Light as love's smiles, the silvery mist at morn Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river, The blue-bird notes upon the soft breeze born, As high in air he carols, faintly quiver. The weeping birch like banners idly waving, Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving, Beaded with dew, the witch elms' tassels shiver, The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping, And from the springing spray the squirrels gaily leaping.

FISHKILL

At Fishkill is located the old Dutch church, erected in 1731, which housed the provincial convention of 1776. The blacksmith who forged Washington's sword lived and worked here. The house referred to in Cooper's Spy is also located here. Back of the town rises a ridge of lofty hills covered in many places by forests. Here if you go to the summit a remarkably fine view of vast extent and most pleasing variety may be obtained. How often here on Beacon Hill the lurid glare of great signal fires painted the ebon curtains of the night with their ominous glow. How often they warned the warriors on distant hillsides of the approach of an enemy or their crimson glow spoke with many fiery tongues that peace had been declared. It was viewed by many a weary patriot or fierce Indian warrior from the wooded peaks of the Catskills to the high elevations of the Alleghenies, or more distant heights of Mount Graylock in Massachusetts, or Mount Washington in New Hampshire.

Here at the base of these glorious hills the American army at one time camped and fortifications were thrown up upon hills that command an approach to the spot. Here, too, were brought from the battle of White Plains the wounded and dying soldiers who lie in unidentified graves above the place. But their graves need no headstones to tell of the valor, nobleness of purpose, and self-sacrifice that our nation might live and breathe the pure air of freedom. As we gazed with tear-stained eyes at these nameless graves we felt that exaltation of spirit which comes when some grand triumphant strain of music fills the soul. White anemones nod on their slender stems and blood root still sheds its white petals upon the mounds as if to hallow the sacred spot.

>From New Hamburg you see a curious projection on the west shore of the river known as the Duyvil's Dans Kamer (Devil's Dance Chamber). On this projecting rock, containing about one-half acre, the Indians used to hold their powwows. Here by the glow of their fires, that brought out weird, spectral shadows they assembled.

If you could behold this place as it appeared in their day, when owls sent their mysterious greetings and the melancholy plaint of the whippoorwill, like voices from wandering spirits, mingled with the wail of night winds, you would not wonder why the red man chose this spot to practice his strange rites with wild, savage ceremonies to invoke the Evil Spirit. "Here the Medicine Men worked themselves into a frenzy by their violent and strange dances." Here, while the strange cries of night birds and frogs rose like weird incantations it is easy to see how the imaginative mind of the Indian could believe in this place as the abode of evil spirits.

"The Military Academy at West Point was an idea of the fertile mind of Washington. The plan was his but it was not built until 1802. The training of the officers who took part in the Mexican War was received here. What a test their training received beneath the fervid heat in an unhealthy land 'where they conquered the enemy without the loss of a single battle.

"The chapel at West Point is decorated with flags, cannon, and war trophies. Tablets honoring the memory of Washington's generals are placed upon the walls, one alone being remarkable from the fact that the name is erased leaving only the date of his birth and death. That place could have been filled by the name of Benedict Arnold."

How beautiful and far-reaching the scenery here at West Point. One finds it almost as difficult to get past these highlands as in the days when we found British men of war on the Hudson, for the ringing notes of the red coated cardinal again come like a renewed challenge from his fortress of grapevines to every lover of Nature to linger here, and the note of the thrush with his bell-like notes takes captive many a traveler.

POUGHKEEPSIE

Imagine, if you can, a wide vista opening before you, in the far distance faint blue peaks that seem to blend with the horizon scarcely discernible; within the nearer circle of your vision smoothly flowing hills, rising in soft and graceful curves, and from their summits to near their bases, thick with dark pine, hemlock and balsam fir, interspersed with birch, mountain maple and oak resembling a vast sea of emerald; within the rising hills a large space with velvety meadows, rich with the color of the Oxeye daisy and first golden rods; and brooding over it all, that indescribable misty veil of purplish blue, and you still have only a faint idea of the grandeur and majesty of these hills along the Hudson.

>From the superb highways with their lovely maples and elms overreaching them, one never tires of the magic of those deep, delicious hues that enfold the sunny landscape as with a mantle.

Poughkeepsie is said to be derived from the Mohican, "Apo-keep- sinck," meaning "a safe and pleasant harbor." How appropriate it is, for with the lordly Hudson at its feet, the sparkling Fallkill creek containing numerous falls and cascades flowing through the eastern and northern parts, the wonderful bridge across the Hudson, and its numerous educational facilities, this half-way city between New York and Albany has been to many weary travelers a "safe and pleasant harbor."

"F. B. Morse, inventor of the telegraph, lived at Locust Grove, two miles below the city, and in the process of his experiments built wires into Poughkeepsie two years before they were extended to New York City."

Just north of the city the wonderful cantilever bridge, six thousand seven hundred and thirty-eight feet in length and two hundred and twelve feet in height, spans the Hudson. It is the highest bridge in the world built over navigable waters. As we gazed at the marvelous structure a train crossed the long bridge with muffled roar and disappeared in the heavily tree-clad hillsides. Just above the city there is a bend in the river and a fine prospect may be had. The foreground for the most part consists of cultivated fields, and hills well wooded with trees of great variety and graceful outline, growing higher as they recede from it, until they range and rise in grand sublimity in the Catskill mountains. Before and below the point where the bridge spans the river, the dim outlines of vessels melt into hazy indistinctness in the gathering twilight.

One of the sights of the city is the circular panoramic view of the Hudson river valley, obtained from the top of College Hill park. The winding automobile roadway on North Clinton street, leading to the summit, is about two hundred feet above the Poughkeepsie bridge. Fancy yourself, if you can, on the summit of this hill, gay with bright colored flowers, fine maples and elms; whose base slopes down to the sparkling Hudson. Beyond you, terrace like, rises hill upon hill, stretching away unbroken for many miles, covered thickly with verdant meadows and oat fields and bounded by long lines of stone fences. The varying shades of the undulations grow gradually dimmer until they mingle with the Catskills on the far horizon.

Between the bases of the hills winds the leisurely, majestic current of the river, clothed in those deep sunny hues that seem like some lovely dream in place of a reality. To the southeast the same green hills, with the same deep hues and mysterious veils, lead your enraptured sight to where the distant peaks of the Adirondacks with their hazy indistinctness seem like the far- off shores of another world. Before and below you lies the city with her sea of spires and dark smokestacks and the steamers coming up the river, "filling the air with their dark breath or the mournful sound of their voices."

After beholding so beautiful a scene as this, one loves to remember Poughkeepsie, not for its beauty alone, but for the beneficence of a great man—Matthew Vassar. Mr. Vassar wanted to do something worthy with his money and at first thought of erecting a great monument commemorating the discovery of the Hudson river. "It was to be a monument of unsurpassing beauty; one that should cause the people to marvel at its magnificence." But the people of Poughkeepsie were not enthusiastic over his project, whereupon Mr. Vassar decided to use his money for something far more worthy. Here is located Vassar college, occupying about eight hundred acres, and is the first institution in the world devoted exclusively to the higher education of women. It solved in a practical way the question that had been discussed in many lands for ages: "Could women be granted equal intellectual privileges with men without shattering the social life?" Therefore, Matthew Vassar, because he was blessed with vast wealth, has taught the world the all- important fact that "ignorance is the curse of God and knowledge the wings whereby we fly to heaven," a statement as applicable to women as to men.

Had the countries of Europe spent their money for a cause as worthy as this in place of building such expensive monuments in memory of tyrannical rulers of the Hohenzollern type, the world might never have witnessed the indescribable horrors of a world war. What matters it if Russia and Italy contain such marvelous cathedrals as long as ignorance holds sway among the peasant? Mr. Vassar shall long live in the memory of a grateful people, and he erected a monument so vast and magnificent that only Eternity will rightly gauge its proportions, for he built not for a dead past, but a bright and glorious future.

THE CATSKILLS

We spent a never-to-be-forgotten evening near the base of Mount Treluper at the Howland House. How cool and quiet the place was, with only the rippling melody of a mountain stream to disturb it!

We walked along the highway that led through the most charming scenery of this lovely region and glimpsed pictures just as beautiful as many places of Europe that have an international reputation.

As we strolled along the babbling stream that flowed over its rock-strewn bottom, we thought of Bryant's words:

"The river sends forth glad sounds and tripping o'er its bed Of pebbly sands or leaping down the rocks, Seems with continuous laughter to rejoice In its own being."

How these songful streams beguile you to the woodland and through tangles of tall ferns and grasses, until they emerge in some meadow where they loiter among the tall sedges and iris or "lose themselves in a tangle of alder to emerge again in sweet surprise, then as if remembering an important errand, they bound away like a school boy who has loitered along the road all morning until he hears the last bell ring."

We have heard of Artists' brook in the Saco valley in New England, but here every stream is clothed in exquisite tangles of foliage and light. The pleasant reaches and graceful curves through charming glens that are part in shadow and part in light, what artist ever caught their subtile charm? Over the rough boulders draped with moss and lichens we catch the mellow gleam of light as it filters through the fluttering birch leaves or falls upon the lovely gray bolls of aged beech trees. Then they flow more slowly over some level stretch or stop to cool themselves in the shadows of some graceful elms that rear their green fountains of verdure above them. What joy it brings to you as you sit musing by their sides, listening to their songs.

They all are excellent musicians, but we fear they are very poor mathematicians, for how little they seem to know about straight lines. But all are expert landscape gardeners, making graceful loops and curves as they go meandering on their songful way. How like a mountain road they are, "sinuous as a swallow's flight." Often we have followed them as the sycamores and willows do, drawn by an irresistible charm and found new and rare delight in every turn. In places they rest in shady pools or pour their wealth of sparkling waters over ledges of rocks or seek deep coverts where tall ferns wave and the birch "dreams golden dreams where no sunlight comes."

