Title: See America First
Author: Herr, Charles J., Hiestand, Orville O.
Language: English
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SEE AMERICA FIRST

BY ORVILLE O. HIESTAND

IN COLLABORATION WITH CHAS. J. HERR



To Mr. and Mrs. Chas. J. Herr whose kind beneficence and
interest in the Great Out-of-Doors made this book possible;
these Wayside Sketches are affectionately dedicated


"I see the spectacle of morning from the hill tops over against
my house, from daybreak to sunrise, with emotions which an angel
might share. The long, slender bars of cloud float like golden
fishes in the crimson light. From the earth, as from a shore, I
look out into the silent sea. I seem to partake its rapid
transformations; the active enchantment reaches my dust, and I
dilate and conspire with the morning wind. Give me health and a
day and I will make the pomp of emperors ridiculous.

"To the body and mind which have been cramped by anxious work or
company, Nature is medicinal and restores their tone. The
tradesman, the attorney, comes out of the din and craft of the
street and sees the sky and the woods, and is a man again. In
the eternal calm he finds himself. The health of the eye seems
to demand a horizon. We are never tired, so long as we can see
far enough."

--EMERSON.


INTRODUCTION

Scenery, as well as "the prophet," is "not without honor" save
in its own country. Therefore thousands of travellers are in
Europe today, gazing in open mouthed wonder at the Swiss Alps or
floating down the Rhine pretending to be enraptured, who never
gave a passing thought to the Adirondacks, or the incomparable
beauty of the Hudson, which perhaps lie at their very doors.

It is not our purpose to make the reader appreciate European
scenery less but American scenery more. "America first" should
be our slogan, whether in regard to political relations or to
travel. Many Americans do not know how to appreciate their own
natural scenery. Much has been written about the marvelous
scenery of western North America, but few have spoken a word of
praise in regard to the beauty of our eastern highlands.

The pleasure we take in travel as well as in literature is
enhanced by a knowledge of Nature. Thoreau, Burroughs, Bryant
and Muir--how much you would miss from their glowing pages
without some knowledge of the plants and birds. Truly did the
Indian say, "White man heap much book, little know."

To one who is at least partially familiar with the plant and
bird world, travel holds so much more of interest and enthusiasm
than it does to one who cannot tell mint from skunk cabbage, or
a sparrow from a thrush. Having made acquaintance with the
flowers and the birds, every journey will take on an added
interest because always there are unnumbered scenes to attract
our attention; which although observed many times, grow more
lovely at each new meeting.

We remember, in crossing the ocean, how few there were who found
little or no delight in the ever changing sea with its rich
dawns and sunsets or abundance of strange animal life. It is
well to have one or more hobbies if you know when to leave off
riding them, and you may thus turn to account many spare
moments. In the lovely meadows of the Meuse; along the historic
banks of the scenic Rhine; where the warm waters of the
Mediterranean lave the mountainous coast of sunny Italy; in the
fertile lowlands of Belgium; or out where the Alps rear their
snowy summits, we felt ourselves less alien when we could detect
kinship between European and American plants.

But to visit foreign lands is not our real need, for if we fail
to see the common beauty everywhere about us how much can we
hope to find in a strange land?

Most people take their cares along with them to the woods and
hills, but there is little use of going to the woods, lakes, or
mountains without going there in spirit. We must, like real
travelers, get rid of our excess baggage, as did the boys who
went over the top, if we would really get anywhere.

So many people consider it a waste of time to learn of some of
the wonders God has placed about them, yet, God loved beauty or
never would He have been so prodigal of it. If we really try, we
too can see wherein it is good. "Consider the lilies of the
field," for their consideration will in no way hinder your true
success.

Thoreau said: "If the day and night are such as you, greet them
with joy, and life emits a fragrance like flowers and sweet
scented herbs; is more elastic, more starry, more immortal--that
is your success. All nature is your congratulation, and you have
cause momentarily to bless yourself."

If the reader finds anything of merit in this rambling book of
travel it will be due to the various quotations interspersed
throughout it. If he is inspired to a greater love for the
beauty of God's creation, to be found in his own immediate
environment, or feels a deeper pleasure in listening to the
music of singing bird or rippling stream, we shall be truly
grateful.


CHAPTER I

WAYSIDE SKETCHES

In beginning on our journey we disregarded Horace Greeley's
advice and went east. True, the course of empires has ever been
Westward and the richest gold fields lie in that direction. But
the glamour which surrounds this land of "flowing gold" has
caused vast numbers to lose their interest in both worlds, until
they missed the joys in this and the radiant hope of that to
come.

                 "All that glitters is not gold,
                 Gilded tombs do worms infold."

The land of the rising sun is not less lovely than that of its
setting. There is a freshness and a parity in the early dawn not
found in the evening time, and the birds greet the purpling east
with their sweetest songs. No one may know how cheerful, how far
reaching, how thrilling the singing of birds may be unless he
has listened to them telling the gladness of the morning while
the last star melts in the glowing east.

Then, too, what a journey is this when we look forward to the
glad meeting with friends who knew the horrors of the World War
and whom a kind Providence permitted to return to their native
land. During those awful days spent in the halls of suffering
and death near Verdun there were found many golden chains of
friendship, and we thought--

     "Better than grandeur, better than gold,
     Than rank or title a hundred-fold,
     Is a healthy body and a mind at ease,
     And simple pleasures that always please,
     A heart that can feel for a neighbor's woe,
     And share in his joy with a friendly glow,
     With sympathies large enough to infold
     All men as brothers, is better than gold."

Gold has no power to purchase true friendship and only eternal
things are given away. So, what matters it whether we travel
east or west as long as our souls retain the freshness and
fragrance of the early morning's hours? We can be our own
alchemists, and through the gray vapors of our poor lives
transmute them into golden flowers of character that shall gleam
and sparkle as the evening of our closing days draw near, like
coruscating stars in the violet dusk of our twilight sky.

Nature seemed to have adorned herself richly for our departure;
no sky could have been more blue, no grass more green and no
trees more full of glistening leaves and singing birds. There
was an indescribable freshness and glory on the sunny hills and
shining sky. The breeze sifted through the trees and over the
rim of the circling slopes, causing the maple leaves to show
silver and wafting fragrance from a thousand fountains of
sweetness. At brief intervals the loud, rich notes of the
Maryland Yellow Throat and the high pitched song of the indigo
bunting resounded from the bushes near Glen-Miller park of
Richmond, Ind. A cardinal shot across the road like a burning
arrow, and his ringing challenge was answered by the softly
warbled notes of a bluebird; while down by the spring came the
liquid song of the wood thrush, pure, clear, and serene,
speaking the soul of the dewy morn.

We did not say our prayers, but paused reverently beneath the
broad leaved maple in the park to listen to the thrushes' matin
and knelt at the crystal flowing spring to fill our water
bottles. As we were thus employed a red squirrel, who had the
idea that the whole park was his, crossed and recrossed our path
to see what strange creatures dare intrude at his drinking
fountain. Coming nearer, chattering and scolding as only a red
squirrel can, he began a speculation as to our character in
rapid broken coughs and sniffs, pouring forth a torrent of
threatening abuse in his snickering wheezy manner; "but, like
some people you may know, his defiance was mostly bluster--he
loves to make a noise." Yet, unlike his human brother (while
being a busybody and prying into the affairs of his neighbors),
he is a most provident creature, laying up ample stores for
winter days of need.

Leaving the squirrel in undisputed possession of the park, we
followed the winding road past glowing beds of flowers, which
are worth considering like "the lilies of the field, for they
preach to us if we but can hear." Before God created man He
placed all necessary things for the development of that greatest
of undeveloped resources in the world, the human soul, and
beauty is not the least of these:

          "All ground is hallowed ground,
          And every bush afire with God,
          But only he who sees takes off his shoes."

At all seasons there is a harvest of beauty for him who is
willing to pay the price. But "nature and art are veiled
goddesses, and only love and humility draw the curtains."

We turned away reluctantly from a scene so fair as that of the
charming homes of Richmond, with their well-kept lawns amid
their settings of vines, flowers and shrubs, doubly picturesque,
lying broad and warm amid their encircling hills. It was a happy
fortune for the city that White Water river, with its sinuous
course crowned with sycamore trees, passes it. If we are a part
of all we have ever met then our lives shall be richer for
having contemplated those lovely homes, among the lovelier
hills. If our environment helps make our character, then give us
more parks and quiet retreats among the hills, where from the
breezy uplands we get broader, clearer views.

What a contrast is here in this clean, well-kept American city
to European cities! There, ofttimes, we find narrow, crooked and
dirty streets, and what is worse thousands of children who never
knew the meaning of the word "home." Instead of filthy alleys
filled with smoke and foul smelling gases and profanity and
unclean jests from vagrant lips they should have, as the
children here, the benefits of grassy lawns, running brooks and
singing birds, the natural birthrights of every child. Oh! For
more great hearted men who are more considerate of the sorrows
and cares of others and less considerate of self, as that self
exists for others' good! We thought of the wonderful parks of
Antwerp, Belgium, where the land is so thickly populated, yet
where the love for the beautiful in Art and Nature is so
universal as to perpetuate these lovely parks, thus enriching
the lives of all who see them.

It is pitiful to see in the many smoky cities the little done
for this thirst for beauty, inherent in all. Even in the poorest
sections where many foreigners dwell one sees a broken pitcher
with its stunted geranium, a window box with ferns and vines or
a canary in a rude cage. As soon as a movement is on foot for
parks the seekers after gain will be there howling "the poor
must be fed!" Of course they must, but the body sometimes is the
least part of man that needs nourishment; the soul hungers and
thirsts for the beautiful. Nothing seems useless whereby we can
gratify that insatiable thirst for all that is pure, beautiful
and true in Nature, which draws us a little nearer the Master of
all truth.

We did not mean to preach a sermon this July day for we are not
ordained and therefore our discourse might not be accepted as
orthodox. We heard a few cannon fire-crackers, popping and
sputtering like distant machine guns, the last faint echoes of
the noisy demonstration that filled the streets the day before.
The noise soon died away and we thought how like the
politician's marvelous speeches and outward demonstrations! True
patriotism consists in something vastly more than the waving of
flags and eloquence, which the trying days of 1917 and '18
revealed. The orations were hot ones, and needed no fiery
remarks or burning glances from the eye to make them such, as
the mercury stood high in the nineties; yet some said they
enjoyed them. Perhaps they did, but as a fish might enjoy dry
land or an Esquimo the Sahara. Gladly we left it all for the
grand amphitheaters of the hills where Nature each day holds her
jubilees, filled with calm, serene enthusiasm that falls on one
as gentle as purple shades that linger about her wooded heights,
giving them that strange enchantment that is a part of their
real glory.

