Foxwold's Page for

 'THE GIFT'

MtCabot.JPG (356209 bytes)

Years ago, when my family lived in Lancaster, NH, the view from our home was the northern side of the Pliny Range and the western side of the Pilot Range.  Among the specific mountains in our view was Mount Cabot.  We hiked Cabot a few times over the many years we were in Lancaster, but the last time was when we assisted in the search for Stephen Harvard. 

Stephen was a local man whom we had never heard of until the State Police organized search parties for him when he did not return from a hike in the area of Mount Cabot.  Stephen didn't make it out of the woods that last time.

Having left my name and address in a log book as a record of who helped, I later received a copy of a poem Stephen had written.

THE GIFT

        Beyond the farthest farm, beyond the farthest logging road, up where the trail turns high, we found them: stones as big as cauldrons, stones as big as woodsheds. Eratics, they are called in books: stones-out-of-place left stranded for ten thousand years by melting glacial ice: stones born in strata far from here; stones scoured to a huge perfection by their journeying.

       And yet, for us they were not out of place. Time had brought perfection to perfection. The ice-age granite eggs were living planets now, each with its skin of moss and fern and wood anemone. Each had its baobob of yellow birch, each had its musculature of root and branch. Here was an unconsidered galaxy of kindly worlds, enlarging our own world to kindness.

       Now we ourselves are scattered over a broad continent. Scattered, but not stranded: the company we kept that day- each other, mountains, runoff creeks, the sky, the narrow trail- has made of us a wider company. And I would like to celebrate that fellowship with a gift. Here for each of you, is a living planet-egg from Cabot Mountain. Since my old tractor won't be equal to the task, you'll have to take it, like most good things, on faith.

       Take it as a gift for your mind's eye. Wherever you are today, remember for a moment those green hills. Remember what we said; remember the fine silences. Remember how starflower and goldthread brushed at our boots, and how we found the first strawberries of June. Think of those ancient trees embodied from the clearing mist.

       And think, for a moment, of your perfect glacial stone- the one I give you now- safe in the high wild place that you have come to know, safe in its accustomed universe of green; safe, like you, in the place where it belongs.

   -Stephen Harvard    

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