In regions as lovely as the highlands of New York, you are reminded many times of that sweet singer who dwelt at Sunnyside, and wrought the legends of these hills into the most exquisite forms of beauty.

Out over the hills we beheld one of Nature's poems of twilight. The vapors seemed to be gathering over the high ridges, but the western sky was almost clear. It was evident that Nature was preparing for a magnificent farewell today. Soon the west was overrun with a golden flush that began to reveal a pink as delicate as peach bloom and the vapors began to glow with ineffable splendor.

As we watched the fantastic cloud-wreathed summits whose colors were altogether indescribable, we noted the intensity of coloring and rapid kaleidoscopic changes they underwent. Suddenly a veil of mist would shut out the view for a time, then grow luminous in the evening light, then fade; revealing new and more glorious combinations of color until the clear outlines of the mountains were etched against the sky. Again we asked ourselves the perplexing question, which mountain scene is loveliest? Before us rose visions of the airy forms of the Alps, the beautiful and majestic wall of the Pyranees, the dark, forbidding masses of the Eifel, and then the various ranges of the Appalachians.

The answer was that all are beautiful, each possessing its own peculiar charm. All are ours to enjoy as long as we behold their outlines; yes, longer, for no one can erase them from our memory. Each is loveliest for the place it occupies. The Catskills could not well change places with the White mountains or the Berkshire hills with the Blue ridge, for the Creator has fashioned woodland, valley, and river to harmonize. Why choose between the melody of the hermit and woodthrush? Both are gifted singers whose notes, rising serene in far mountain haunts, touch our spirits like a prayer. The melody of the woodthrush is not so wild, so ethereal and so far away as the hermit's, but when he rings his vesper bell in his divine contralto voice, no other sound in Nature can excel it. We have heard many nightingales and skylarks singing, but their songs do not attain that depth of soul-thrilling harmony found alone in the song of the thrush. So, too, here in the lovely Catskill region, you will see a kind of beauty that nowhere else can be obtained.

The hostess told us how on a mild March morning, she had witnessed the funeral procession escorting the mortal remains of John Burroughs over this scenic highway. She said she saw Thomas A. Edison and Henry Ford gazing out over the lovely hills their dear departed friend loved so well. It was not with sadness we listened to her words, for we know this gentle lover of Nature had only wandered a little farther to lovelier hills and fairer scenes.

Morning dawned, bringing the mingled blessings of sunlight and song to this lovely glen. Rain had fallen during the night, making the grass take on new life and washing the leaves of every particle of dust. How they reflected the morning light! How fresh and new all Nature appeared after the cleansing she received!

The Genii of the mountains seemed to be casting their magic spell over the soft, sunny landscape. Those troops of workers, early sunbeams and crystal dewdrops, hung the curtains of. the forest with moist, scintillating pearls, whose brilliancy seen through the transparent veil of blue seemed another twilight sky, trembling with groups of silver stars. The air was pure and unpolluted; the birds sang from every field and forest. Flowers nodded good morning as we passed. Brilliant spikes of cardinal blossoms burned like coals against the green shrubs; foxgloves rang their purple bells with no one to hear; campanulas bluer than the sky decked the rocky ledges; where the wood lily, like a reigning queen, "seemed to have caught all the sunbeams of summer and treasured them in her heart of gold."

A thin layer of white mist still hid fair lakes that were waiting to mirror the sky. Down the blue mistiness of the valleys we beheld a far-flashing stream, whose silver course grew fainter and at last disappeared around the purple headlands. Far as the eye could see, the undulating masses of green hills stretched away until they towered far upward, printing their graceful flowing outlines on the distant horizon. The nearer hills rose on all sides like a billowy sea, with outcropping of gray stone breakers along their green crests. On the lower levels we saw thickets of young birch, hemlock and willows.

"Miles upon miles of verdant meadows, farms and forests seem to hang upon the sides of the mountains like a vast canvas or repose peacefully across the long sloping hills; pictures of sunny contentment and domestic serenity, scarcely conceivable in the lowlands." There are winding roads that rise as do the old stone buildings, one above the other until they are lost in the purple distance. What a wealth of cultivated fields and sunny pastures rise terrace-like on slopes far up their summits. There is always farmland enough to give picturesque variety, and woodland enough to give a wild touch and mellow charm when viewed from a distance.

Endless lines of old stone fences appear in the valleys and disappear over the rough hillside. Some are falling into ruin, others are firm and high, adding their charm to the picture. Old apple orchards were scattered here and there. The mossy trunks and decayed limbs told that many seasons had passed over their branches. Their owners have long since "gone the way of all the world." Not only the masters who planted those trees, but the houses that sheltered them have passed away forever. The trees no longer bear much fruit, but are still the homes of vast numbers of shy wood-folk.

What a ringing medley greeted us as we passed. The cuckoo was calling amid his caterpillar feasting. An indigo bunting from a tall maple sang his clear, sweet notes. The silvery phrases of the orchard oriole fell on the ear like a shower of "liquid pearls." No other songster save the vireo is so prodigal of his minstrelsy. Occasionally we caught the loud, querulous notes of the great crested flycatcher. Maryland yellow throats sang, "witchery, witchery, witchery" down among the bushy fence rows. Wren notes fell like silvery drops of water through the sunlit air, and redstarts made the place ring with their rich clear notes. Nature here was throbbing with warm, full life, gleaming with rich tints, and her exuberant energy and persistent force were daily working new miracles.

"Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers And groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in the grass and flowers."

Along the road at various places people have balsam pillows for sale. We made no purchase, for why buy a pillow when the whole forest is ours to enjoy? We need only to smell the fragrance of balsam buds and our cares are smothered, and we pace along some mountain brook with buoyant step and happy heart that keeps time to its purling, liquid voice. Often we see these lovely murmuring trout brooks gleaming in hollows where quiet pools or glistening falls await the coming of the happy youth with a fishing rod across his shoulder. Old men, too, have found them out and grow young again when they spend a few days along their shady banks. They are wiser than Ponce de Leon, for they have found the Fountain of Youth among their native hills without going on a long journey.

We passed through Phoenicia, a small village in the valley of Esopus creek at the southern end of the famous Stony cove. "Stony cove has steep sides, whose frequent knife-like edges have been carved out by erosion; on either side are crags and high, serrated mountain peaks. Slide mountain, about ten miles southwest from Phoenicia, has an elevation of four thousand two hundred and thirty feet; being the highest in the Catskills.

About six miles from Phoenicia lies the village of Shandaken. Its altitude is one thousand and sixty-four feet. The village. takes its name from an early Indian settlement and valley, meaning in the Indian language, "Rushing Waters." It is here that the Bushkill and Esopus join, giving a reason for the name. The Shandaken tunnel is to be located here. This tunnel, contracted for by the city of New York, will cost twelve millions of dollars. It will connect the Schoharie river and the Gilboa reservoir with the Esopus and Ashokan reservoir."

We next entered a very picturesque country. True, the mountains did not rise so high, as mountains go, and did not affect one as do the sublimity and grandeur of the snow-clad Alps, yet the warm light falling here and there in streaks and bars on beautiful fern gardens that nodded and swayed in the cool forest depths, where springs gushed forth in crystal clearness, "brought that tone that all mountains have." We passed through Arkville, a village of six hundred people.

Our curiosity was aroused concerning the name. On making inquiry we learned that one fall there had been a freshet which carried vast numbers of pumpkins down the east branch of the Delaware.

The house of Colonel Noah Dimmick was untouched by the water, and his home was given the name of Noah's Ark, "from which the name of Arkville was suggested. The summer residence of George C. Gould, Jay Gould and Anthony J. Drexel, Jr., are located near here. Francis J. Murphy, the noted landscape painter, owns an ideal estate in the woods adjoining the village. The studio of Alexander H. Wyant, who was considered one of America's best landscape artists, is still to be seen amid its picturesque surroundings." No wonder the place was chosen by the artists, for they never would lack for sketches of the most picturesque and sublime character. The work of Indians may be seen on the inner walls of high caves, known as the Indian Rocks, rudely carved with strange hieroglyphics.

This forenoon we feel as if we were treading hallowed ground, for all through this beautiful region are trails that were used by America's most beloved naturalist, John Burroughs. What a wealth of woodland lore, fresh as these dew gemmed meadows, pure as these crystal flowing streams, serene and high as these beautiful hills, he has left us. How much of our enjoyment in birds and flowers we owe to this gentle lover of the true and beautiful in Nature. How many lives he has helped, by showing them wherein lies the real gold of these hills. On reading his pages, redolent with the spirit of the out-of-doors, one is conscious of a feeling of grandeur and solemnity as when listening to a sonata by Beethoven.

The beautiful village of Roxbury is the birthplace of this gentle Nature lover and enthusiast. Here too, Jay Gould, the great railroad magnate, was born. Both grew up in the same town, amid the same sublime mountain scenery. These boys both lived on the farm, and attended the same school, but how different the product! Both found the work for which they were fitted. Here the mountains are comparatively graceful and gentle in contour. Their loveliness is unsurpassed. No wonder Mr. Burroughs was contented to dwell here, no matter how far he traveled. Even on his last day he was found with his face turned toward his native hills, which afforded him such a wealth of beauty and natural scenery and such a free and glorious life. "Mr. and Mrs. Finley J. Shepard (Helen Gould) spend two or three months each year at 'Kirkside,' their modest summer home on the west side of Main street, near Gould Memorial church just north of village center."