The sweeping hills were dotted with shocks of rye and wheat or
were covered with standing grain, and their acres shone like
gold in the level rays of the morning sun. Far and near the
farmers worked in their fields of corn and other grain, giving
vent to their joy by short snatches of song or loud, clear
whistling, as full and flute-like as the notes of the red birds
that sang in the trees which bordered them. The drought and
extreme heat had forced grain into premature ripeness and the
yield thereby was somewhat diminished. We passed men and boys on
the road going to some distant grainfield. They bade us good
morning with pleasant smiles. In like spirit we went to reap our
harvest. Theirs would feed the hungry, and they could at least
make out its value as so many bushels worth so many dollars and
cents. They saw in their vast yellow acres not the hungry their
grain could feed, but only a very small pile of gold. Watching
the mellow colors of the broadening landscape as we climbed the
long waves of earth we saw the yellow bundles of grain gleaming
like heaps of gold, and we seemed to hear Ruth singing as she
gleaned in the fields of Boaz and the lark carolling in the sky
above as sweetly as when we listened enraptured along the lovely
meadows of the Meuse or on the battle grounds of Waterloo. The
value of our harvest only Eternity may gauge.

As we watched the grain falling like phalanxes of soldiers cut
down in battle a nameless sadness filled our souls as we
thought:

          "Though every summer green the plain
          This harvest cannot bloom again."

Out where the land was broken by ravines and the woodbine hung
its long green ladders from the ironwood tree or made pillars of
Corinthian design of the gleaming sycamores which stood along
the banks of a stream, two boys were fishing. It was hard to
decide which made the more radiant picture: the softly
sculptured landscape or the glow of joy that beamed from those
shining boyish faces. How often had streams like this lured and
detained many well meaning lads who had only a bent pin for a
fishing hook and fish worms for bait, yet who had better luck
than many an older person you may know, for they baited their
hooks with their happy hearts.

Well do we recall how the siren songs of a little brook in early
spring, or it may have been the golden willows filled with
gurgling red wings, caused a court scene at school. The teacher
was one of that type who study the stars by night but never his
boys by day. He knew the golden willow not from the fragrance of
its early blossoms or the gurgling melodies of the red-winged
blackbird's song, but from the fact that they make excellent
switches which cut keenly, bend but do not break. The only time
he ever visited the brook was when he needed a new bundle of
switches. With a jury like that, little wonder the case went
clean against Willie.

Now Willie had missed school; that much was evident. So the
teacher called him up to his desk behind which he sat in his
revolving chair. Willie's face had been red, unusually so, and
glowed all morning like sumac seed against its green setting.
Willie came forward slowly. With downcast face he eyed a crack
in the floor near the teacher's desk while his right hand rested
tremblingly against his flushed forehead. "Willie, what makes
you tremble so?" asked the teacher in a gruff voice. "I-I'm
sick," came the feeble reply.

"Why did you miss school yesterday?" he repeated sternly.

"I-I fell into the creek on my way to school and got my feet
wet." As if to bring proof of what he said, he wiggled the toe
that the hole in his boot showed to best advantage. By this time
death-like silence reigned in the usually very noisy schoolroom.
Only the shrieking sound of a pencil toiling slowly up the steep
incline of a slate like an ungreased wagon up the Alleghanies
broke the silence. Strange it was that this sound, so noticeable
at other times, no one heard. Like a piece of grand opera music
this formed a sort of a musical prelude before the villain
appeared. But mark you the villain was not in front of the desk
but back of it, revolving like a pin wheel in an autumn gale.
Suddenly there was a wild waving of hands.

"John, what is it," roared a loud voice. "I can't get the fifth
example on page thirty-six." Now John had never worked so many
as that before and the rest of the class looked amazed. Lily,
remembering yesterday's lecture on cleanliness, washed her slate
three times with her hand and mopped it up with the sleeve of
her dress and yet it was far from clean.

Looking at Johnny now, it would not have taken a physician to
tell that something was seriously wrong with him. He was sick,
without doubt, and yesterday it was a double ailment he had. Any
diagnosis would have revealed spring fever incipient and trout
fever acute. Willie was perhaps thinking of the old saw mills
where cascades fall and the phoebe-bird sings and the high
banks, which the stream had worn deeply because it had some
obstacle to get around. Poor scared Willie! He, too, had an
obstacle to get around, so he said, "I slipped off of the foot
log and got my feet wet and had to go home."

Now, as every teacher knows, wet feet never daunted any boy from
achieving a purpose. The revolving chair swung around once more,
the teacher arose from his comfortable perch and stooped very
low in order to strike the trembling little boy who had heard
the phoebe-bird prophesying spring, and had found the first
hepaticas among the withered leaves and listened to the rippling
song of the brook.

Could the one in the revolving chair have known what he did
toward crushing the love of the true and the beautiful out of
the life before him, the chair would not have been at once
reoccupied. What had he to give the eager growing soul hungering
and thirsting for the beauty and freedom of Nature? Had he more
of the beauty and fragrance of the willow, so redolent of
spring, in his heart there were less need of willows above his
desk. A few of the fragrant buds in a vase would have had more
effect upon Willie and the whole school than the scattered bits
of golden pieces lying on the floor. Which is the greater
knowledge--to be able to feel spring open in your heart on
hearing the phoebe-bird, or to glibly repeat six times eight?

Our attention was drawn to a crowd of young and middle aged men
idly leaning against posts or sitting on benches in the shade of
trees at the famous roque court at a village in Ohio. The topic
of their conversation was probably government inefficiency, hard
times, lack of work, and perhaps many an hour was spent in
discussing capital and labor by those who have had no personal
acquaintance with either. How many are experts at various games,
yet how poorly they play the great game of life! Many have
failed to reach first base, and greater numbers have not yet
entered but still occupy the bleachers and side lines. Go to the
homes of those who clamor there is no work to be had and,
without trying, you will see where at least a few days could be
better spent than down at the rogue court.

Well has Holland said, "Idleness is the sepulchre of a living
man." Though a man has the wealth of Croesus he has no right to
be idle, if he can get work to do. A man who will not work is
not only a burden to society, but he buries his talents,
destroys his own happiness and becomes a nuisance. There are
always good, wholesome books to be had and "temptation flies
from the earnest, contented laborer, and preys upon the brain
and heart of the idler."

Greenville never appeared so marvellously beautiful as she did
in her holiday attire on that morning of July. We were thrilled
anew with the beauty of our flag as we gazed at its lovely folds
rippling in the breeze o'er the grand old men of the G. A. R.
Our hearts went out in gratitude to those noble veterans whose
loyalty, devotion and sacrifice made this great nation of ours
possible. We thought, how many of these heroes we beheld, had
defended the Old Flag at Gettysburg and Chickamauga, offering
their life blood, if need be, for the future welfare of a
nation. Alas! how many comrades they left upon the ghastly field
of battle. Right fitting it was for the hands of children to
bring the fairest blossoms to show their love and honor to those
who made it possible for our glorious banner to still wave o'er
a land from which had been removed the black stain of slavery.

Greenville, O., has the honor of being the home of Brigadier
General Siegerfoos, the highest commissioned officer from the
United States to make the supreme sacrifice. "He answered the
call of his country in the defense of Liberty, Humanity and the
cause of democracy." Branch of service, 56th Brigade, 28th
Division. He was wounded at Mount Blainville, near the Argonne
Forest and died at Souilly, France, October 7, 1918.

As if to join in this glorious celebration Nature unfurled many
a banner of rarest beauty. There was the deep red of the crimson
rambler, the blue of larkspur and clematis forming a wonderful
background for the golden stars of the daisy that nodded and
gleamed in the warm, clear light. For the white stripes of her
emblem she chose the hydrangeas and elderberry. True, they were
not arranged in order, like the colors of our lovely banner, but
seeing them singly brings out their meaning more clearly, for
there is much to contemplate in Old Glory, and we must analyze
one color at a time. (Again we thought of the G. A. R.
encampment in June.)

Among the many worthy veterans who honored Greenville with their
presence was the proud father of Warren G. Harding, of Marion,
Ohio. All were delighted with the lovely St. Clair Memorial
Hall, whose classic beauty makes it an elevating and refining
influence in the community. Then, too, the well kept library,
with its fine museum containing the old original treaty of the
Indians and many other interesting relics, will repay anyone who
visits it.

As we journeyed through the beautiful agricultural region of
Darke county we took a just pride in the well-kept homes with
their broad and sunny acres, stretching away in one vast expanse
of billowy grain or corn fields lying green and fair beneath the
summer sky. We found a restful charm in these pleasant rural
homes that recalled "A Song," written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox:

                    A SONG

     Is anyone sad in the world, I wonder?
     Does anyone weep on a day like this,
     With the sun above, and the green earth under?
     Why, what is life but a dream of bliss?

     With the sun, and the skies, and the birds above me,
     Birds that sing as they wheel and fly--
     With the winds to follow and say they love me--
     Who could be lonely? O-ho, not I!

     Somebody said, in the street this morning,
     As I opened my window to let in the light,
     That the darkest day of the world was dawning;
     But I looked and the East was a gorgeous sight.

     One who claims that he knows about it
     Tells me the earth is a vale of sin;
     But I and the bees and the birds, we doubt it,
     And think it a world worth living in.

     Someone says that hearts are fickle,
     That love is sorrow, that life is care;
     And the reaper Death, with its shining sickle,
     Gathers whatever is bright and fair.

     I told the thrush, and we laughed together,
     Laughed till the woods were all a-ring ;
     And he said to me as he plumed each feather,
     "Well, people must croak, if they cannot sing."

     Up he flew, but his song, remaining,
     Rang like a bell in my heart all day,
     And silenced the voices of weak complaining,
     That pipe like insects along the way.

     O world of light, O world of beauty!
     Where are there pleasures so sweet as thine?
     Yes, life is love, and love is duty;
     And what heart sorrows? 0 no, not mine!


