[Campton—Saturday, 16 June 1866]
Saturday 16th A resplendent day! As Americans have happily learned to say, “one of Lowell’s perfect days” because of his line in Sir Launfal.
We walked over the hills before breakfast, finding our climb steep and the sun somewhat warm, we sat down about 9 o’clock by a cool stream with the mountains bathed in light above, the little village below, the whole landscape breathing calm and beauty—presently a cow appeared just below us startling us a little by the sudden movement of her head from behind a fresh green birch, but our startling was nothing to that of the cow who amused us greatly by giving quite a human jump of astonishment, as if a person were indeed an event there. After gazing awhile to satisfy herself we had business of our own unconnected with her she proceeded to descend the little slope on which she stood and cross the sparkling stream; the water-drops leaped up deliciously around her feet as she paused leisurely to enjoy the “ice-brooks’ temper.”
About ten o’clock we drove to Plymouth. Large round white clouds, decked the blue sky while the warmth brought a wealth of odors from pine, hemlock and fir.
We found Lucy Larcom dining quietly at the table d’hôte, so we took dinner (one worthy of the town with the addition of pure country cider) and soon started with her for Campton once more. We walked the horse almost the entire distance upon our return, going as well as coming on the opposite side of the river from the commonly travelled road only once fairly stopping to gather a few flowers.