About three miles from Roxbury is a small village called Grand Gorge. One and one-half miles from the village Irish and Bald mountains tower three thousand feet, and crowd river, railroad and highway into a narrow pass. The Gilboa reservoir is located three miles northeast of the village, and the Shandaken tunnel three miles east. The purpose of both the reservoir and tunnel is to augment the great Ashokan supply. The view of the Catskills through Grand Gorge is most beautiful. Here you lookout over a vast mountainous landscape; the foliage of the maples sheers regularly down, covering the mountain sides with their leafy terraces. Far away stretches the landscape, checked red with patches of grain or velvety meadows, marked faintly with stone fences, giving it the appearance of a vast domain all dreamy beneath its luminous veil.

One of the finest touring centers in the Catskills region is Stamford, a town with a population of one thousand, situated at the foot of Mount Utsayantha. On this mountain which is three thousand three hundred feet above the sea, is an observation tower, from which an unobstructed view of all the Catskills opens up before you. Truly, Nature has been lavish in her bestowal of rare gifts of scenic beauty at this place.

Standing there and looking out over the magnificent panorama before us, we thought how often the eyes of that gentle lover of Nature gazed in admiration out over the rolling hills or rested lovingly upon some rare flower or strange bird until he gained their secrets.

You will see many wonderful orchards in New York state and much of the land is given over to the raising of fruit, for which it seems admirably adapted. You will also notice other less inviting regions, where the old homesteads have gone into decay. In several places we saw many vacant homes around which crowded whole armies of weeds, while scraggly, mossgrown apple trees still managed to send forth a few green branches. It must have been a scene like this which Shakespeare saw, when he wrote:

"The whole land is full of weeds; her fairest flowers choked up, Her fruit trees all unpruned, her hedges ruined."

The crumbling moss-grown stones of the fences over which poison vines were clambering and the myriads of wild carrot, chicory, and ox-eye daisies added to the desolateness of the scene.

While crossing New York travelers will find it worth while to make a journey to the Mohawk Valley, which is one of the most beautiful in the state.

Go with us and stand on a crest of upland and you will see where the plain abruptly ends. Here lies a rich and verdant lowland, perhaps one hundred and fifty miles in length, spread out before you; a vast expanse of green meadow through which the Mohawk winds slowly and majestically to join the Hudson. You glimpse from here a distant gap in the mountain through which the river has worn a gorge. "Here you see a long freight train (one of the tireless servants of the New York Central) coming from the Mississippi valley." You are amazed that it does not have to climb the foothills. Here you find the only level pass between the Gulf of Mexico and the St. Lawrence, in the Appalachian mountains. Here was the historic capital of the Five Nations. The great castle was surrounded by numerous wigwams of the tribe. Hiawatha lived and ruled here two centuries before. He was the founder of the Five Nations. "He developed their life for the good of the people. He taught them to live noble and better lives, and was finally borne in the flesh to the happy hunting grounds."

TRENTON FALLS

Who has heard of Trenton falls? We had heard much concerning their beauty, but were not sure as to their location. After consulting several maps and guide books which gave us no information whatever on the subject, we decided to ask information from the manager of the hotel, with a feeling of certainty that we would soon be planning for the morrow's enjoyment. Our host, who was a stout old man having a cosmopolitan face, on being asked the location of Trenton falls, threw his head on one shoulder and, after inspecting us for a few moments with a "remarkably knowing air," said, "There is no such place around here." Then brushing the ashes from his cigar and with a nod of satisfaction at his own astuteness, he replied, "I have been in Utica many years and never heard the name."

Finally one of those generous souls who always supply the missing information appeared, just at the moment when we felt like giving up in despair. He said, "I think there is a Trenton falls some place hereabouts, but can't tell you where." Now the "where" was the most important thing to us. Seeing the look of disappointment spread over our faces, he quickly said, "I am almost certain the tall man with the palm beach suit and straw hat can tell you about its location."

Sherlock Holmes could not have traced a fleeing fugitive from justice with more ardor than we the location of Trenton falls; and like children playing a game in which the boys guess where an object is hidden, we thought many times we were quite warm, only to awaken to the stern realization that we were very cold. When we summoned enough courage for an interview with the other gentleman, it was with the feeling of a person who has an appointment with the dentist.

The more we attempted to locate Trenton the more of a mystery it became, and we confess this only heightened our interest the more. The very act of locating a spot represented as famous and now seemingly forgotten had a fascination about it that excited our imagination; we fell into conjectures regarding the scenery, vegetation, and above all, the location of this forgotten place. "Trenton falls," we repeated to ourselves, is a poem of color and a softly singing cataract that is embowered in the most romantic landscape we have ever seen—we learned that from a book of travel. "It is a mere echo of Niagara with the subtile beauty and delicate charm, yet lacking the noisy, tumultuous demonstrations of the greater cataract." What else? It may be conveniently reached in a short time from Utica. The blue-book, "beloved of tourists," did not deign to notice its existence if it ever had one. We were not so sure but that it was only a fanciful creation in the brain of some romantic writer. The more we inquired concerning its location, the more we became aware that here was a little spot of beauty for some reason forgotten, lying within easy reach of Utica, yet unknown to the eyes of conventional sight-seers.

After a time, we were made bold enough to venture a talk with the tall man, who at once furnished us with the desired information, which was as welcome to us as sight to the blind. "Oh, yes," he said. "I have been there often, and always found in it a certain charm not found in Niagara." Thanking him for mapping out the road we were to take, we went to our rooms to dream of the pleasures that awaited us on the morrow.

Several times during the night we were awakened by loud peals of thunder, whose terrific explosions sounded at close intervals. The sharp flashes of lightning leaped and darted their fiery tongues across the sky, giving us a fine display of electric signs upon the ebon curtains of the flying clouds.

Dawn came at last with a gray and murky sky, and an atmosphere filled with mist in which there seemed no promise of relenting; yet neither the leaden sky, nor the mist-drenched air dampened our spirits in the least, and we started on our morning journey with the lines of Riley ringing in our memory:

"There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, There is ever a song somewhere, There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray."

Whether the thrush sang or not, it mattered little to us, for somewhere, falling from gray rocks, hidden away among deep shadows of pine and maple, its voice hushed to a soothing murmur as of wind among the pines, Trenton falls was singing its age- old songs. Then, too, we felt the wordless melody of our own joyous hearts filled with morning's enthusiasm.

The country around Utica is very beautiful. Toward the north a short distance beyond the Mohawk river lay the picturesque Deerfield hills, beginning of the scenic highlands which stretch away toward the Adirondack mountains and the St. Lawrence river. A few miles south, the Oriskany and Saquoit valleys opened up through a beautiful rolling country, which reminded us of the hills near Verdun, France. To the southeast are Canandaigua and Otsego lakes, like bits of fallen sky in their pleasant setting of hills and forests.

"Old Fort Schuyler, erected during the French and Indian war at a ford in the Mohawk, in what is now the old northeastern part of the city, determined the location of Utica." Not far from here lies the main trail of the Iroquois. Here it divided; one part went to Ft. Stanwix, now Rome, and the other led to Oneida. Castle. General Herkimer, August, 1777, on his march from what is Herkimer county to the battle of Oriskany, forded the Mohawk near the site of the old fort, and though wounded, stopped there on the return journey. But what about Trenton?

As we were trying to recall our history, which seemed to have suddenly been forgotten, like Trenton falls, we saw that the sky was being overcast with dark colored clouds. We were determined to push on regardless of weather prospects, and thought how we should soon learn the reason for Trenton's neglect.

We were hailed by a boy wearing a soldier's uniform whom we learned was going to New York City for the purpose of procuring a job on the boat on which he had previously served. He was an intelligent lad, but had lost his job in a factory where he was employed. He was only one of the thousands of ex-service men who left the country amid the ringing cries of the politicians, who said, "When you get back from war, the country is yours." The country was this lad's all right, but it was such a large one in which to be tramping in search of work. We were only too glad to give him a lift, and when we bade him adieu, it was with a fervent hope that he got to New York in time to get the job he so well merited.

About fifteen miles from Utica in a wondrously picturesque section of the Mohawk valley, we came into the town of Herkimer, named after the hero of the battle of Oriskany. It is situated near the mouth of Canada creek, and was originally settled by Germans from the Rhine country.

It was here among the beautiful rolling hills, not far from Oriskany, that Brant, the Mohawk chief, and Johnson, the Tory leader, hid men in a ravine through which the American men would have to pass on a line over a causeway of logs. Nearly all the rangers and Indians in Burgoyne's army went out to waylay this gallant little band of true Americans.

"Pressing forth eagerly to the relief of their comrades' rescue, all ordinary precautions were neglected. When the van entered the ravine, a terrible fire mowed down the front ranks by scores; those in the rear fled panic-stricken from the woods. Some of the Americans rallied and formed a defense, but it cost them dearly. Herkimer, their brave leader, had been hit by a bullet among the first, but in spite of the fact that his wound was a disabling one, he continued to direct his men and encourage them by his firm demeanor to fight on. This bravery caused the enemy to retire, leaving the little band of heroes to withdraw unmolested from the field. Two hundred men were killed, and Herkimer soon died of wounds."

The town of Herkimer is very attractive. It still is full of the undying name and fame of the gallant hero of the Revolution.

There is a statue of General Herkimer in Myers park. "To the west of the town is Fort Herkimer church, on the site of an ancient fortification, which was a refuge prior to the Revolution, and a base of supplies during the war." While thinking over those stirring days, we forgot Trenton falls for a time. We were speedily reminded, however, that our journey was not completed. A vivid flash of lightning and a loud crash of thunder told us an older than British or American artillery was in action. We left the scenes of a hero's glory under a black and hopeless sky, from which the rain was dismally falling. The road became very slippery and our progress was very slow. To make matters worse, a bridge was missing and we were obliged to go another way.

On inquiring from an old lady the nearest way to the falls, she said, "Oh, the nearest way to the falls is to take the road you see passing along the woods at your left; it is the next best thing to try if you have failed in an attempt at committing suicide."