A NOBLE LIFE

In the northern part of Greene county, near the Little Miami
river, lies Yellow Springs. As we neared the quiet town with its
pleasant avenues of trees that sheltered peaceful, well-kept
homes we thought of the noble spirit of him who toiled so
arduously here that life might be richer and happier for all
humanity. Here for five years dwelt one of America's most
illustrious sons, who from a humble beginning of pitiful
struggle and nearly wageless toil evolved such a noble life. We
are told that he earned his first school books by braiding
straw. "I believe in rugged and nourishing toil," he said, "but
she nourishes me too much." Industry and diligence were the
noble keys with which this beneficent soul was constantly
unlocking rare treasure rooms of knowledge. The ruling passion
of his life was to do something worthy for mankind. The theme he
chose for his commencement oration at Brown University was: "The
Advancement of the Human Species in Dignity and Labor." With
such a motive, how beautiful the harvest of life: "This
wonderful man's diary revealed that during his time as a lawyer
he was unable for a period of months to buy a dinner on half the
days and lay ill for weeks from hunger and exhaustion by reason
of having assumed the debts of a relative." His was the
Herculean task of revising and regenerating the school system of
Massachusetts, and by so doing the whole U. S. The influence was
not confined to this country alone, but spread to Europe.

"In 1852, while a member of the U. S. Congress, Horace Mann,
received on the same day the nomination by a political party for
governor of Massachusetts and president of Antioch College." He
could not refuse a position that gave him such an opportunity to
help those seeking after knowledge. His advice to his students
was: "Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for
humanity." In his last illness he asked his doctor how long he
had to live. On being told three hours, he replied, "I still
have something to do." As we left the town of Yellow Springs,
slumbering beneath her aged trees, we thought of these
significant words of this great man: "Lost somewhere between
sunrise and sunset two golden hours, each set with sixty diamond
minutes. No reward is offered, for they are gone forever."

Suddenly from its lofty station in the tower the clock chimed
the hours as if admonishing us to use them rightly. To some our
journey along the road that afternoon in July may have seemed
but idleness, yet we lost few of those golden moments, and every
change in the foreground gave us a new picture. Now it was a
wooded hillside with numbers of deciduous trees crowning its low
swelling top, with a faint radiance deepening into dreamy
halftones on their eastern slopes; now several giant chestnuts
lifting their proud crests of bloom above the valley; again it
was an emerald meadow in which cattle were grazing. The rich old
gold of ripening wheat and the blue haze hanging over the
distant hills all lent an atmosphere of tranquillity which the
notes of the thrush only emphasized.

Now we felt a soft breeze that stole from the forest,
deliciously tempering the oppressive air and bringing to us the
spicy fragrance of mints, basswood flowers and elder. The
country seemed to grow just a little more rugged as we proceeded
over the widening high-ways. Soon we saw several machines at the
side of the road on a grassy plot. Here we heard exclamations of
delight from the people who were gazing in admiration over the
bank of a stream at the gorge below. We soon learned that they
had ample reason for their exclamations, to which we added our
own. Below us was a chasm worn by the little Miami, ninety feet
in depth. The ground on each side of the stream was a very
garden of wild bloom. The sumac made a low border of glowing
color; back of this flaming mass grew dogwood and Judas trees;
while walnut, maple and linden, overrun with wild grape and
woodbine, made mounds of bright green foliage, from which the
ringing notes of the cardinal came to us above the song of the
water.

Every rock and ledge was cushioned with moss and ferns,
intermingled with long green ropes of woodbine, Here were vast
hanging gardens of many gradations of green, softened by gleams
of pale light from the afternoon sun. The rays falling among
these fern beds made rare masses of delicate mosaics, giving
them that indescribable charm which the level beams produced.
Perhaps thirty feet below us we saw a phoebe perched on a dead
twig that grew from a cleft in the rock. His notes sounded full
and clear, telling the joy of his admirable home. The path of
the stream betrayed itself by a long line of moss and waving
fern. The sweet breath of the summer woods floated around us. We
gazed under a canopy of trees and saw a blossoming jungle of
shrubs and flowers that seemed to have been awakened by some
more potent force than that of the sun.

Near the gorge lies the quaint old town of Clifton. The gray old
buildings never knew the use of paint. Nature was trying her
best to make them a part of the landscape. But why use
artificial means to create beauty, when Nature all around was so
prodigal? How one loves to contemplate architecture like this,
where the gray of the buildings blends with the gray of the
rocks.

With a feast of beauty spread above as well as beneath us, we
found ourselves repeating these words of an Ohio poet:

     "Around me here rise up majestic trees
     That centuries have nurtured: graceful elms.
     Which interlock their limbs among the clouds;
     Dark columned walnuts, from whose liberal store
     The nut-brown Indian maids their baskets fill'd
     Ere the first pilgrims knelt on Plymouth Rock;
     Gigantic sycamores, whose mighty arms
     Sheltered the Redman in his wigwam prone,
     What time the Norsemen roamed our chartless seas;
     And towering oaks, that from the subject plain
     Sprang when the builders of the tumulis
     First disappeared, and to the conquering hordes
     Left these, the dim traditions of their race
     That rise around, in many a form of earth
     Tracing the plain, but shrouded in the gloom
     Of dark, impenetrable shades, that fall
     From the far centuries."

--Galligher.

Within hearing of the waters of the Little Miami dwelt an old
man all alone in a brown frame house. Thinking us to be pilgrims
who had lost our way, he came to give us directions to Yellow
Springs or any nearby point. He said he had lived here many
years and that his companion had died eight years before,
leaving him very lonely. His eyesight was failing, and he told
us that he had neither horses nor cows, pigs nor chickens, dogs
nor cats, to keep him company. "Mentally, physically and
financially, I don't amount to very much any more," he said. As
we looked at his bending, tottering form and noted his failing
vision, we saw that physically he was not one of Nature's
successes; while the mossy shingles thatching his humble
dwelling proclaimed that he had not much of this world's goods.
"Here," said he, "I have dwelt many years, telling strangers how
to get to Yellow Springs and others the way to go to the devil,
which is just to keep on the wrong road and keep disregarding
the sign-posts in God's Word."

Then, thought we, how necessary it is early in life to have some
objective to reach and keep on the straight road, never turning
to the right or left although siren voices call to easier and
fairer ways or gates of idleness swing open to lure the careless
wayfarer on the road of life and steal from him unawares its
golden opportunities. Thanks, dear old man, for the lesson you
have taught. May you live many more years, if only to warn the
sojourner upon the thorny road of life to set his face toward
the distant city, that is only reached by the main highway of
noble aims and self denial. May the rippling music of the Little
Miami be to you a friendly voice of comfort; may the golden
notes of the thrush and the fragrant perfume of the flowers
console you, until you hear the chanting of the angelic choir
and breathe the perfume from flowers that never fade and die!

The sun, still seen above the western hills, turned the moist
evening haze to lustrous pearl that one often sees on the ocean.
Broad stretches of gently undulating land opened before us.
Below in the subdued light shone the houses from whose chimneys
ascended pale blue wreaths of smoke. The peaceful village lit up
by the sun's level rays seemed the one bright spot in the whole
landscape, the rest having been veiled in a soft tint of
transparent gray. It was remarkably silent. Only the wood-thrush
poured forth her serene notes, seeming miles away. No sound of
lowing cattle or bleating sheep came from the pasture lands; no
shout of farmer lads doing their evening chores. Over all the
land brooded an atmosphere of rest, of calm serenity, of
perpetual peace. Sitting there in the warm twilight and gazing
out over this charming Ohio landscape was in itself "more
refreshing than slumber to tired eyes." "The restless yearning
and longing that reigns in the mind of all was quieted for a
time," and we let our fancy roam until higher ideals floated
before us and we experienced that exaltation of spirit that
comes at rare intervals in times like this.

A cooing dove (just one) murmured her dreamy threnody and then
was silent. Far in the distance a wood thrush was sounding his
vesper bell softly--the "Angelus" of the wildwood. Whether it be
morning, and they are clearer and more liquid heard through the
misty aisles of the forest, or evening when quiet pervades the
atmosphere, giving a more fitting back-ground for their pure
notes, they are alike full of rarest melody. How often we have
paused, deep in some lonely forest glen, to listen to those
clear golden notes, following one another at rare intervals so
melodiously, thrilling with their ethereal sweetness the weary
heart, and floating away through dark, gloomy aisles and faint
purple shadows till our ears seem to catch the more remote echo
of some spirit message of the wood.

Leaving the land to its peerless vocalist and quiet repose we
made our way toward Highland county. The road wound among green
pasture slopes, from the summits of which a wide sweep of
rolling country was visible. On reaching these heights, almost
invariably new and surprising vistas opened before us. The hill
roads dropped down to peaceful valleys over which we looked for
many miles. Northward the hills sank into gentle undulations,
robed with golden wheat fields, orchards, and meadows, and now
and then we beheld old villages. Westward they towered into
higher ridges which stretched away until their green faded and
stood gray against the horizon. How amply spread were the
numerous valleys with many trees to diversify them and how
grandly planted were the higher hills with forest!

HILLSBOROUGH

It was dusk before we reached the town of Hillsborough, where we
spent the night. Hillsborough is Ohio's Rome, for like that
Imperial City, it stands on seven hills. The quaint old mansion
home of Allen Trimble, one of Ohio's early governors, is located
here. It later became the home of his daughter, Eliza Jane
Thompson, who is known the world over as the Mother of the
Woman's Crusade, one of the most remarkable temperance movements
of history, which had its origin here in 1873.

"Hillsborough is reached by two macadamized roads, which pass
through a section of the state unrivaled in picturesque beauty.
It is just in the fringe of hills which in the direction of the
Ohio become almost mountainous."

We left our modern Rome in the morning swathed in its dreamy
charm. What could be more beautiful than to pass through the
country in July when every turn on the highway discloses a
picture of rarest beauty? What a vast volume of divine verse, of
sonnets, lyrics, and idyls, is opened before you, wrought out of
meadows, groves and sparkling streams! The valleys with their
broad green meadows, fields waving with golden grain or dark
green corn that bent and tossed in the morning wind, was an
inexhaustible delight. A few exquisitely white fleecy clouds,
pushed across the deep blue sky by a southern breeze, made
running shadows of rhythmical motion.

WILMINGTON

At Wilmington we were greatly impressed with the charming, well-
kept homes and the fine class of people. As we noted the noble
bearing, the fine, intellectual countenances and strong physique
of these people, we thought of the early temperance movement
here, and realized we were beholding the fruits of that early
sowing.

GRADED WAY

We passed along the graded way near Piketon, where the ancient
people of an unknown race laid out a graded ascent some ten
hundred and eighty feet long by two hundred and ten feet in
width. From the left hand embankment, passing up to a third
terrace, there could be traced a former low embankment running
for fifteen hundred feet, and connected with mounds and other
walls at its extremity. It was evidently built in connection
with the obliterated works on the third terrace.

