built a large cocoonery, in which they fed the worms. Silk was manufactured into thread, twist, handkerchiefs, vests, aprons, and dress patterns. Dca. Henry Chapin, in the northwest part of the town, raised silk, and was engaged in its manufacture by waterpower. During the year 1840 he manufactured a large quantity from silk from the worm. John Puffer & Co. had a factory at the Scribner mill, where they made a large quantity of thread from raw silk, domestic and foreign. Rev. John Woods and Amos Gleason had a factory at the Diamond mills for a number of years. Col. Jacob Reddington and Amos Little, Esq., were also engaged in the business and speculations; — but the climate proving too rigorous for the successful production of the article, the business was abandoned. New Hampshire Troubadour POT O’ BEANS hy Ruth It. Field My grandma baked delicious beans And folks for miles around Knew of her fame and often came To eat them, rich and browned. She’d put a goodly hunk of pork In the bottom of the pot, Then pour the parboiled beans on it All swollen, piping hot. Midway, a peeled potato went, And onion, too, for flavor, Then more beans till the pot was full — Ah, what ambrosial savor. Next, trickling through the steaming beans, Molasses, thick and brown, Sugar, salt and pepper, too, And tangy mustard, ground. In the old Home Comfort oven, then. They baked for hours and hours, Their fragrance drifting through the house, Fit scent for ivory towers. The beans were served with steamed brown bread, Piccalilli, spiced and sweet, With apple dumpling for dessert — And how we’d eat and eat. In memory I still can see The old familiar scenes, And grandma’s kindly face above Her fragrant pot of beans. RUMFORD PRESS CONCORD.N.H.BASIC in the Boston Herai.d Last month I saw New Hampshire hills In plaidcd Inverness; A highland garb whose colors hid Granite beneath the dress. Now lies the tartan on the ground, Its crimson dulled and brown, But dour and proud the chieftains stand Wearing a snowy crown. Essential beauty triumphing, On barren slopes I see Enduring loveliness, the blue Of lasting liberty! 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 4677Troubadour194711 Title A name given to the resource The New Hampshire Troubadour November 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 1947-11 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 Randolph, churches, forests, moose, Flume, manufacturing Type The nature or genre of the resource Text churches Flume forests manufacturing moose Randolph