We very quickly told the old lady in unmistakable words that we never had attempted suicide and had no inclinations along that line yet. We were directed another way, however, and started on once more. Several times we met people going to church in automobiles and many wore the grave look of those who wished they had kept their life insurance policies paid up. At one place in the road near a steep declivity where a large machine skidded, we saw that several devoutly crossed themselves, and forgetting the "joined three fingers, which is symbolical of the Trinity," they used all ten, and doubtless murmured a prayer for the propitious completion of their journey, to which I am sure we all could have readily echoed the amen.

All along the route we saw nothing but draggled people splashing through the mud, their faces suggestive of fear, yellow mud, and kindred abominations. Perhaps we were not things of beauty either, seen through the dim perspective of rain and mud. No doubt our faces had the appearance of sailors huddled up on quarter-deck benches, silent and fearful of seasickness. At last, after many vicissitudes and narrow escapes, we reached a fine macadam road and breathed more easily and enjoyed the scenery a bit better.

We followed a stream whose sudden and continued windings was a never-ending delight. Its clear, cold, foam-flecked water, seen through fringes of elm, maple and willow trees, compensated in great measure for the discomforts we endured. It was not fringed with reeds and lush grass, but its full flow rolled forth undiminished, going to its source as surely as we were bound to arrive at our destination. We discovered many points of beauty all along the way which were not blotted out by rain or cloud, and which shone freshly and winningly under the touch of the sun that peeped from behind the flying clouds.

The banks of the stream were draped with clumps of foliage overrun with wild grape and bittersweet, making fantastic pergolas from which the clear ringing challenge of the cardinal or the bold bugle of the Carolina wren came to us above the rush of the waters. Just a tantalizing struggle between mist and sunshine for perhaps an hour revealed bits of fair blue sky overhead and clouds of vapor resting on the long wooded hills.

Far ahead the land rose in gentle undulations like a many colored sea. When the sun shone forth for a little while we saw a picture against the dark clouds as a background that was almost unreal in its ethereal beauty. One rarely sees a picture so bright and at the same time clothed in alluring distance as these perspectives where hill rose above hill and mingled their various hues of vegetation in clustering abysses of verdure through which the flashing stream pursued its winding course under mounds of foliage. The beech, maple, elm and oak sprinkled now and then with evergreens, revealed a richness in coloring unsurpassed. It was indeed a fairy landscape, leaving little for the imagination; luring us on toward it with a glamour we could not resist. Over the stone walls the groups of shrubbery lifted their wealth of foliage; and the sumac sprinkled against this background were like coals of fire.

The distance from Utica to Trenton cannot be more than twenty miles, yet traveling as we did, making detours around roads with missing bridges, it seemed six times as far.

The varied features of the landscape began to change but still appeared quiet and lonely. Soon we saw a spacious hotel standing on the edge of a wood that overhung a precipice. The broken window-panes, through which twittering swallows darted, the gray weather-beaten sides end unpatched moss-covered roof proclaimed that Trenton falls had had its day. Nature was making the old place a part of the landscape, and the birds were now the sole proprietors—gay summer tourists who never grow tired of lovely natural haunts like their human cogeners, because they are far removed from the dust and din of travel. Here every year they return from a tour of thousands of miles and gladden the quiet place with their cheery songs. We met no pedestrians on the road; no anglers were casting for fish in the stream; no boat was anchored on its swift current—only far away like a huge worm our field glasses revealed a monstrous flume along the rocky bank. This solved the mystery of this once famous summer resort. The electricity for the lights in the hotel at Utica had their origin here in Trenton falls, and yet the proprietor had never heard of such a place.

As we drew round a wooded point, we reached a road that led up a short raise of ground, then through a woods where we heard the falling water, and looking forward, all at once, a white gleam through the undergrowth struck our eyes; another turn and a series of dainty falls flashed splendidly in the sunlight! Not the least of our many surprises was this. The water seemed to hang poised before us like glorious amber curtains; the delicate fineness of their gauzy folds gloriously revealed in irised spray by the sunlight. "We hailed it as a charming idyl—a poem of Nature that she cherished and hid from all but the most ardent enthusiasts."

"In the warm noon sunshine, with the singular luxuriance of vegetation that clothed the terraces of rock on either side of the stream, we could have fancied ourselves entering some radiant landscape gardens. This gray masonry was covered with bright blue campanula, dainty fronded ferns, light green in color; and the air, wonderfully pure and sweet in itself from the recent rain, was filled with delicate woodland odors." Light exhalations seemed to rise from the steaming mould and drift toward us; and over all like the spirit of the place, rose the bell-like tones of the wood-thrush, while the murmur of the falls sang a mellow accompaniment. Truly, as the poet has said, "There is ever a song somewhere," and dull indeed are the ears that fail to hear it. Looking out over the woods filled with the murmur of the falls, we wondered what people listened to its voice before the white man's foot was planted among this vast solitude. Here the war songs of the Oneidas had arisen or smoke from their camp fires curled among the tree tops.

The larger falls are seen to best advantage from a rocky ledge, where you can watch the waters calmly bending over the precipice. You at once notice that the stream is lined with glacier polished rocks, and that somber evergreens cling tenaciously to the bank or ledges above the river, wherever they can gain a foothold. "How hardy they are, like the virile tribes of the North, healthy and flourishing in an environment where less vigorous species would perish."

At the opposite side from us there had been a landslide and many evergreens had met their death, yet a few now clung to the small portion of rocky earth they still had, like determined Belgians to hold fast their rightful heritage. Out among this scene of partial desolation a great hawk circled and added his eerie cry to the lonely place, announcing that we were not the only watchers in this wild domain. A great blue heron rose slowly into the air and flew across the stream, breaking the silence with his harsh squawk. "Here," we said, "is a quiet nook away from the rest of the world. No need of a monastery here where reigns such perfect seclusion and the charm of its natural scenery makes it a place in which to dream."

Slowly you walk along the embankment opposite the falls, now gazing at the amber sheet of water nearest you, now listening for the voices of the other falls, again stooping to note the beauty of the delicate harebells along the rocky ledge or pausing reverently to listen to the songs of the birds coming to you pure, sweet and peaceful above the song of the falls, speaking the soul of the delightful place.

A thin, silvery mist from the spray of the falls floats here and there, spreading out in broad sheets over the damp earth, and gathering into filmy ropes and patches as the breeze catches it among the spruce, pine and maple trees above the edge of the falls. A short distance ahead the water glitters again where the river makes a slight turn and plunges over another precipice. It is like the flashing of distant shields. Overhead drift massed white clouds that enfold the valley as far as the eye can see, causing shadows to chase each other swiftly across the vast expanse of green uplands. The alternate gleams of sunshine and shadow seem like the various moods chasing across your memory. But the amber colored etching of Trenton remains visible through it all. Reluctantly you turn away to view the monstrous flume along your path. Then you wander out in the forest of beech and maple, whose solitude heightens your impressions of this wild place.

You return again for another view, for the song of water is the same the world over, and you seem drawn irresistibly toward the sound as though sirens were singing. Now you try to gain a lasting impression of the first falls.

True, the voice of Trenton would hardly make an echo of Niagara, but are not the echoes the most glorious of all sounds? The same forces that carved the mighty Niagara made Trenton falls, too, and it should not be ignored just because it is small. Having seen the Madonnas by Raphael, shall we now ignore the works of Powers? Or having seen the Rose of Sharon, shall we cease to admire the humbler flowers of spring? The wood thrush's song today is divine, yet, the simpler ditty of the wren has a sweetness not found in the larger minstrel's song. Here one is not bored with the "ohs" and "ahs" of gasping tourists, who scream their delights in tones that drown the voice of the falls. You can at least grow intimate with them, and their beauty although not awesome, grows upon you like a river into the life of childhood. It is a very graceful stream with wilder surroundings than Niagara.

One fears his visit to Niagara will spoil his journey to Trenton, and finds himself repeating these significant lines of Shakespeare:

"When the moon shone, we did not see the candle; So doth the greater glory dim the less."

But, Shakespeare never saw Trenton falls, or he never would have written those lines. What could be more beautiful than its lovely cascades flashing in the sun or hidden away among the shadows among the pine and maple?

A little red squirrel barked and chattered among the pine boughs as if reprimanding us for eating so many of the luscious blackberries that grew near the falls. Seeing that his attempts to make us move were of no avail, he scampered down the tree, coming quite near us and giving vent to his outraged feelings, punctuating each remark with a sudden jerk of his bushy red tail, scolding and gesticulating like an Irish cop. He seemed to be by far the most important personage of the forest, not excepting the inquisitive bluejay who rightfully cried "thief! thief!" at us from a maple near by. Both the red squirrel and bluejay have been classed as villains by all Nature writers; yet when we thought of the wonderful part they both play in disseminating seeds far and wide, we readily forgave them their bloody deeds and treated both with the respect due Nature's Master Foresters, which both of them truly are.

"Gaily, freely, see me, hear me," sang a small olive colored bird in the leafy maples above us. We agreed that his song came to us gaily and most freely, and all heard it so well that we paused as often amidst our berry-eating as he, while he refrained from singing just long enough to knock a luscious green canker worm in the head and devour it. It was the warbling vireo we heard. What a lesson is his mingling melody with work uncomplainingly and helping to keep the woods green and beautiful by his constant industry, co-partner with the squirrel and jay.

Seeing we had to leave the blackberry patch while we were able, we departed from the place, taking a last long look at the exquisite falls and another at the powerhouse where was made the electricity that illuminated a certain hotel in Utica. We thought, too, of the proprietor so blinded by the glare of his own lamps as to exclaim: "There is no such place."

Talk about an Irish cop and you are sure to see one. Before we were fairly started we were hailed by one; the very size of him and his ruddy face as if a danger signal had been waved in front of us were enough to stop the most venturesome driver. He soon turned out to be more inquisitive than a bluejay, and although he did not cry "thief" he hurled a volley of questions at us in such rapid succession we could hardly find answers. Where are you from? Where do you live? Where are you going? We told him we were from Ohio, lived in Indiana and were going home. We soon bade our friend adieu, neither party made the wiser for the hold- up.