Here many a passing traveler goes unawares over one of the most
ancient highways in the world. Our trip over it was more
memorable than any journey over a Roman road could have been. We
paused awhile to speculate who these ancient people were who
passed this way centuries before us. What ceremonious
processions may have moved over this ancient causeway! From the
branch of a maple that sent its roots into the more defined
grade came the dreamy notes of a mourning dove, from a walnut
tree a cuckoo uttered his queer song that perhaps was the same
as these strange people listened to; indigo buntings sent their
high pitched breezy song from the tops of the trees, while the
warbling vireo seemed to be saying, "who were they?" and the
clear, melodious call of a quail rang from the highest part of
the embankment, with just enough querulousness in it to appear
as if he too were trying to recall this lost race. The grassy
slopes were still used by the meadow lark for nesting sites
whose "spring of the year" still resounds among the hills
speaking of the eternal freshness and youth of Nature. It
appeared to be a work of defense where the people may have
congregated for protection in times of danger. A hole in the
side of one of the embankments told that it was still used as
such, for a woodchuck had burrowed in under the roots of a maple
where he was safe not only from his enemies but from winter
itself. Thus we left this memento of a vanished race, thinking
that, beginning our journey over a road so romantic, the day
would hold much in store for us.

ON THE ROAD TO BAINBRIDGE

Whoever wishes to spend a few hours of unalloyed delight amid
the most charming and picturesque scenery of Ohio, should visit
Highland county. Here both Nature and history have done
everything to make this a journey never to be forgotten. The
round browed hills lift themselves in "bold bastions" and
parapets of green that seem to beckon to you to come up higher.
Sometimes you see a wide plain with its far flashing stream and
homes here and there, or clusters of wooded heights with now and
then a single pointed summit rising above and behind the rest.
The roads are made up of innumerable loops and curves, every
twist and turn of which unfolds a picture worthy of an Innes or
a Rembrandt.

The morning of our journey was as fair as a July morning could
be. Near the western horizon a few pearl-colored clouds hung
motionless, as though the wind had been withdrawn to other
skies. There was always that mysterious blue haze over the
higher ridges and that soft light that fills the atmosphere and
creates the sense of lovely "unimaginable spaces." It overhung
the far rolling landscape of wheat fields, pastures and wood,
crowning with a soft radiance the remoter low swelling hilltops
and deepened into dreamy half shadows on their western slopes.
Nearer, it fell on the rich gold of ripening wheat that lay in
the valley or gleamed like golden crowns on the level space at
the very summits of high hills; nearer still it touched with
spring-like brilliancy the level green of meadows that clothed
other uplands, where groups of Jersey cattle grazed beneath the
shade of graceful elms; yet nearer it caught the rich foliage of
blossoming chestnut trees and lit them up like crowns of ermine.
In the immediate foreground it fell on the road that made
continual windings along the edge of a steep ravine. How we
rejoiced at the prospect and the warm, glowing sunshine! Right
at the road's edge grew Christmas lady, sensitive and woodsia
ferns, mealy-bell-wort, true and false Solomon's Seal, ground
ginger, greenbrier, smilax and flaming cardinal flowers which
were lit up with flying gleams of sunshine, forming great masses
of tremulous shifting mosaic of rarer and older designs than any
that Persia or India yet know. This Ohio of ours is indeed a
fair land; and this morning, of all mornings of our lives, we
seemed to hear "the ever-lasting poetry of the race." We thanked
our lucky stars that our lot fell in such a pleasant place, and
were justly proud that from Ohio's farms have come so many
worthy souls.

We found enough to admire in every farmhouse, however humble, to
repay us for our climb. Now and then we saw some narrow valleys
and rough hillsides, where corn and potatoes were engaged in a
struggle with countless stones. Without the aid of the energetic
Ohio farmers they had well-nigh been driven from the field. The
rows of pale thin corn (the stunted reward of necessitous
husbandry) "showed that these people possess that spirit of
labor, which, however undervalued by some unthinking mortals, is
the germ from which all good mast spring." One cannot but notice
with what patient industry these sturdy sons of the soil turn
these rocky hillsides into fields of growing grain; how the
apple trees were made to acquire health and productiveness; and
how the wheat stood like vast billows of gold under the rays of
the forenoon sun. We soon forgot their seeming hardships and
gave our hearty admiration to the sturdy reapers of Ohio.

These men, spending as much toil and energy upon their log
cabins and small barns, prize them just as highly as the people
of a more favored section value their more luxurious abodes. We
were glad to note the whitewashed cabins, well kept yards with
roses at the gate, patches of marigolds under the window, and
the ever present birdhouse and adjacent orchard. How at the
sight one's memory goes back to other days with a wealth of
emotion as refreshing as falling dew to thirsty flowers. One
considers how to these people their humble homes may be
priceless in their wealth of associations. They may be indeed
far richer than the owner of some palatial residence where every
luxury abounds and love is not. How often these tillers of the
soil must sit beneath their doorway, watching the outlines of
far hills clothed in dim blue haze; how often, too, they must
have watched the sinking sun as they ate their evening meal of
bread and milk and looked far away over the rolling landscape
with the air of a king. The old home has grown into their lives,
giving them more than wealth. If the soil is not adapted for the
finest crops it may produce better thinkers.

As we journeyed on we thought of John Dyer's lines on Gronger
Hill:

     Ever charming, ever new,
     When will the landscape tire the view?

We answered his question by saying, "Never." A quiet seemed to
creep over the hot landscape. The great chestnut and basswood
trees seemed to be taking their noon rest; only the buzzing of
myriads of bees filled the air with their sound; a robin settled
near us with open mouth and drooping wings; the maple leaves
hung limp and silent, showing their silver linings; only the
warbling vireo sang her medley among its branches. The hills
shimmered. Not far away were masses of dark clouds which
stretched across a valley and seemed to rest on the opposite
hills and sink in a dense mass into a farther valley. Presently
we saw a white sheet of rain drifting rapidly toward us. We drew
out to the side of the road beneath some small hickory trees and
quickly put on the curtains and proceeded to eat our luncheon
during the storm. The rain came down in torrents, but was soon
over. We unfastened the curtains that we might have a better
view of the birds that emerged from their leafy coverts and sang
all about us. The noon sun was lighting up a million gleaming
tears that hung to the leaves, so quiet was the atmosphere. The
storm was still rumbling not far away across the hills, where a
lovely bow spanned the sky. Vapors hung just above the tree
tops, seething like smoke from hidden chimneys.

How the birds rejoiced after the shower! Two cardinals woke the
echoes with their wild, ringing calls. Indigo buntings, using
the telephone wires as a point from which to start messages,
sent them out in all directions. These, if not so important as
those of men, were more pleasant to hear. The summery call of a
turtle dove came dreamily through the forest; while nearer,
towhees filled the place with their "fine explosive trills."
Down in the ravine chats were uttering their strange notes, so
weird that they won from the Indians the name of "ghost bird."
Vireos and tanagers vied with each other in persistent singing.
The vireo sang more constantly but the notes of the tanager were
more wild and possessed greater resonance of tone. The call of a
quail came clear and sweet from a distant wheat field and, like
a glorious soloist, Ohio's finest songster, the woodthrush, was
casting her "liquid pearls" on the air.

We were loathe to leave a song carnival so fine, but Kinkaid
Spring and Rockyfork Caves were some distance away and the
recent rains made the dirt read very slippery and traveling
uncertain. We had to climb a three-mile hill. The road had
innumerable turns, and in many places ran very near the edge of
steep ravines, which were often covered with almost virgin
forest. There may have been some elasticity in the auto, but we
didn't seem to notice it. It seemed, in spite of shock
absorbers, a perfect conductor, and the shock it received in
passing over deep ruts and rough boulders was immediately
communicated to the lowest vertebra of our spines to pass
instantly along all the others, discharging itself in our teeth.
One of the party, not having traveled over many rough roads,
seemed to be enjoying the scenery in much the same manner as a
drowning man might enjoy the Rhine. Whenever the machine skidded
dangerously near a steep ravine, he was seen to cling in alarm
to the seat. He was informed, however, that this was not even A
B C of what the rest of the party were used to, and his fears
somewhat subsided.

This way and that ran wavering lines of low rail fences--some
recently builded, others rotting beneath and thickly covered
with wild roses, blackberry vines and numerous shrubs, forming
an almost impenetrable hedge. Now and then distant hills rose,
clothed with dark green woods. On nearer hilltops the wheat
shimmered in the light, and all around grew green forests which
gave them the appearance of a lake of gold in a setting of
emerald. The blue green of the oats with the brighter green of
meadows, blending imperceptibly together, made a rare picture
enhanced by the blue haze of distance.

Kinkaid Spring is well worthy of a visit, for here is a spring
whose water would be sufficient to run a grist mill. It is
situated in charming woods, where grow fine old walnut, maple
and tulip trees. A gentleman told us that the man on whose farm
the spring is located dammed up its water, only to find that he
had lost his spring. He tore away the dam and recovered it.

So many fine old trees were passed that someone remarked of the
wondrous beauty these woods present at autumn-time. He did not
repeat the words of the poem we shall quote, but he meant it
all.

          INDIAN SUMMER

     "Now all the woodlands round, and these fair vales,
     And broad plains that from their borders stretch
     Away to the blue Unica, and run
     Along the Ozark range, and far beyond
     Find the still groves that shut Itasca in,
     But more than all, these old Miami Woods,
     Are robed in golden exhalations, dim
     As half-remembered dreams, and beautiful
     As aught or Valambrosa, or the plains
     Of Arcady, by fabling poets sung.
     The night is fill'd with murmurs and the day
     Distills a subtle atmosphere that lulls
     The senses to a half repose, and hangs
     A rosy twilight over nature, like
     The night of Norway summers, when the sun
     Skims the horizon through the tedious months."

--From Poets of Ohio.

It is not strange that you do not find yourself recalling fair
mornings spent among the far-famed Alps. True, you do not feel
that awe-inspiring sublimity that their snow-clad peaks produce,
but as you joyfully gaze out over the quiet beauty of these fair
Ohio hills and vales clothed in magnificent stretches of golden
harvest field and green forest, through which lead winding roads
and sinuous streams, you ask yourself this perplexing question:
Where have I ever beheld a more lovely or more quiet landscape
than this? To be sure it is not thrilling, but sweet and
soothing, like the view you get at Intervale, above North Conway
in New Hampshire. This fair picture brought to our memory the
scenery among the hills and valleys of the Meuse, as seen from
Fort Regret. Here the view discloses vast stretches of upland
meadows, orchards of cherry and plum trees, old stone highways
that lose themselves in the valleys to appear again like slender
paths where they cross some distant hill. Old stone farm houses,
clusters of ruined villages, and as many as seven forts may be
seen from this commanding position. A few miles distant rises
the almost impregnable fortress of Verdun whose round Roman
towers look down on the devastated region and seem to say, "They
shall not pass." Nature has given just as picturesque a setting
to many of her ancient fortified hills of the Western World,
whose crowning battlements speak of a different age and
architecture.

