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unless he can produce proofs so, although they are cumbersome, I brought along the papers to support my case."

"I hope these domestic problems," continued Senator Borah, "are going to be the main concern of the coming campaign. Transportation, economy in the expenditure of public money, and perhaps most of all a satisfactory solution of the control of public ultilities and the protection of the public against extortion-unless we solve these matters we are going to be in a more serious situation than we are in at present. Bolshevism is not a religion, nor a creed, nor a form of government. It is a disease which is engendered wherever oppression and injustice long prevail. If the people who are concerned about the influx of propaganda from Bolshevist Russia would only help in the solving of some of these problems of ours they would not need to worry."

The interview came to an end all too soon, but as we drove along the streets of Manchester toward the hall where the Senator was to deliver his address to the Civic Association, I ventured one more question,

"What brought you into politics, Sen

ator Borah?"

"The fact that Boise, Idaho, wasn't big enough to allow me to reach the point in the legal profession there which I wanted to reach. If I had been born in a large city things might have been different, for my first love and my greatest interest even now is the law. Perhaps I should Perhaps I should simply have gone ahead in that field. ahead in that field. As it was, I wanted greater scope and I decided to take a course in politics. And here I am."

We were driving through Manchester's residence section with beautiful tree-shaded homes on either side of the road. The Senator pointed one out.

"It's good to see a house with lots of space around it. In Washington we just crawl into the big apartment houses from the sidewalks. A man who is used to the spaces of the West never gets used to it. It somehow seems to cramp one's thinking."

And these two remarks gave me the finishing touch to my impression of Senator William E. Borah—a man used to the open spaces, for whom the whole world is not too broad a professional field, and to whom the loneliness of independent thought has no terrors. -H. F. M.

The Amoskeag Plan

The announcement that the great long-drawn-out and wasteful strikes Amoskeag Manufacturing Company which have unfortunately characterwith some 14,000 employees has proized the textile industry for many posed a plan of employee representa- years. If the proposed plan goes tion whereby employees and manage- into effect, and if it works as sucment can jointly and democratically cessfully as similar plans have worked work out their common problems in industrial establishments of both through the orderly process of great and medium size, it means that ference, is both good and significant Manchester will behold a new era of innews. Only a year ago the Amos- creased efficiency and harmony. keag was troubled with one of those -Boston Herald


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Mt. Willeys

Drawn by Louis F. Cutter

The Range Walk. Starting at Randolph the party followed the route marked with a dotted line over the Presidential Peaks to Crawford.


"Truly different from anything else was this walk......in a world of rock and sky and views."


A Tramping Trip Along the Range Walk



O the mountain climber of New England "The Range Walk" means one thing. There may be variations and even digressions but he who has been fortunate enough to have been over "The Range" must have set foot upon all the peaks of the Presidential Range in the White Mountains of New Hampshire from Madison on the northeast to Clinton, on the southwest. This route includes Madison, Adams, Jefferson, Clay (the Northern Peaks), Washington itself, and Monroe, Franklin, Pleasant and Clinton (of the Southern Peaks), not all presidents, to be sure, but the highest range of mountains east of the Mississippi and north of North Carolina, and surely presidential. Mt. Jackson and Mt. Webster are also in this latter group but are not always included in a "Range Walk."

Many hundreds of people are now able to make this trip annually during the summer months owing to the fine facilities for overnight stops offered to all at the Appalachian Club huts, at Madison Springs, near the summit of

Mt. Madison, and at the Lakes-of-theClouds hut at the base of the cone of Mt. Washington. This journey can be made comfortably in two and one-half days of good weather. Our party allowed three and one-half days for the sake of digressions. We settled the weather by prayer and faith in our leader's good luck, chiefly the latter.

Throwing on our packs at the little Appalachian station in Randolph, the moment the connecting train with the Boston-Montreal sleeper let us off, on a bright August morning we crossed the railroad track, passed through a gate that might have led into any pasture, and were on the Valley Way Trail to the summit of Mount Madison. The Range Walk was before us. To five of our group of seven it was a familiar and well-loved tramping ground, to one it was to be new, but she had climbed the Alps. To me alone, it was, not only new, and the highest thing yet in the name of a walk, but a glowing dream about to be realized.

So in spite of heavy hob-nailed boots

and three pairs of thick woolen stockings it was with fairy step I followed in line through the lovely shaded trail. I say through, because we seemed almost in a tunnel, so dense was the forest. The path continued wooded nearly all of the three and one-half miles to the Madison Spring Huts.