On our return one of the finest landscapes of the Mohawk region was suddenly unrolled before us. Miles and miles away stretched the rolling swells of forest and grain land, fading into the dimmest blue of the Catskills where the far distant peaks were just discernible along the horizon. Such a superb and imposing view as we had was worth all the anxieties of the morning. Each turn we made brought new views; undulating land of brightest green, through which wound sparkling streams; and villages lying here and there with their rising spires that twinkled in the dreamy atmosphere like stars in a lower firmament.

The landscape in one direction consisted of dark wooded hills between which a stream flowed on its way like a ribbon of silver until it disappeared behind the purple headlands. Here was a picture to surpass the wildest dream of any painter; such infinite details and inexhaustible variety, blended forms and flowing contour, dim and elusive shadows, imperceptible blending of color-all were spread out before us, and so extensive was the view that the distant peaks of the Adirondacks printed their faint outlines on the sky. Winding among the numerous hills in this vast amphitheatre, we looked back regretfully at each marvelous picture we were leaving, and said "our journey to Trenton falls has been worth while."

It was three o'clock when we reached the town of Little Falls where we ate our dinner. By this time George had grown despondent over our prospect for provender. Little Falls did not appeal to him as a place of "good eats." One restaurant had the appearance of having recently been sacked. We soon found a more inviting place, but this being Sunday the proprietor gave us that quizzical look as if he regarded our journey as three- fourths epicurean and only one-fourth devotional. Even a nice, white table cloth and a fresh roll of bread could not quiet George's apprehensions. Not until the savory odor of the steaming soup reached his nostrils was he wholly at ease. His clouded countenance brightened at the aroma, grew radiant at its flavor, and long before we reached the pudding he expressed his delight with New York cookery. The melodious voice of the waitress was "like oil on troubled waters" and when she said, "you certainly must be from the South for your voice is so soft and musical," his countenance had the appearance of one of the elect. One member of the party here learned that large pork chops are in most cases inferior to smaller fry, and that, like Niagara, it may be very large, yet too strong to admit of an intimate acquaintance.

Two and one-half miles east of Little Falls is where the boyhood home of General Herkimer stood. The barge canal and Lover's Leap offer an inspiring view on the south side of the Mohawk.

We traveled from Little Falls to Syracuse that afternoon, reaching Syracuse before nightfall. Over a vast undulating region, interspersed with tawny grain fields, green meadows and forests, we made our way. The valleys were covered with a silvery shimmering atmosphere, on which country homes, orchards and tree-bordered highways were dimly blotted. Watching the mellow colors of the broadening landscape as we climbed the long waves of earth that smiled good night to the sinking sun, we entered Syracuse, while the bells from a church tower filled the evening's silence with rare melody. Having procured comfortable quarters for the night, we retired to dream of Trenton falls, for which we again searched and said: "There is no such place."

NEWPORT

To one who wishes to carry away something of the solemn grandeur of the sea, its vast immensity, immeasurable energy and ageless haunting mystery we would say, "go to Newport."

The authentic discovery of this harbor dates back to April, 1524, and to the French explorer, Verrazano, who anchored two weeks in the harbor and was visited by the Indians of the island. About 1726 Dean Berkley of the English Church built White Hall which still stands, much in its original condition. Trinity is claimed to be the oldest Episcopal church in the United States. But we have traces of an earlier discovery in the old stone tower still standing in Touro park, probably erected by the Norsemen as early as 1000 A. D. But, out in the ocean where the blue water is flecked with myriads of shifting whitecaps rise dark gray rocks, telling of an earlier time than Verrazano, or the Norsemen, and repeating fragments of that great epic of the Past.

One finds his impression confused on first entering this city. The population is as variable as the breezes that blow over the ocean, for Newport has gained fame the world over as one of America's most fashionable watering places. As early as 1830 it began to attract health seekers and others wishing a brief respite from toil in the unnumbered factories in the east, and the movement has continued until the section of the island adjacent to Newport is dotted all over with cottages. villas and cheerful, luxurious homes.

One is delighted to find well paved streets and a city that is withal sunny, gay, and full of color.

You never want for new beauty here, for the face of the sea is as changeable as a human countenance. Then, too, it is interesting to try and separate the motley throngs into their various elements. You find it useless to attempt to catch and paint its fluctuating character. It is as capricious as the hues of the ocean. Here, as at Atlantic City, from morning till night, and night till morning, flows that human tide; some attracted by the beauty of the place, others by the glamour of social gayety, and still others seeking health in the life- giving breezes. People of all ages and climes are captivated by the majesty and grandeur found in the ocean. The step of the old is quickened as if at last they had found the "Fountain of Youth." Here the sublime ocean scenery and the health-giving winds are much less tolerant of disease than most anywhere one knows.

There are many people who continue to pursue pleasure while they pretend to hunt for health. Here as at Aix-les-Bains, Baden- Baden, and Ostend, it is the glitter and pomp of the place which attract them. Here fashion and folly, side by side, call them with siren voices, instead of the medicinal qualities of their healing waters. If they can't furnish as an excuse that they have a pain under the left shoulder blade and are fearful for their lung, then they may say they have a twitching of the upper right eyelid and are almost certain of a nervous breakdown unless they secure a few weeks' rest beside the life-giving sea. Even if they are unable to furnish such justifiable excuses as these, they might take some aged, wealthy relative to a health resort for the purpose of boiling the rheumatism out of him. Then, after tucking him away for the night, how much easier to spend the evening at the dance or card party!

The days for elegant ladies to trail elaborate gowns along the hotel corridors are past. How styles do change!

There are more people thronging the bathing beaches, who know a good poker hand when they see one, than those who can appreciate a fine ocean scene, and even though the states have all gone dry, alas how many still prefer champagne to mineral water from a spring! As Thoreau put it: "More people used to be attracted to the ocean by the wine than the brine."

At Newport you constantly hear jokes, laughter and song, but studying the drama of the various faces one sees pride, sensuality, cruelty, and fear that no ocean brine can cleanse. Mingled with these, too, are noble countenances lighted up by the fires of holy living within, whose radiance seems to overflow in kindly thoughts and deeds, attracting those sublime qualities to them as the moon the tides. How grand it is to see here the faces of age wearing that calm look of serene hope; victory over self and purity of soul plainly dramatized there! Then, too, how glorious the face of youth glowing with life's enthusiasm, whose dream of the yet unclouded future is the Fata Morgana which he pursues. A noble ambition seems to linger in his soul and transfigure his countenance until we see the light of joy and nobleness shining there. What a contrast the dejected look of those who travel the paths of ease and self-indulgence affords!

Many there are who meet here not on the common ground of the brotherhood of man, but of human appetite and desire. Whether they hail from Japan, Spain, or Turkey, or whether they come from Maine or California, they all succumb to the same allurements. The test here is the manner in which people use the wealth they have acquired. "Almost any man may quarry marble or stone," but how few can build a Rheims or "create an Apollo." When one thinks of the gambling, quackery, and other vocations far less respectable upon which vast fortunes are spent he thinks how dreadful the results of all of this spending. "What if all this wealth that is spent foolishly were used to advance the common interests of mankind? What if all this indulgence could be used to promote helpful and healthful ideals so that they could be disseminated to all points from which tourists come? Surely a reformation would spread to the uttermost parts of the earth; but as has been in days past, games, feasts, and the dance have far more force than the highest ideals, the most sane theories of improvement and helpfulness," and the careful observer does not need to come to Newport for this discovery.

One evening, on entering the city, Nature seemed to be planning to run the gaily attired tourists from the place. How sombre and sullen appeared the sea, seen through the dim perspective of the murky, mist-drenched air. Over this vast expanse, low-hung clouds trailed their gray tattered edges in long misty streaks which hid the setting sun. It was a gloomy prospect, this, with the darkening water beneath a leaden sky that gave no promise of a brighter view. It was as if suddenly we had landed at Brest, and our view of the dark gray rocks and the penetrating air made the picture so real our teeth began to chatter.

We soon arrived at our comfortable quarters where we hastily withdrew, for the rumbling thunder that followed the vivid flashes of lightning which darted from the black masses of flying clouds told us that a storm was imminent. While partaking of our evening meal we heard the mingled sound of wind and waves. As soon as we had finished we passed through a spacious room which led to a long veranda, from which a commanding view of the ocean and surrounding country could be had.

What a scene! All was now darkness save the crests of the breakers that pierced the gloom with their silvery whiteness. The sea was torn and shattered by the wild raging wind and hid its far-sounding waves in a mystery of dread. Several people paced to and from the veranda, appearing suddenly and as suddenly vanishing in the gloom. Only the light of a vessel far out at sea penetrated the darkness and shone with a muffled, sullen glare. The red flashes of lightning revealed low-hung clouds of inky blackness rolling toward us; and the deep roar of the advancing storm, broken only by the loud booming breakers, became awesome.

Fiercer and louder shrieked the gale; while the doleful sound of a bell on a buoy warned mariners of impending danger as it rocked upon the bewildered sea. The water was invisible save where the long flashing lines of the surf plunged from the gray gloom. Their immense volumes rose in pyramidal heaps, whose tops shone white where they seemed to gather at one point and then their silvery lines spread slowly away on both sides as though unseen hands were pulling them out in even terraces that broke tip on the rocks with a deafening roar. Back of the first wave was another, and farther back still others, that advanced to a certain point and then spread out evenly, like terraced cascades of purest marble.