To the lofty parapets scattered throughout the southern part of
Ohio, the ferocious warrior of another age came for refuge or
lighted fires on their signal mounds to warn their people of an
approaching enemy. Here are forest trees growing upon their
sides said to be six hundred years old and rising from the
decomposed remains of others perhaps just as old. How long these
forts were used before the forests again reclothed them we have
no means of knowing. We cannot but wonder over the fate of this
forgotten race. What starving sieges, deeds of noble daring and
brave sorties these ancient walls must have known!

Here we found growing great masses of purple spiked loose-
strife. The deep purple flowers that closely cluster on the long
spikes give a rich glow to the lowlands. This flower we found
growing in abundance in New Hampshire, New York, New Jersey, and
Massachusetts. It is an importation from England. It is
remarkable as an example of trimorphism, the two sets of stamens
and pistil being of different lengths in the same flower. Every
pistil, in order to affect fertilization, must receive the
pollen from the same length in another flower. Professor Darwin
experimented with these flowers and wrote about them to Dr. Gray
"I am almost stark, staring mad over Lythrum. If I can prove
what I really believe, it is a grand case of trimorphism, with
three different pollens and three stigmas. I have fertilized
above ninety flowers, trying all the eighteen distinct crosses
which are possible within the limits of this one species. For
the love of heaven, have a look at some of your species, and if
you can get me some seed, do."

ROCKYFORD CAVES

Here in one of the most charming spots that Nature gave to this
scenic Ohio region dwelt a being--a wretch--by the name of
McKinney, the tales of whose terrible deeds recall the gruesome
acts of the days of the Inquisition or the horrible tortures of
the fierce Iroquois. In one of the caves embowered in this leafy
wilderness, where the rays of the noonday sun scarce ever fall
and there reigns perpetually a cavernous gloom, dwelt this bold
robber. Only the complaining water of a brook as it slipped over
the polished stones or the song of the birds broke the silence
of this solitude. Here we listened to a thrilling story, told by
a middle-aged lady, of one of the many horrid deeds committed by
this Ohio robber.

In the near vicinity lived two old people, who represented that
worthy class of pioneers whose strength of character and noble
self-sacrifice formed a fit corner stone upon which to build
such a glorious state. The old gentleman was a stock buyer, and
on the morning of that particular day of which our tale relates
he had received a large sum of money (large for those times) and
returned to his home late that afternoon. It was too near night
to distribute the money among the various farmers. After
consulting his good wife as to the best place for secreting it
he decided to bury the money in the ground beneath the puncheon
floor. Raising one or two of the huge planks, while his wife
kept watch from the doorway of their cabin, the old gentleman
dug a small hole in the ground and deposited the pouch which
held the money. Smoothing over the place he carefully relaid the
rough-hewn puncheon and, with an air of satisfaction in a work
well performed, he left the cabin to do his evening chores,
while the good housewife busied herself in preparing their
frugal meal.

The work being done the old man returned to the house where in
the twilight they ate their corn bread and potatoes with a
relish that only those who labor may know. The last faint notes
of the woodthrush came softly from the shadowy ravine, robins
caroled in chorus, then they, too, became silent.

Late in the afternoon from his leafy covert (one of the numerous
places found in this region, overlooking the road) peered the
treacherous eyes of this bold highwayman. Here he awaited the
coming of the twilight, patiently, silently, for he knew that
the old man was alone, and like a fierce wild beast, he did not
stir from his retreat until the gleam of light from the cabin
door announced his hour had come. Leaving his hiding-place, he
gazed through the deepening dusk and ever and anon glanced over
his shoulder, as might a criminal who is fleeing from his
pursuers.

Stealthily he approached the cabin, where the two old people
were made plainly visible by the lamp and the warm, ruddy glow
of the fireplace. With silent tread he entered the peaceful
abode, and drew a pistol on the old couple, who stood up
speechless and horror stricken before him. He demanded the
money, which he very well knew the old man had received, but
neither the man nor his wife would inform him of its
whereabouts; whereupon he seized the old man and bound and
gagged him. Then threatening the old lady with vile oaths, he
tried to frighten her into revealing the secret hiding place,
but to no avail. Seizing her, he securely bound her, with a
horrible threat of pushing her into the glowing fireplace, but
to no purpose.

Having the two forms prostrate upon the floor, he shoved their
feet into the fire, removing the gags now and then so they could
speak and disclose the secret he so vainly strove to force from
theist. Removing the gag from the old man for the second time he
found that he had fainted. He gave him a toss and a rude kick,
leaving him to lie lifeless, as he thought, upon the floor.
Turning again to the old lady, he pulled her lack from the fire
and removed her gag, threatening to again torture her if she
persisted in refusing to reveal the secret. Although her feet
were horribly burned by the coals and her suffering was so
intense that her whole frame shook convulsively with the
inexpressible pain she endured, she remained silent. His
barbarous attempts proved of no avail.

Unbinding the old lady he left her alone with the still form of
the old man lying as dead before her. Painfully she hobbled to
the well after releasing his bonds and brought water, with the
aid of which she revived him. The old man lived only a short
time, but his wife recovered to tell of that thrilling night to
her grand children.

"Those people were my grand parents," continued the lady who
related the story.

CHILLICOTHE

At Chillicothe still stands the magnificent old elm under which
Logan, that gentle, noble Mingo chief sat, "while he told the
story of his wrongs in language which cannot be forgotten as
long as men have hearts to thrill for other's sorrows."

"I appeal to any white man to say if ever he entered Logan's
cabin and I gave him not meat; if ever he came cold and naked
and I gave him not clothing. During the course of the last long
and bloody war Logan remained in his tent, an advocate of peace.
Nay, such was my love for the whites that those of my own
country pointed at me as they passed and said, 'Logan is the
friend of the white man.' I had even thought to live with you
but for the injuries of one man, Colonel Cresap, who last
spring, in cold blood and unprovoked, cut off all the relatives
of Logan, not sparing even my women and children. There runs not
a drop of my blood in the veins of any human creature. This
called upon me for revenge. I have sought it. I have killed
many. I have fully glutted my vengeance. For my country I
rejoice at the beams of peace, yet do not harbor the thought
that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not
turn on his heel to save his life. Who is thereto mourn for
Logan? Not one."


CHAPTER II

          THE MOUND BUILDERS

     Thou unrelenting Past!
     Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain,
     And fetters sure and fast
     Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.

     Far in thy realm, withdrawn
     Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom;
     And glorious ages gone,
     Lie deep within the shadows of thy womb.

     Full many a mighty name
     Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered.
     With thee are silent fame,
     Forgotten arts, and wisdom.

--W. C. Bryant.


"Who can read the history of the past? Who is there who can tell
the story of creation's morn? It is not written in history,
neither does it live in tradition. There is mystery here, but it
is hid by the darkness of bygone ages."

"There is a true history here, but we have not learned well the
alphabet used. Here are doubtless wondrous scenes, but our
standpoint is removed by time so vast that only the rude
outlines can be determined. The delicate tracery, the body of
the picture, are hidden from our eye. The question as to the
antiquity and primitive history of man is full of interest in
proportion as the solution is set with difficulties. We question
the past, but only here and there a response is heard. Surely
bold is he who would attempt, from the few data at hand, to
reconstruct the history of times and people so far removed. We
quickly become convinced that many centuries and tens of
centuries have rolled away since man's first appearance on the
earth. We become impressed with the fact that multitudes of
people have moved over the surface of the earth and sunk into
the night of oblivion without leaving a trace of their
existence, without a memorial through which we might have at
least learned their names."

"In Egypt we find the seat of an ancient civilization which was
in its power many centuries before Christ. The changes that have
passed over the earth are far more wonderful than any ascribed
to the wand of the magician. Nations have come and gone, and the
land of the Pharaohs has become an inheritance for strangers;
new sciences have enriched human life, and the fair structure
has arisen on the ruins of the past. Many centuries, with their
burden of human hopes and fears, have sped away into the past,
since 'Hundred-gated Thebes' sheltered her teeming population,
where now are but a mournful group of ruins. Yet today, far
below the remorseless sands of her desert, we find the rude
flint-flakes that require us to carry back the time of man's
first appearance in Egypt to a past so remote that her stately
ruins become a thing of yesterday in comparison to them."
(footnote Von Hellwald: Smithsonian Report, 1836.)

Europe, in the minds of some travelers, seems to have a monopoly
on all fair landscapes and ancient civilization, to hear their
overdrawn descriptions gleaned from many books of travel. But,
in the socalled New World we find mysterious mounds and gigantic
earthworks, also deserted mines, where we can trace the sites of
ancient camps and fortifications, showing that the Indians of
America's unbounded primeval forests and vast flowery prairies
were intruders on an earlier, fairer civilization. Here we find
evidence of a teeming population. No one viewing the imposing
ruins scattered about the Mississippi valley and especially the
wonderful work of Fort Ancient can help but marvel at these
crumbling walls of an ancient, forgotten race.

One writer has stated that America has no hoary legends or
traditions that lend an ever-increasing interest to the scenes
of other lands. It will never have any ancient history, nor any
old institutions. This writer surely never stood on those
ancient mounds of Ohio and elsewhere which tell us that there
were people here ten thousand years ago, when the glaciers began
to melt and the land became inhabitable once more. "Even before
the ice came creeping southwestwardly from the region of Niagara
and passed over two-thirds of our state, from Lake Erie to the
Ohio River there were people here of an older race than the
hills, as the hills now are; for the glaciers ground away the
hills as they once were and made new ones, with new valleys
between them, and new channels for the streams to run where
there had never been water courses before. The earliest Ohioans
must have been the same as the Ohioans of the Ice Age, and when
they fled southward before the glaciers they mast have followed
the retreat of the melting ice, back into Ohio again. No one
knows how long they dwelt here along its edges in a climate like
that of Greenland, where the glaciers are now to be seen as they
once were in the region of Cincinnati. But it is believed that
these Ice Folk, as we may call them, were of the race which
still roams the Arctic snows.

