May the Great Spirit curse ye when
he speaks in the clouds, and his words are fire. Chocorua had a
son and ye killed him while the sun looked bright. Lightning
blast your crops. Winds and fire destroy your dwellings. The
Evil Spirit breathe death upon your cattle. Your graves lie in
the warpath of the Indian. Panthers howl and wolves fatten over
your bones. Chocorua goes to the Great Spirit--his curse stays
with the white man.'
"The prophet sank upon the ground, still uttering curses, and
they left his bones to whiten in the sun, but his curse rested
upon that settlement. The tomahawk and scalping knife were busy
among them; the winds tore up the trees, and hurled them at
their dwellings; their crops were blasted; their cattle died,
and sickness came upon their strongest men. At last the remnant
of them departed from the fatal spot to mingle with more
populous and prosperous colonies. Campbell became a hermit,
seldom seeking or seeing his fellowmen, and two years after he
was found dead in his hut." (footnote: From The White Hills, by
Starr King.)
As we looked out over the sylvan beauty of the scenery that is
unsurpassed, we realized that long ago the curse had been
removed. The hills are intersected by charming labyrinths of
wood that lead to peaceful valleys. These dreamy forest
solitudes, with their deep foliage and singing rills which
wander here and there, lull your senses like an enchantment
after the noise and scrambling bustle of the busy manufacturing
centers from which you no doubt have so recently come.
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