The loud crashes of thunder mingled with the shriek of the wind, the booming breakers became more awful, and we could imagine unknown foes advancing to combat along the shore. Like phalanxes with walls of silver shields they followed each other swiftly and disappeared like a line of soldiers cut down in battle. The howling wind and moaning waves "were like laments for the vanquished hosts." This ceaseless welter of the elements became more awe-inspiring as another boat appeared in the distance like some fiery monster of the deep. It seemed the very spirit of the sullen storm. As it drew nearer we beheld a vast fortress besieged by the angry waves.

The desolateness of the scene was heightened by listening to George relate his tales of storm and disaster while homeward bound on the U. S. S. Roanoke in Mine Squadron One.

"We left England in the month of December. The first day at sea was fine. No fear or anxious moments were ours. We sped swiftly over the peaceful water that glittered with a dazzling metallic luster. In the level rays of the morning sun we beheld a gradation of rare tints 'infinitely harmonious and yet superlatively rich.' A short distance away from us the ocean was deep blue; nearer it was light green, while far out toward the horizon it attained that iridescence which is indescribable. Everyone on board was supremely happy. All ten mine layers with the flagship had their homeward bound pennants flying. We gazed for hours at the play of light on the water, ever discovering new and wonderful combinations.

"The second day out we ran into a storm that lasted three days and nights. The dismal curtains of the sky were drawn and we could hear the sullen tone of the advancing storm as onward we plowed through the ever-growing foam-crested waves. The second day the sea became awesome, and breathlessly we watched each mountain wave that swept past leaving us still unharmed. Great masses of frothing billows came hurtling out of the gloom, which grew blacker and more menacing every hour. The sight of the ships tossing upon the mountainous masses was ominous, almost appalling. The billows broke with deafening roar, hurling tons of water on board, often filling the spacious decks fore and aft with their seething flood.

"About the middle of the second day the storm began gradually to abate. The few cheerless gleams on the third day revealed a most awe-inspiring view. Far as the eye could see in every direction the ocean was torn into snowy foam by the raging wind. After the storm we had but five of the original ten ships left in the fleet. Several were disabled and three of the other boats towed them to near ports.

"After the fourth day out we had fine weather for several days. On Christmas morn we ran into a heavy fog. We could not see from one end of the boat to the other, but no accidents befell us. This day brought many thoughts of home, especially at dinner time, for our menu was simply beans and nothing more, our supplies of other edibles being exhausted. We each received a cigar as a present. At eight o'clock on Christmas eve I went on lifeboat watch. The relieved watch all went below and crawled up in their hammocks for the night. The lights from the boat showed she was groping her way through fantastic wreaths of fog, whose dense white masses enclosed us like a wall. We were unable to see the lights of the other ships, and when at one end of ours we could not distinguish the lights at the other.

"'An ominous stillness seemed to pervade the atmosphere—a stillness which was oppressive and awesome like that which reigns in the home where death is.' Only the dull rumbling sound of the engines broke the silence. Soon all the fellows who were on lifeboat watch were gathered in a group about the smoke stack, where they had procured a number of life-preservers from a near-by locker and arranged them for beds in available places on the deck. Here some reclined as best they could and others sat up telling stories or woke the echoes with their ringing songs. Sleep became impossible, and no wonder, for they were too glad to sleep, even had the rest of the gang permitted it. Soon a lusty-lunged Gob, the 'Caruso' of the gang, was singing the official song of Mine Squadron One in his deep sonorous voice, which drowned all other sounds. The title is 'The Force of Mine,' and it goes like this:

We sailed across the water, We sailed across the foam For fourteen days and fourteen nights We sailed away from home. But now three thousand miles away We love our country more, Let's give three cheers for Uncle Sam From off the German shore.

"The rest of the fellows all joined in the chorus:

It's a mine here and a mine there, Over the ocean everywhere; Now our ships can cross the sea And win the war for Liberty; Uncle Sammy brought his ships To France' and Belgium's shores. That force of mine has done its share; We've fixed the U-boat fair and square; When victory comes they'll all declare That mines have won the war.

"Then the strong voice of 'Caruso' again was heard:

We may not look like dreadnaughts, But from all present signs Davy Jones has told the Kaiser That "we're there" on laying mines. Awhile ago the subs, you know, Thought they had the gravy, But when they hit our mine fields, Oh! They leave the Germany navy.

"By this time the crew on the boat next the Roanoke had caught the spirit and both lookouts joined in the swelling chorus:

It's a mine here and a mine there, Over the ocean everywhere. Now our ships can cross the sea And win the war for Lib—

"Just at that part of the chorus we felt a crash which broke suddenly into the song with the thrilling tones of the siren's danger signal. Instantly those on watch rushed to the lifeboats and hurriedly unlashed them, ready to drop at the proper signal.

"Our ship carried eight hundred and forty mines at the time she was struck.

"The men below came up through the hatches like bees. Many were in their night clothes, others were only half dressed. Some were crying, others praying, all thought that the boat was sinking. One of the fellows was so frightened he tried to jump overboard. He was hit on the head by a comrade and dragged down below. It was with great difficulty that order was again restored and the hatches had to be guarded by men with revolvers. Finally the panic-stricken sailors, who were running here and there on the deck, were forced below. Several boats came alongside and threw lights on our ship. The light revealed a hole cut in her side from about ten feet below the water line clear to the top.

"She had been struck on the starboard stern while some of the men were crawling into their hammocks for the night. An English vessel stood by us with her nose rammed into the side of our ship. Breathlessly, expectant we all waited by our boats ready to lower them. The biggest job I had was in keeping some of the men out of mine. So violent had been the impact that the sailor in the hammock near the side where the ship was struck was pitched over three others. A few of the men were scalded by the hot water and steam from the broken pipes. Our chaplain, who was just in the act of getting into his hammock, was thrown violently down, cutting the side of his head open, which necessitated his removal to the hospital.

"The collision mat was dropped down the side of the ship, which stopped the inpour of the water. All the large pumps in the ship were started and the water was pumped out as fast as it came in. The hole was patched up with a prodigious quantity of cement and at 12:30 the old ship was under way again."

Thus ended the story of those terrible nights at sea. We went to our rooms, but not to sleep, for through the semi-conscious hours that came and went we seemed to hear voices calling for help from sinking ships and to see again those frightful billows of the boundless deep.

"Late to bed and early to rise; makes tired travelers rub sore eyes," said George, as we rapped on his door at what he considered an unearthly hour for rising. On asking him "why the trouble with his eyes" he exclaimed, "too much sea in them." We told him that to sleep away the wondrous beauty of the dawn instead of imbibing the fragrance and freshness of the morning hours would be a sin of omission that would require yards of sack-cloth and barrels of ashes for forgiveness. He arose in due time (also dew-time), though he at first murmured and grumbled like a soldier on hearing reveille.

Out in the east a faint glimmer was seen to delicately edge the pearl gray of the sky along the horizon. The sheen spread swiftly toward the zenith; pale bars of light shot up like advance guards to herald the coming splendor. Along the far blue rim of the ocean a narrow saffron band was seen, which soon became a broader belt, blazing like molten gold. The western horizon flushed like a rose-colored sea in which floated clouds of crimson. How grand this morning pageant and how quickly the king of day was ushered in! The chafing ocean wore on its bosom a tender turquoise bloom decked with millions of flashing jewels. Later it resembled a sapphire sky coruscating with tremulous stars. As we felt the soft south breeze, which rustled the leaves of the trees, in which birds were just beginning to stir, we seemed to catch the delicious melody of Long fellow's "Daybreak," which is like the fragrance of roses in a dreamy south wind.

A wind came up out of the sea, And said, "O mists, make room for me."

It hailed the ships and cried, "Sail on, Ye mariners, the night is gone."

And hurried landward far away. Crying, "Awake, it is the day."

It said unto the forest, "Shout! Hang all your leafy banners out."

It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, And said, "O Bird, awake and sing."

And o'er the farms, "O Chanticleer, Your clarion blow, the day is near."

It whispered to the fields of corn, "Bow down and hail the coming morn."

It shouted through the belfry tower, "Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour."

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, And said, "not yet! in quiet lie."

Words fail to describe the exhilarating effect of the morning air, the marvelous beauty of the vast expanse of sea and sky seen through the luminous trembling haze, or the vines, flowers and shrubs that grow with wonderful luxuriance, which in many places presented an almost tropical aspect. If we add to this the most startling contrasts and picturesque details with a delightful breeze blowing over all you have still but a faint idea of the picture.

How bright the morning was! "The leaves were newly washed, every flower refreshed, their colors. flashing with brighter tints like new dyes just put on." How pure the air was made! There was no contamination by smoke or dust and the very breeze came like a tonic, and we breathed deeply and thanked the Creator for each potent draught. There was an exuberance of joy in the dance of the waves as they came rolling in to shore, and the swaying branches of the trees were only wordless rhythmical songs that the birds were singing among their branches.

On some bland morning like this when you view the breezy, sparkling sea, whereon the haze lies like the soft bloom on grapes, everything will appear dreamy and beautiful, while recollections of Nice, Monaco and Monte Carlo with their majestic shore lines rising from a sea of sapphire, are recalled. Those dazzling white buildings rising as they seem to do from the sea, steeped in that effulgent golden haze, seem almost unearthly in their splendor. One wonders if he has not gotten to heaven before his time, for here are terraced garden walls where fall cascades of exquisite blossoms, vast sheets of delicate pink geraniums, purple of clematis, lustrous yellow of mimosas, scarlet anemones and variegated tulips that hang poised before you like glorious curtains of richly wrought mosaic.

The broad fronds of the palms catch the gold of the morning sunbeams. The air is laden with the fragrance of myriads of flowers and has the softness of sea-born breezes. Rose wreathed villas with their pure white or cream tinted walls; shutters of turquoise blue and red tile roofs only add to the glory of the tropical luxuriance and charming views of mountain and sea.