"All they have left to prove that they were able to cope with
the fierce brute life and terrible climate of their day are axes
of chipped stone and similar tools and weapons dropped on the
gravelly banks of new rivers which the glaciers upheaved. Such
an ax was dug up out of the glacier terrace, as the bank of this
drift is called, in the valley of the Tuscarawas in Mississippi.

"For the next four or five thousand years the early Ohio men
kept very quiet; but we need not suppose for that reason that
there were none. Our Ice Folk who dropped their stone axes in
the river banks may have passed away with the Ice Age, or they
may have remained in Ohio, and begun slowly to take on some
faint likeness of civilization. There is nothing to prove that
they stayed; but Ohio must always have been a pleasant place to
live in after the great thaw, and it seems reasonable that the
Ice Folk lingered, in part at least, and changed with the
changing climate, and became at last the people who left the
signs of their presence in almost every part of the state."
(footnote Howell's History of Ohio.)

The great masterpiece of the Mound Builders is known as Fort
Ancient. Its colossal size, ingenuity in design and perfection
in construction give it first rack in interest among all
prehistoric fortifications, and it represents the highest point
attained by this lost race in their earth-work structures. Why
make a journey to Europe to see the old forts when we have in
Ohio one so old we have no record of its building? Truly we were
more impressed while rambling over this old fort than we were
when we entered the passages that led through Douamont and
Verdian or stood on the ramparts of Mighty Ehrenbreitstein and
gazed at the wonderful panorama spread out before us.

The works of these ancient people are said to be two or three
thousand years old. Some seem to think they were a race of red
men like those the whites found here. Only an agricultural
people who were settled in their habits could have produced such
wonderful works as we find scattered about the Ohio and
Mississippi valleys. It is stated that every Indian requires
fifty thousand acres to live upon. If this be true this country
in which we find these vast mounds could not have provided food
enough for the vast number of laborers required for such
stupendous works. It is estimated that the white men found only
two or three thousand Indians in the whole Ohio Valley.

We find forts that were skilfully planned, showing a knowledge
far superior to that of the savage race. Some of them contained
hundreds of acres which were enclosed with high walls of earth
rising to ten or twelve feet from the ground. The largest and
most interesting ruins we find in Warren county, "where on a
level terrace above the Little Miami river, five miles of wall,
which can still be easily traced, shut in a hundred acres." This
was not only a fort but was probably used as a village site, and
has some features about it which are regarded as of a religious
nature. The hill on which it stands is in most cases very steep
towards the river. A ravine starts from near the upper end on
the eastern side, gradually deepening towards the south, and
finally turns abruptly towards the west of the river. By this
means nearly the whole work occupies the summit of a detached
hill, having in most places very steep sides. To this naturally
strong position fortifications were added, consisting of an
embankment of earth of unusual height, which follows close
around the very brow of the hill. This embankment is still in a
very fine state of preservation, and is now, thanks to the State
of Ohio, no longer exposed to cultivation and other inroads so
that it will not be marred by domestic animals and will be
preserved for future generations.

"This wall is, of course, the highest in just those places where
the sides of the hill are less steep than usual. In some places
it still has a height of twenty feet. For most of the distance
the grading of the walls resembles the heavy grading of a
railway embankment. Only one who has examined the walls can
realize the amount of labor they represent for a people
destitute of metallic tools, beasts of burden, and other
facilities to construct it. We notice that the wall has numerous
breaks in it; some of these, where it crossed the ravines,
leading down the sides of a hill. In a few cases the embankment
may still be traced to within a few feet of a rivulet."

Considerable discussion has ensued as to the origin and use of
these numerous gateways. Mr. Squier thinks that these openings
were occupied by timber work in the nature of block-houses,
which have long since decayed. Others, however, think that the
wall was originally entire except in a few instances, and that
the breaks now apparent were formed by natural causes, such as
water gathering in pools, and muskrats burrowing through the
walls, and we are told that such an opening was seen forming in
the year 1847. No regular ditch exists inside the wall, the
material apparently being obtained from numerous dug holes.

"It will be seen that the works could be naturally divided into
two parts, connected by the isthmus. In relation to the wall
across the isthmus it has been thought to have been the means of
defending one part of the work, should an enemy gain entrance to
the other. It has also been supposed that at first the fort was
only built to the cross wall on the isthmus, and afterward the
rest of the inclosure was added to the work."

The late Dr. Edward Orton, president (1898) of the American
Association for the Advancement of Science, and one of the
foremost scientists this country has produced, gave an address
before the Ohio State Legislature (March, 1898) upon Fort
Ancient in which he said:

"The first point that I wish to make is that the builders of
Fort Ancient selected this site for their work with a wide and
accurate knowledge of this part of the country. You all know of
the picturesque location, in the beautiful and fertile valley of
the Little Miami, on the table land that bounds and in places
almost overhangs the river, and which is from two hundred to two
hundred and fifty feet above the river level. Availing
themselves of spurs of the old table land which were almost
entirely cut off by the gorges tributary to the river, they ran
their earth walls with infinite toil in a tortuous, crenulated
line along the margins of the declivities. Where the latter was
sharp and precepitous the earth walls were left lighter. Where
it became necessary to cross the table land, or where the slopes
were gradual, the walls were made especially high and strong.
The eye and brain of a military engineer, a Vauban of the olden
time, is clearly seen in all this. We cannot be mistaken in
regard to it when we thus find the weak places made strong, and
the strong places left as far as possible to their own natural
defenses. The openings from the fort, also, lead out in every
case to points easily made defensible and that command views
from several directions.

"In the second place we cannot be mistaken in seeing in the work
of Fort Ancient striking evidences of an organized society, of
intelligent leadership, in a word, of strong government. A vast
deal of labor was done here and it was done methodically,
systematically and with continuity. Here again you must think of
the conditions under which the work was accomplished. There were
no beasts of burden to share the labor of their owners; the work
was all done by human muscles. Buckets full of earth, each
containing from a peck to a half bushel, borne on the backs of
men or women, slowly built up these walls, which are nearly five
miles in length and which have a maximum height of not less than
twenty feet. Reduced to more familiar measurements the earth
used in the walls was about 172,000,000 cubic feet."

"Can we be wrong in further concluding that this work was done
under a strong and efficient government? Men have always shown
that they do not love hard work, and yet hard work was done
persistently here. Are there not evidences on the face of the
facts that they were held to their tasks by some strong control?

"It is said that the Roman legion required only a square of
seven hundred yards to effect the strongest encampment known to
the ancients of Europe or Asia, but within these formidable
lines there might be congregated at a moment's notice, fifty or
sixty thousand men, with all their materials of war, women,
children, and household goods."

"There are two mounds seen just outside of the walls at the
upper end. From these mounds two low parallel walls extended in
a northeasterly direction some thirteen hundred and fifty feet,
their distant ends joining around a small mound. As this mound
was not well situated for signal purposes, inasmuch as it did
not command a very extensive view, and as the embankments would
afford very little protection unless provided with palisades, it
seems as if the most satisfactory explanation we have is that it
was in the nature of a religious work.

"Mr. Hosea thinks he has found satisfactory evidence that
between these walls there was a paved street, as he discovered
in one place, about two feet below the present surface, a
pavement of flat stones. From this as a hint he eloquently says:
'Imagination was not slow to conjure up the scene which was once
doubtless familiar to the dwellers of Fort Ancient. A train of
worshippers, led by priests clad in their sacred robes and
bearing aloft the holy utensils, pass in the early morning ere
yet the mists have arisen in the valley below, on the gently
swelling ridge on which the ancient roadway lies. They near the
mound, and a solemn stillness succeeds their chanting songs; the
priests ascend the hill of sacrifice and prepare the sacred
fire. Now the first beams of the rising sun shoot up athwart the
ruddy sky, gilding the topmost boughs of the trees. The holy
flame is kindled, a curling wreath of smoke arises to greet the
coming god; the tremulous hush which was upon all nature breaks
into vocal joy, and the songs of gladness burst from the throats
of the waiting multitude as the glorious luminary arises in
majesty and beams upon his adoring people, a promise of renewed
life and happiness. Vain promise, since his rays cannot
penetrate the utter darkness which for ages has settled over
this people.' Thus imagination suggests, and enthusiasm paints,
a scene, but from positive knowledge we can neither affirm nor
deny its truth."

The largest of the burial mounds is situated at the junction of
Grave Creels and the Ohio river, twelve miles below Wheeling,
West Virginia. It measures seventy feet in height and is nearly
one thousand feet in circumference. An excavation made from the
top downward, and from one side of the base to the center
disclosed the fact that the mound contained two sepulchres, one
at the base and one near the center of the mound. These chambers
had been constructed of logs, and covered with stone. The lower
chamber contained two skeletons, one of which is supposed to
have been a female. The upper chamber contained but one
skeleton. In addition to these, there were found a great number
of shell beads, ornaments of mica, and bracelets of copper.

It mast have been indeed a great work for people who had neither
metallic tools nor domestic animals to have erected such a great
mound. The earth for its construction was probably scraped from
the surface and carried to the mound in baskets. A people who
could erect such a monument as this, with such scanty means at
their command, must have possessed those qualities which would
sooner or later have brought them civilization.

Charles Dickens, when visiting America, gives this impression
that the Big Grave made upon him "...the host of Indians who lie
buried in a great mound yonder--so old that mighty oaks and
other forest trees have struck their roots into the earth, and
so high that it is a hill, even among the hills that Nature
planted around it. The very river, as though it shared one's
feelings of compassion for the extinct tribes who lived so
pleasantly here in their blessed ignorance of white existence
hundreds of years ago, steals out of its way to ripple near this
mound, and there are few places where the Ohio sparkles more
brightly than in the Big Grave Creek."

Standing here in this lovely region, chosen by a vanished race
as their last resting place, we recalled the words of an Ohio
poet:

     "Lonely and sad it stands
     The trace of ruthless hands
     Is on its sides and summit, and around,
     The dwellings of the white man pile the ground,
     And curling in the air,
     The smoke of thrice a thousand hearths is there:
     Without, all speaks of life; within,
     Deaf to the city's echoing din,
     Sleep well the tenants of that silent Mound,
     Their names forgot, their memories unrenown'd.