We passed a party coming down, several ladies and one elderly gentleman using a stout umbrella for a cane. Their clothes resembled modern tramping garb as the umbrella resembles an Alpine stock. Their expressions were not those of joyous enthusiasts. They picked their way sore-footedly. We passed the time of day as trampers do upon the trail. "You going up?" the old man grumbled. "You won't like it up there. Its damp and cold. We went up yesterday, got caught in a cloud and had to stay overnight. It is damp and cold; you won't like it."

Our leader cheerily answered he had been up before and had liked it. The old man growled and hobbled on to lower climes. Undaunted, we proceeded up.

The trail grew steeper. We slabbed up high on the side of our valley and looking across saw the long sloping shoulder of Madison. Things were growing decidedly interesting. The path grew steeper yet; we pegged along expectantly. The trees had shrunk to scrub. Then just when we were not looking for it, we were out of scrub. Standing in the open I gasped, not from the climb but at what lay before us. Not fifty yards ahead on a rough plateau, sheltered by a pair of dark mountain cones, nestled two small stone buildings and from the chimney of one came smoke, as cheery as the purring of a cat. The Madison Spring Huts. That pointed peak rising directly behind the huts was the top of Mount Madison, the rough round knob to the right was an Adams crown. We were

in another world.

We passed by the springs that are the headwaters of Snyder Brook and

were welcomed at the huts by the college boys in charge. They promised us dinner in half an hour and we went to the sleeping quarters to choose our beds, the choice being whether to roost high or low.

We had a fine dinner. I remember baked beans, flapjacks and apple sauce, and all supplies are toted up from Randolph on the boys' backs!

The afternoon was perfect. We spent it leisurely going to the topmost point of Madison (5,380 ft.) basking long on the lee and sunny side of her boulder peak and looking into The Great Gulf (an inlet of space, wedged between the four great Northern Peaks and Washington's mighty side).

From this point on Madison, Washington was magnificent, with the bulking slope of Chandler's Ridge, riding out into the foreground over which the line of the carriage road could be plainly seen. Very smooth, very easily undulating is the big king mountain as seen from this spot. The Osgood Ridge Path led directly from our perch down over the bumpy ridge of that name to the Glen House from whence the carriage road starts on its winding way up Washington. We scanned well in all directions. Near by John Quincy Adams, the broad expanse of the Androscoggin Valley with Maine beyond on the east, the Randolph county to the north and in the far away north-west what might be Vermont. But the view from the tip top of Madison is southwest. Washington and the Great Gulf. That picture we took away "for keeps." The immensity of it! The beauty of it!

After supper we stretched out under our ponchos before our stone-built home and watched the westering sun concoct a sunset over in Vermont; watched the crescent moon over John Quincy Adams grow brighter as the heavy mountain grew blacker, felt the darkness and the coldness envelop us. It was a good thing we had selected our beds early, for trampers had come

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Boston & Maine

The Presidential Range and the Great Gulf: "an inlet of space wedged between the four great northern peaks and Washington's mighty side."

in on all the trails during the afternoon and some thirty weary bodies sought rest that night in the two-room sleeping hut, with an overflow in dining room and kitchen. I doubt if Morpheus handed out enough sleep to give each his real quota and the thermometer ran to freezing too, but no one complained and the morning found us up bright and early hungry and ready for the Gulfside Trail over Adams, Jefferson and Clay to Washington and the Lakes-of-the-Clouds Huts, a distance of about six miles and considered the most scenic walk in the White Mountains.

The day promised well, the mist filled valleys clearing as the sun got under way. Skirting John Quincy Adams, we peered down into the great King's Ravine from the head-wall on the northerly side of the range, and thought another time we would come

up that way. The "Air Line" over the seriated ridge of the Knife Edge on Durand Ridge which divides the ravine from our own Synder Brook valley also lured us. What fun to walk over the prickly edge of things there! A little farther on, we stopped to look back at the pyramidal cone of Madison, with the huts, grown so tiny, in the foreground. Another turn in the trail and our hostelry disappeared but the pointed peak showed for some time longer over the rock-bound shoulder of Adams. We did not go over the summit of John Quincy or of his taller relative, plain Adams (5,805 ft.), second highest of the White Mountains. The former, together with Sam and the more or less facetiously called Maude, are part and parcel of the main mountain, in short have never set up household gods of their own. But to us they were gods in themselves, each and

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