And such a sea! How futile are words to describe. Its blue has been characterized as a "vast expanse of sapphire sparkling with diamonds." It does not owe its marvelous effects to reflections from the sky, for no sky ever had such an intense blue, filled with lambent light. Then its greens, blues, and purples, seen from the lovely mountain roads, especially from the road leading from Monte Carlo, seem more like leaping prismatic flame than a vast expanse of water. Then the old gold, red, and orange colored sails of the boats, gliding like magic through the water, add their picturesque touches to the scene. The sound of boatmen calling to one another with their soft musical voices is like the trilling of the nightingale from some leafy bower. Having felt the charm of those magical scenes you will enjoy the ocean at Newport none the less.

Always amid Nature's most powerful manifestations one observes the frailest and most delicate types of creation. Here along the beach were shells, exquisitely tinted like a sunset sky, cast on shore by the cruel waves. Tender mosses and fragile sea-weed lay upon the sand revealing the infinite tenderness of these frail children of the boundless deep. Looking upon the seething, surging mass of water that rolled on the troubled sea only last night, who would have thought it the home of such delicate beauty? "Truly," we said, as we gazed in admiration and wonder at the fair scene before us, "the sea as well as the heavens declares the glory of God and showeth His handiwork." But alas! "how prone we are to forget the Power that calms the fiercest storms and so quickly makes all nature glow with beauty again."

One is well repaid for the time he spends along the charming Cliff Walk, but space forbids us to attempt to describe it. But then, what is the use?

We were particularly impressed with the beauty of the coast near Newport. At one place lovely velvety meadows run down near the sea and form a remarkable contrast to most ocean views. Here we saw a group of dark gray rocks which formed a sort of a promontory that jutted out into the ocean. So fantastic did these rocks appear from a distance that we readily peopled them with sirens. Standing on the shore opposite them, we watched the breakers dash themselves to pieces at their feet and the gulls, those fairy squadrons of air craft, whirling above them. The bell on the buoy gave forth its warning sound, but the siren voices kept calling from rocks with a melody that was irresistible, and heeding not the threnody of the bell, we were soon looking down in triumph at the broken array of restless waters from the hollow crest of a great boulder.

>From this point the sea appears as a vast poem, "one of those charming idyls in which no element of beauty or power is lacking." From this rough pulpit of masonry we gazed at the booming breakers rolling in with their crests of gleaming silver, that were shattered to fragments immediately below us. Their long sprays of phosphorescent blossoms vanished like stars in the golden light of dawn. The sea was now bathed in a flood of mellow light and its gradations of color revealed palest amethyst along the horizon, while nearer it glowed with brightest sapphire. In such a place and at such a time as this you take no note of time. "Your soul is flooded with a sense of such celestial beauty as you ne'er dreamed of before, and a nameless inexpressible music enthralls you."

Here we saw forty destroyers in the harbor and two others entering it. As we gazed at these groups of vessels lying at anchor, we wondered whether America would always need these grim objects of destruction and death to guard her liberty. Looking at these vessels, what memories were revived! Our hearts sickened at the thought of those thirteen awful days spent in crossing the ocean, when we were packed like livestock in those horrible quarters. Ah, God! the memory of it yet brings a sickening sensation. Then, too, that tempestuous wintry sea that grew black and white as death with horrible billows, while the storm raged, cruel, inexorable, unmerciful, bitter. But why let one's thoughts dwell upon such terrible scenes while standing on the fair shores of our beloved homeland, over which waves the glorious flag, now doubly dear to us.

As we watched the coming and going of the vessels we thought of the many experiences that must have been theirs! For what ports are those vessels bound? From what distant climes have these just returned? What perils they may have encountered! What refreshing memories of the magic beauty of southern seas!

Our reverie was broken by the plaintive cries of the sea birds circling around us. How the hours have slipped by unnoticed since we were out here! Slowly we retraced our steps, pausing now and then to gaze at the fishing boats putting out to sea, or to look at the hosts of gulls alighting and departing from the rocks, as restless as the ocean waves. Again we noted the wonderful blue bloom, like a tropical sea, on which a million points of light were glinting; now we found a delicate shell and marvelled at its exquisite colors; we turned again to look at the sea-birds to learn what the unusually loud clamor was about. At last the shore was gained and we reluctantly turned away from those rocks where Undine dwells in the silvery stream and melodies sweeter than those of the Lorelei still called to us across the waves.

We passed the old Jewish cemetery which gave Longfellow his theme, "The Old Jewish Burial Ground at Newport." What exiles, what persecutions have been theirs, yet here we repeat by the sounding sea the sad history of their race:

How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves; Close by the street of this fair seaport town, Silent beside the never silent waves, At rest in all this moving up and down!

The trees are white with dust that o'er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south wind's breath, While underneath these leafy tents they keep The long, mysterious exodus of Death.

And these sepulchral stones so old and brown, That pave with level flags their burial place, Seem like the tablets of the Law thrown down And broken by Moses at the Mountain's base.

Gone are the living, but the dead remain And not neglected, for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty, like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their memories green.

How came they here? What burst of Christian hate, What persecution, merciless and blind Drove o'er the sea—that desert desolate— These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind?

Pride and humiliation hand in hand Walked with them through the world where'er they went; Trampled and beaten were they as the sand, And yet unshaken as the continent.

For in the background figures vague and vast Of patriarchs and prophets rose sublime, And all the great traditions of the Past Then saw reflected in the coming Time.

And then forever with reverted look The mystic volume of the world they read, Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book, Till life became a Legend of the Dead.

But ah! What once has been shall be no more! The groaning earth in travail and in pain Brings forth its races, but does not restore, And the dead nations never rise again!

Leaving this quiet abode of the dead we were surprised to find multitudes of people strolling about the town. Of all that motley throng we met with no one save a solitary fisher out on the rocks, from which such glorious vistas of the sea may be had. Then we recalled how few there were who witnessed the wonderful pageant of the dawn. Surely influences of nature so beautiful and profound should touch our feeble hopes and lowly aspirations with new life, inspiring grander visions.

We should leave the frivolous things of life, like the surf, the offal, washed ashore. We should take back for our winter's need bits of brightness gleaned from our summer sojourn by the sea.

As we thought of our coming departure, these questions came to us: Have we treasured up a few of the tints in our lives like the rare colors of the dawn on the boundless sea? Have we filled our earthly horizon with golden thoughts, fair visions of the sea of memory that reach the infinite? Are they transient as the crimson and rose-colored west or shall they flash and gleam silent, yet eternal as the stars above?

How often will the ocean's clean-washed sands, those ever- changing hues and sunsets re-appear when we shall long have been absent from them! How often, too, shall we hear in fancy as we do now in reality the moaning of the storm and the booming breakers along the shore!

The sirens were still calling and their weird enticing melodies yet rippled through our memories. Out over the harbor beyond those enchanted rocks the water was o'erspread with the delicate blue bloom. Later they seemed to withdraw, fading slowly away into blue and mysterious shadows in the deepening twilight. "Far out toward the horizon we watched a vessel fade in the violet dusk; the evening star trembled low on the horizon as if enamored of the waters." Thus Newport passed into memory.

RHODE ISLAND

Little Rhode Island! What a surprise it was to find in this, this smallest member of a family group of forty-eight states, so much of the wild and primeval wilderness. Through long stretches of forest bordered road, stony fields and rough pasture land our road led. Great clusters of ferns grew in the swampy meadows, and many brilliant colored swamp flowers were in blossom, giving the otherwise desolate scene a touch of color. Stone fences bordered some of the meadows and now and then a rustic cottage with its brown-stained sides appeared. For a number of miles we passed through a country where on both sides of the road grew thickets of oak, yellow and white birch and fragrant pine. Interspersed among this growth were numberless chestnut, maple and larch trees.

We soon emerged from this desolate region, however, and at a more attractive spot our eyes fell upon a boulder monument erected by the state of Rhode Island in memory and honor of Thomas Wilson Dorr, whom in an earlier time was considered a menace to his country. How long this man was in receiving the true verdict of his country! Pausing to read the latter verdict, so different from the former, we noted these significant words: "Thomas Wilson Dorr, 1805-1854; of distinguished lineage, of brilliant talents, eminent in scholarship, a public spirited citizen, lawyer, educator, statesman, advocator of popular sovereignty, framer of the people's Constitution of 1842, elected Governor under it, adjudged revolutionary in 1842. Principle acknowledged right in 1912." Then below these words were added: "I stand before you with great confidence in the final verdict of my country. The right of suffrage is the guardian of our liberty."

Here in this charming spot where the beautiful maples stood in groups or grew singly we ate our luncheon beneath these trees whose liberty-loving branches stirred by a passing breeze rustled a leafy accompaniment to a nation's paean of praise. His principles were right, but he was in advance of his time. We were glad to know that such a small state could produce so great a man.

Here we were entering the city where Williams with five others landed at the foot of the hill which he chose as the place of his settlement. In gratitude for "God's merciful providence to him in distress" he called the place Providence. Roger Williams, with his grand idea of religious tolerance, stood far ahead of his time. His aim, like his character, was pure and noble. He was educated at London, and was a friend of Vane, Cromwell and Milton. While at Plymouth and Salem he spent much time in learning the Indian tongue.

Little did he dream as he slept in their filthy wigwams what a great benefit the learning of their language would be to him later on.

The land along the east shore of Narragansett bay was the country of Massasoit; that on the west side, and the islands, belonged to the Narragansetts.

It was in the heart of winter when he made his way in secrecy through snow and ice to a place not far from where Blackstone lived. Here he began to plant and build, and others came to join him. Williams was shown great kindness by the Indians, and he bought the land of natives, thereby soon gaining great influence over them.

CHAPTER VII

BERKSHIRE HILLS

I know where wild things lurk and linger In groves as gray and grand as Time; I know where God has written poems Too strong for words or rhyme.