     Upon its top I tread,
     And see around me spread
     Temples and mansions, and the hoary hills,
     Bleak with the labor that the coffer fills,
     But mars their bloom the while,
     And steals from nature's face its joyous smile:
     And here and there, below,
     The stream's meandering flow
     Breaks on the view; and westward in the sky
     The gorgeous clouds in crimson masses lie.
     The hammer's clang rings out,
     Where late the Indian's shout
     Startled the wild fowl from its sedgy nest,
     And broke the wild deer's and the panther's rest.
     The lordly oaks went down
     Before the ax--the canebrake is a town:
     The bark canoe no more
     Glides noiseless from the shore;
     And, sole memorial of a nation's doom,
     Amid the works of art rises this lonely tomb.

--Chas. A. Jones.

It is a well known fact that these ancient people chose the most
fertile spots along river bottoms for their settlements. The
Cahokia Mound is such a stupendous example of the work of the
Mound Builders that it well deserves mention here. It is located
in one of the most fertile sections in Illinois. It is well
watered, and not often overflowed by the Mississippi. It is such
a fertile and valuable tract that it has received the name of
the "Great American Bottom."

"Dr. Patrick has stated that the area of the base is over
fifteen acres. This base is larger than that of the Great
Pyramid, which was counted as one of the seven wonders of the
world, and we must not lose sight of the fact that the earth for
its construction was scraped up and brought thither without the
aid of metallic tools or beasts of burden, and yet the earth was
obtained somewhere and piled up over an area of fifteen acres,
in one place to a height of one hundred feet, and even the
lowest platform is fifty feet above the plain. Some have
suggested that it might be partly a natural elevation. There
seems to be, however, no good reasons for such suggestions.

"Near the site of Hughes High School in Cincinnati stood this
prehistoric earthwork. It was originally more than thirty-five
feet high, but was entirely levelled in 1841." (footnote Chas.
A. Jones.)

The first platform is reached at the height of about fifty feet.
This platform has an area of not far from two and four-fifths
acres-large enough for quite a number of houses, if such was the
purpose for which this mound was erected. The second platform is
reached at about the height of seventy-five feet, and contains
about one and three-fourths acres. The third platform is
elevated ninety-six or ninety-seven feet, while the last one is
not far from one hundred feet above the plain. We require to
dwell on these facts a moment before we realize what a
stupendous piece of work this is.

Why need we go to Egypt to see the Great Pyramid when we know
who built it and for what it was used; while we have this great
work in our own country by a vanished race whose purpose in
erecting it is still unknown? Some writers think that this huge
piece of work was performed so that their tribe would have an
elevation upon which to place their village, as an elevated site
has always been an important factor in defenses. Other writers
consider it a temple mound, and it resembles those that the
ancient Mexicans raised for both religions purposes and town
sites. Others believe that it may have been used to elevate
their homes above the level valley in case of floods.

At Miamisburg we have a great mound, rising to a height of sixty-
 eight feet, which is regarded as one of a chain by which signals
were transmitted along the valley. In the Scioto valley, from
Columbus to Chillicothe, a distance of about forty miles, twenty
mounds may be selected, so placed in respect to each other that
it is believed if the country was cleared of forests, signals of
fire might be transmitted in a few minutes along the whole line.
They may have been used as signal stations by the red man
centuries after the disappearance of their original builders.

Several examples of effigy mounds are found in Ohio. The most
notable is that known as "Great Serpent Mound," in Adams County.
It is the largest and most distinct of this class of mounds in
the United States if not in the whole world. Other important
Ohio points are the Eagle Mound at Newark and the Alligator or
Opossum Mound at Granville.

The morning of our arrival at this remarkable effigy--how shall
we describe it? The time was June, and as Lowell phrased it,
"What is so rare as a day in June?" We wound among picturesque
scenes that were softened by the hazy clouds and reveled in the
unsurprising riches of the charming landscape. The road led
through thick forests of oaks, linden and maple, through smiling
vales and to the crests of hills overlooking long open valleys
with wooded heights beyond. Everything seemed to break forth
into singing. Even the rippling streams chimed merrily in with
the glad exultant songs of red wing black birds and fluting
cardinals.

As we entered the park we were greeted by the cheery piping of
the Baltimore oriole-a warm, rich welcome from this brilliantly
colored bird as he fluttered about the elm like a dash of
southern sunshine. Try as we would we found our thoughts
straying from the dim days of the dead past to the ever living
present, for bees and birds were busy everywhere, telling their
joy in melodious and ecstatic notes.

European travelers say that our woods are nearly devoid of
birds, and that the songs of such as we have are not to be
compared with those about which their poets have written so
charmingly. They never were out among our blossoming wilderness
while the sun poured his first rays through delicate green
leaves and mounds of flowers or they never would have written
that way.

When from a rising eminence of land we let our eyes rove over
the vast undulating country around us, only the more prominent
features impress themselves on our view. The lesser details, the
waving grain, the blossoming sumac, the small brooklet, which
attract the immediate passerby, are lost in the distance, but
the range of forest clad hills, the wide expanse of fertile
plain, or the purpling hills in the distance, determine the
landscape and claim our attention. So in the light of the
present century let us note what we can of these ancient and
forgotten people. "Distance lends enchantment to the view," and
this is true of distance in time, or culture as well as in
space.

In memory we live over again those scenes, when a strange race
met in this very spot to worship. In fancy we see again vast
multitudes of people who assembled at the head of a victorious
warrior-king who returned from the field of battle, to offer
sacrifice upon the altar in the center of the oval. The casting
off of the old skin of the serpent may have been to these
primitive people typical of immortality. "Then a kite, by
producing death, would be to them the working of some powerful
spirit through that serpent. Its power to destroy life no doubt
caused it to be held in great veneration by many primitive
tribes. Likewise any striking object in Nature, such as a river,
lake, precipitous cliff, with singular shaped stone such as we
have here on the crescent shaped plateau rising from Brush
Creek, would have been regarded as the abode of some spirit and
would be worshipped accordingly. That such objects are
worshipped the world over we have abundant testimony, and it
will be found in all such cases that there is some peculiarity
about the contour of the land on which are placed these objects,
that would be sure to catch the eye of a superstitious race."

There has been another serpent mound discovered in Warren
County, but space forbids a description of it. Not far from the
city of Toronto, Canada, we also find another.

"The Great Serpent Mound" in Adams County has a counterpart in
the Old World. In Scotland there is a very remarkable and
distinct serpent, constructed of stone. This work has so much in
common with the Ohio serpent that we reproduce the description
as given by Miss Gordon Cummin in Good Words for March, 1872.

"The mound is situated upon a grassy plain. The tail of the
serpent rests near the shore of Loch Nell, and the mound
gradually rises seventeen to twenty feet in height and is
continued for three hundred feet, forming a double curve like
the letter S, and wonderfully perfect in anatomical outline.
This we perceive the more perfect on reaching the head, which
lies at the western end... The head forms a circular cairn, on
which, at the time of a visit there in 1871, there still
remained some trace of an altar, which has since wholly
disappeared. On excavating the circular cairn, or circle of
stones forming the head, a chamber containing burnt bones,
charcoal and burnt hazelnuts, and an implement of flint were
found. The removal of peat, moss and heather from the back of
the reptile showed that the whole length of the spine was
carefully constructed, with regularly and symmetrically placed
stones at such angles as to throw off rain... The spine is, in
fact, a long narrow causeway made of large stones, set like the
vertebrae of some huge animal. They form a ridge, sloping off at
each side, which is continued downward with an arrangement of
smaller stones suggestive of ribs. The mound has been formed in
such a position that the worshippers standing at the altar would
naturally look eastward, directly along the whole length of the
great reptile and across the dark lake to the triple peaks of
Ben Cruachan. This position must have been carefully selected,
as from no other point are the three peaks visible. General
Forlong, in commenting on this, says

"'Here, then, we have an earth-formed snake, emerging in the
usual manner from the dark blue water, at the base, as it were,
of a triple cone--Scotland's Mount Hermon--just as we so
frequently meet snakes and their shrines in the East.'

"Is there not something more than mere coincidence in the
resemblance between Loch Nell and the Ohio Serpent, to say
nothing of the topography of their respective situations? Each
has the head pointing west, and each terminates with a circular
enclosure, containing an altar, from which, looking along the
most prominent portion of the serpent, the rising sun may be
seen. If the serpent of Scotland is the symbol of an ancient
faith surely that of Ohio is the same."

Rev. MacLean of Greenville, Ohio, is a well known writer on
these topics. During the summer of 1881, while in the employ of
the Bureau of Ethnology, visited the place, taking with him a
thoroughly competent surveyor, and made a very careful plan of
the work for the bureau. All other figures published represent
the oval as the end of the works. Prof. Putnam who visited the
works in 1883, noticed, between the oval figure and the edge of
the ledge a slightly raised, circular ridge of earth, from
either side of which a curved ridge extended towards the side of
the oval figure. Rev. MacLean's researches and measurements have
shown that the ridges last spoken of are but part of what is
either a distinct figure or a very important portion of the
original. As determined, it certainly bears a very close
resemblance to a frog, and such Mr. MacLean concludes it to be.

"The oval mound in front of the Great Serpent effigy would
indicate that this was a locality which tradition had fixed upon
as a place where some divinity had dwelt. We suggest also in
reference to this serpent mound, that possibly the very trend of
the hill and the valleys, and the streams on either side of it,
may have been given to tradition. The isolation of the spot is
remarkable. Two streams which here separate the tongue of land
from the adjoining country unite just below the cliff, and form
an extensive open valley, which lays the country open for many
miles, so that the cliff on which the effigy is found can be
seen a great distance. The location of this effigy is peculiar.
It is in the midst of a rough, wild region, which was formerly
very difficult to approach, and according to all accounts was
noted for its inaccessibility.

"The shape of the cliff would easily suggest the idea of a
massive serpent, and with this inaccessibility to the spot would
produce a peculiar feeling of awe, as if it were a great Manitou
which resided there, and so a sentiment of wonder and worship
would gather around the locality. This would naturally give rise
to a tradition or would lead the people to revive some familiar
tradition and localize it. This having been done, the next step
would be to erect an effigy on the summit which would both
satisfy the superstition and represent the tradition. It would
then become a place where the form of the serpent divinity was
plainly seen, and where the worship of the serpent, if it could
be called worship, would be practiced. Along with this serpent
worship, however, there was probably the formality instituted
here, and the spot made sacred to them. It was generally
'sacrificing in a high place,' the fires which were lighted
would be seen for a great distance down the valley and would
cast a glare over the whole region, producing a feeling of awe
in the people who dwelt in the vicinity. The shadows of the
cliff would be thrown over the valley, but the massive form of
the serpent would be brought out in bold relief; the tradition
would be remembered and superstition would be aroused, and the
whole scene would be full of strange and awful associations."