—Maurice Thompson.

To one who has lived in a level country how full of joyful experience is a winding mountain road!

None of our journeys will be remembered with keener delight than the days spent in sauntering along the Mohawk trail. What incomparable trout streams, what vast primeval forests, how charming the peaceful valleys, what trails leading to the tops of wooded hills or fern-clad cool retreats of the forest! What a life the Indians must have had here, moving from place to place enjoying new homes and new scenery! Here the fierce child of Nature lived amidst the grandest temples of God's building, where the song of the hermit thrush as old as these fragrant aisles, still rings like a newly-strung lute; while the wind among the myriad keyed pines thrums a whispering accompaniment and the yellow and white birch fill the place with incense.

Many mourn because they have no money to purchase a noble work of art, or pay a visit to the Vatican or the Louvre. But here in their own beloved America God has an open gallery, filled with pictures fairer than the grandest dream of any landscape artist, which wear no trace of age and no fire can destroy. Here no curtains need be drawn, as over the masterpieces of Raphael and Rubens to preserve their tints for future generations. They grow more mellow and tender as countless years roll by. All of these you may have, to hang on the walls of memory where no Napoleon can come to take them to a Louvre.

THE LURE OF THE MOHAWK TRAIL

Along the Mohawk trail, standing gold and white Where the crystal rivers flash and gleam; The fragrant birch trees greet the sight, And gently droop to kiss the steam. And the lure of the pine on the Mohawk trail, Is tuned to the spirits' restful mood, It murmurs and calls on the passing gale, For all to enjoy its solitude.

Still, the birch and pine all silver and gray, Call from the Berkshires and seem to say: "Leave your lowland worries behind The petty cares that hinder and blind; Come hither and find a quieter spot Where troubles and cares and sorrow are not. Come out where the heavens just drip with gold And the Divine Artist's paintings ne'er grow old.

—O. O. H.

Scenery such as you meet with here has a more telling effect upon one than a masterpiece of sculpture, literature or music, and infinitely surpasses man's most worthy efforts. Why cross the ocean or spend an over-amount of time in the art galleries of our own country, when we dwell so near Art's primal source? Out here the Divine Artist, with all rare colors, has painted scenes of panoramic splendor and every day new and grander views are displayed, for He sketches no two alike. Then, what harmonious blending of light and shadow; what glowing veils of color that no Turner has ever caught! At every turn in the road new pictures are passed, revealing rare and unrivaled beauty.

You need not sigh because you are so far removed from grand opera, for the very trees and ferns are eloquent with melodies irresistible; although their silence may be perfect, the heart perceives the richest, fullest harmonies.

You should not lament the fact that you have never heard the skylark or nightingale for, their melody, although infinitely rich and varied, do not attain that sublime height of harmony found in the thrush's song. If you long to go to Europe to hear the lark and nightingale, save the best trip for the last and come out to the White mountains, where you can hear more ethereal songs.

With such pure air, stately trees, sparkling brooks, and singing birds, surely the sick would all speedily recover and the lines of suffering and care be smoothed from their pain-traced faces, could they spend a few weeks on the Mohawk trail.

This trail is one of the newest and by far the most beautiful opened by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. That grand old state, whose valiant sons were ever ready to guard the rights of a freedom and liberty loving people, can be justly proud of the part she has always played in progressive movements. This superb stretch of macadam road traverses a bit of mountain country hitherto untraveled, save by chance pedestrians or wandering Indians. It passes through a region whose marvelous beauty and varied scenery is unrivaled in the East.

Centuries ago the savage Mohawk, in his annual journeys from the valley of the Hudson to the valley of the Connecticut, traveled this scenic highway. This is one of the oldest and most beautiful highways on the continent. It was built at a cost of over a third of a million dollars. This seems a large sum to pay for a stretch of road only fifteen miles in length, "but a trip over it" as one traveler said, "is well worth the price." "Each day in summer, thousands of tourists pass over it, attracted by the freshness and beauty of the Berkshire Hills."

The old trail crossed parts of three states: Eastern New York, northern Vermont, and western Massachusetts. After the white man came and subdued the Indian, this old trail was still used as the only communication between the East and West in this section of the country. What historic ground it traverses, and what stirring scenes were witnessed here! From the Hudson eastward it passes the home of the original knickerbocker, celebrated by Washington Irving, and runs near Bennington, famous as the place in which General Stark, with the aid of reinforcements led by Colonel Seth Warner, defeated two detachments of Burgoyne's army.

Here were collected the supplies the British did not get. Here, too, is located a beautiful monument three hundred and one feet in height, which commemorates the event. It leads through Pownal, the oldest permanent settlement in Vermont, where both Garfield and Aruthur taught school and near which, is located "Snow Hole," a cave of perpetual snow and ice. Williamstown, Mass., also lies along this highway. It grew up near Fort Mass, which was constructed by Colonel Ephraim Williams as a barrier to guard the western frontier of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Here is located Williams College, one of the most famous of the smaller New England institutions; also Thompson Memorial Chapel, which is considered by architectural authorities to be one of the finest in this country. In Mission Park is located the famous haystack monument, marking the birthplace of foreign missions, a spot visited by pilgrims from all over the world.

We were indeed entering the Switzerland of America. Hawthorne in his notebook characterized its beauty thus: "I have never driven through such romantic scenery, where there was such a variety of mountain shapes as this, and though it was a bright sunny day, the mountains diversified the air with sunshine and shadow and glory and gloom."

"Never came day more joyfully upon mountains," and never was any more fully enjoyed. The dew was almost as refreshing as rain, so copiously had it gathered on the grass and flowers. Their brilliant spikes of blossoms were like magic wands, enticing us through the place like fair enchantresses. Ferns, the like of which we never beheld, grew all about the highway. Great Osmunda ferns, nearly as high as our heads, formed vase-like clusters, whose magic shields seemed guarding the home of some forest nymphs. It is a delight to be alive amid scenes so fair and on days which are as perfect as July days can be.

Imagine if you can a balmy south wind, heavily laden with the fragrance of pine mint, balsam and scented fern; myriads of pine needles each tipped with its diamond drop; musical brooks far- flashing in the morning light; twittering swallows in the sky above; add to this the mysterious veil of color that makes distance so magical, and you yet have a faint idea of the picture.

In the valleys lay velvety meadows with their stately groups of elms, beneath which droves of cattle and sheep were grazing. Now and then lakes gleamed like sheets of molten beryl in their forest setting. Here and there we observed spaces in the valley resembling sunken gardens, with houses surrounded by their graceful elms, or having tree-bordered fields in their midst. We knew not in which direction to look, for beauty was on every side and we absorbed new life, new hope, and spiritual tone from our wonderful environment.

"Today we dine at the sign of the White Pine Bough," we said, as we beheld a fine forest of evergreens, whose myriad needles seemed to be calling us to enjoy their "restful solitude." Chickadees and warblers sang among their branches. The ground beneath them was covered with a thick soft carpet of rich brown needles. Large boulders covered with moss and lichens were scattered about, which served us for tables. Tall ferns grew in abundance. The air was heavy with fragrance of pine and hemlock. Our appetites were made unusually keen by our sampling of choke cherries that grew in abundance along the highway. How delicious is a meal of buns, with honey and butter, berries and pure spring water! One learns the real flavor of food out here where the odors of restaurants are but a memory.

Thinking that there was a waterfall somewhere near, we penetrated quite a distance the forest, only to learn that we had heard naught but the wind among the pines.

Here in the lovely Berkshire country near a charming lake we saw the sturdy New England farmers at work in their harvest fields. One farmer was still using the old self rake-reaper. It was interesting to watch the old reaper in operation. A real old gentleman seeing us, came out to the road and after a friendly greeting, asked: "And what be ye doing in Yankee land?" Mr. H. could not resist the temptation to bind a few sheaves for old times' sake, and soon was binding the golden bundles, and so fascinated was he, that an hour passed by (to the utter delight of the old man's son, let it be known) while he neatly bound his first New England sheaves.

He was well aware that this stop had undoubtedly meant the missing of some grand natural scenery, but he declared with amazing indifference that he would not have missed this opportunity for many mountain scenes, however fair. The same mysterious power that threw over the hills that filmy veil of delicate blue had turned to gold the standing wheat, which so lately undulated in the rippling wind with its sea-like tints of shimmering, shining green.

Bidding our friends adieu, we thought what a grand harvest of by- gone memories the day had brought.

One can never forget the groups of yellow and silver birch that grow like beautiful bouquets along the trail. Druids built their altars and worshiped beneath the aged oaks, but surely there were no lovely groups of white and yellow birch there, or they would have forsaken their oaks for these graceful, fragrant trees. What lessons of humility they teach by their modest, humble manner!

Where the forest contains so many noble trees to challenge one's admiration, you will linger fondly among these glorious creations of God's art, where each new group is more beautiful than the last, and extol their beauty above all other New England trees. They are indeed the gold and silver censers in Nature's vast cathedral which scatter incense on every passing breeze. One could wish for no lovelier monument to mark his last resting place—and it would indeed be a noble life to be worthy of such distinction.

The most beautiful of all eastern evergreen trees is the hemlock, which forms a most vivid contrast to the groups of birch, and when they are massed in the background the birch stand out in fine relief. Then how different from the vigorous aspiring pines they are. Poor soil seems to be no drawback to the pines, for they appear to possess a native vitality found in no other tree, and push upward sturdily toward the light; their "spiry summits pointing always heavenward." The slender, graceful branches of the hemlock trees are hung with innumerable drooping sprays of bluish green foliage, beautiful as the Osmunda ferns that grow in these wonderful woods. Then how charming their blue flowers and rich brown cones that form clusters at the ends of their numerous sprays They are just the ornaments to enhance their delicate foliage, and a bloom of silvery-blue clothes the trees like that which veils the distant mountain sides.