The various authors who have treated of this serpent mound have
maintained that the tradition which found its embodiment here
was the old Brahmanic tradition of the serpent and the egg. Even
the Indians had their traditions in regard to the meaning of
various symbols.

In Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha we have this legend from the
Indians:

     Thus said Hiawatha, walking
     In the solitary forest,
     Pondering, musing in the forest,
     On the welfare of his people.
     From his pouch he took his colors,
     Took his paints of different colors.
     On the smooth bark of a birch tree
     Painted many shapes and figures,
     Wonderful and mystic figures,
     And each figure had a meaning,
     Each some word or thought suggested.

     Gitche Manito, the Mighty,
     He, the Master of Life, was painted
     As an egg, with points projecting
     To the four winds of the heavens.
     Everywhere is the Great Spirit,
     Was the meaning of the symbol.

     Mitche Manito, the Mighty,
     He the dreaded Spirit of Evil,
     As a serpent was depicted,
     As Kenabeek the great serpent.
     Very crafty, very cunning,
     Is the creeping Spirit of Evil,
     Was the meaning of this symbol.

(footnote From "The Egg and Serpent.")

Here while gazing in wonder at this ancient shrine we recalled
how in the stillness and fading light of evening we visited the
famous cathedral of Antwerp. The last rays of the descending sun
fell through the stained glass and darkened the vast aisles. The
grandeur and solemn beauty of this noble pile at this time of
day touched the imagination most deeply. Then listening to the
mellow music falling as it were from the clouds through the
tranquil air of evening, we were enchanted. How those light
silvery notes filled our imagination with romantic dreams of old
Flanders.

Again we recalled our visit to the Great Cathedral of Cologne,
the most complete piece of Gothic architecture anywhere to be
found. We mounted the steps of one of the gigantic towers which
lift their sublime heads to a height of five hundred two feet,
the exact length of the cathedral. Here we gazed out over the
level plain that stretched away to the marvelous scenic region
of the Seven Mountains. The foundation of this beautiful
structure was laid two hundred fifty years before the discovery
of America and fifty years before the founding of the Turkish
Empire. But the last stone was not laid on the south tower until
1880.

As we listened to the deep-toned bells, how we were thrilled
with visions of the past! Here lived Colonia Agrippina, the
daughter of Germanicus and the mother of Nero. It was from
Cologne that Hadrian received his summons to Rome as emperor.
Here, too, Vitellius and Silvanus were both proclaimed emperor
in this remote northern camp on the left bank of the Rhine.

But you do not dwell long on the past, for here stands this
colossal, magnificent cathedral with its incomparable towers to
call your attention to the glorious achievements of man. Men
were not the only ones to use this noble edifice as a sanctuary,
for out and in among its superb towers numerous birds darted to
and fro, where they dwelt safely as in a citadel. Pretty falcons
circled gracefully about them as though they were crags of some
wild mountain; rooks cawed from their lofty stations below the
bells; chimney swifts glued their log cabins to rough stone
ledges, and in various niches above the doorway pigeons placed
their nests and uttered their messages of peace to all who
entered. English sparrows, too, had taken possession here and
there just as their countrymen had taken possession of the city.

As we entered the cathedral a mingled feeling of awe and
devotion came over us. But it was not the blazing shrine of the
eleven thousand Virgins, the magnificent windows through which
the morning sunbeams filtered, nor yet the choir, perhaps the
most wonderful in the world, that produced this feeling of
reverence. "We remembered that this glorious structure had been
erected to the 'God of Peace' in the midst of strife and
bitterness, and by men estranged by the first principle of the
Gospel." But here we beheld French officers, Scotch Highlanders,
English and American soldiers, scattered among the Germans,
reverently kneeling, devout and hushed at the Consecration. Then
we thought how "notwithstanding the passions of men and
wickedness of rulers, the building up of the Church of God and
of the Christian faith, goes steadily on, unrecorded but
continuous."

But here among these lovely Ohio hills, where the Master
Architect erected and is still building these wonderful temples
that never decay, we were more impressed by their solemn
grandeur than any work of man could inspire. Here long before
the cathedrals of Europe were thought of, a primitive people
erected their altars and offered up their sacrifice to their
gods. Here as the rays of the sun filtered through the leafy
windows of the trees falling upon the richly wrought mosaic of
ferns and flowers, where the gorgeous cardinal blossoms flamed
from a hundred altars and the bell-like song of the wood thrush
rang through all the dim aisles, these ancient people felt the
presence of a higher power, and not yet knowing that their god
required the sacrifice of noble lives and loving hearts, brought
to the altar the best gifts they knew.

Standing alone in this fair solitude, as much alone as if we had
been on some fairy isle of a distant sea, we felt that we were
surrounded by a strange, mysterious presence, and thoughts and
fancies, like weird articulate voices of those ancient people,
filled the solemn place. The aged trees sighed in the evening
wind, telling over and over their mournful legends, lest they
forget. The storm-swept maples repeated their "rhythmical runes
of these unremembered ages." We allowed ourselves to sink
soothingly beneath deep waves of primitive emotions until we
seemed to perceive the sagas that the maples told the elms of a
more remote history than that of the Pharaohs or storied Greece.

Darkness began to settle over this lonely spot. Along the silent
and gloomy road we seemed to see shadowlike forms that flitted
here and there through the blackness of darkest night, a
blackness only relieved by a few stars that peered like silent
spectators from the dark draperies of clouds. Now a band of
people was seen moving not swiftly to the accompaniment of
martial music, but slowly and silently to the sighing night
wind. As we watched a lurid flame burst from the center of the
oval while a strange figure bent over it as he performed his
weird mystical rites. Now the light from the red and yellow
flames fell upon a vast group of dark figures and a thousand
gleaming eyes peered out of the velvety canopy around us. The
mournful distressing notes of the ghost bird broke the
stillness. The scream of some passing night bird replied as if
in answer to their weird calls. A great horned owl made us
shiver with his "hoo, hoo, hoo," as the flame shot upward in
scarlet circles. The night wind stirred the branches, which
sighed audibly, and died away leaving the place lonelier than
before. Then the sharp bark of a fox rang out from a neighboring
hill. The breeze started up again and a limb of a tree that
rubbed against its neighbor produced a wailing sound as of some
one in distress. We could see fantastic shapes out among the
gnarled tree trunks and ghostly forms appeared in the velvety
shadows and vanished again among the trees. The moon rose out
over the rim of the eastern hills and seemed almost to pause as
if some Oriental Magic was being wrought. A mist arose from the
river and hovered over the valley below us; the complaining
water of Brush creek mingled with the wailing of the screech owl
as the ghostly footfalls sounded more remote. The bullfrog's
harsh troonk "ushered in the night" and, imagining one of them
as the very one that escaped the serpent and leaped into the
creek centuries ago, we left the place to the spirits of that
unknown age and the moonlight.

But why this concern over a vanished race? Why all this worry
over the Coliseum or Parthenon? Why so eager to learn of these
crumbling mounds and broken down embankments in our own land?
Then as if we heard a voice from the shadowy past, rising from
these silent ruins, we begin to gain their secret at last. The
Parthenon and Coliseum call up the sad story with its yet sadder
truth that true weal can only come to that nation that plans for
the future. Yet each adds something to the onward march of
civilization.

In the ancient gardens of France and Italy the nightingale still
warbles her divine hymn, all unmindful of Caesar's conquests.
The whippoorwill calls in her plaintive notes through the
silvery spring nights over the graves of this vanished race of
America. Let us concern ourselves about the past only as that
past shall contribute to a more glorious future. It is not
mounds, pyramids, or bronze tablets we should be building for
later generations of archaeologists to puzzle their brains over.

A large and beautiful mound standing in the precincts of the
original plat of Columbus, Ohio, was demolished, the clay taken
therefrom and used as the material for the bricks with which the
first State House was built. Here where a thousand years came
and went and the Indian warrior reverently spared the last
resting place of these unrecorded dead, another people reared
their legislative halls out of their mouldering sepulchres and
crumbling bones. O, American Nation, with your wonderful
civilization of today, it is well to pause here amid the "steam
shriek" career of your harried life with all its getting and
spending, to contemplate the ruin of even this once consecrated
piece of ground.

Here as you watch, the swift winged swallows dart from their
homes in the steep bank of the stream; the kingfisher sounds his
discordant rattle and hangs poised in mid air as he gazes into
the waters below; the woodbine like a staunch friend still
clings round the oak or hangs out its crimson banner in autumn;
the meadowlark walks sedately on the vast coils of the serpent
calling, "Spring o' the year," or as we fancied, "they are not
here," as he did on that first morning. Man, yes, nations pass
away and are forgotten, yet the spirit of life is ever
perpetuated in a thousand new and lovely forms. At times we are
touched by the fluttering of the maple leaves as if we read a
mournful prophecy. Even now the petals of the wood rose are
lying around us and we see signs where earlier blossoms have
faded. Yet will they never bloom again ? Men may return to dust
from whence they sprung, but out of the mould will rise new
blossoms to make glad the earth, and while some other nation
shall wander over the ruins and tread with solemn step over the
resting place of those who now wander here, they too shall
listen to the liquid notes of the wood thrush through the hushed
aisle of some shadowy forest and also learn that nothing dies.

Here crowning the summits of these ancient mounds of an older
race of tillers of the soil dwell the peaceful American farmers
in their comfortable rural homes all unmindful of that other
race who toiled here. How well the secrets of the past are
guarded! "Try as we might we could not roll hack the flight of
time, even by the aid of ancient history, by whose feeble light
we were able to see but dimly the outlines of the centuries that
lie back of us; beyond is gloom soon lost in night. It is hidden
by a present veil that only thickens as the years roll on."

The encroaching days of the Red men and the ravages of time, as
the centuries came and went, have affected but not obliterated
these ancient mounds. The vandal hand of conquering man has
destroyed or hid from sight many of the monumental works of this
primitive people. But there yet remain many mournful ruins here
in Ohio which cannot fail to impress us with a sense of a
vanished past.

"To think of our own high state of civilization is to imagine
for this nation an immortality. We are so great and strong that
surely no power can remove us. Let us learn humility from the
past; and when, here and there, we come upon some reminder of a
vanished people, trace the proofs of a teeming population in
ancient times, and recover somewhat of a history as true and
touching as any that poets sing, let us recognize the fact that
nations as well as individuals pass away and are forgotten."

     "There is the moral of all human tales;
     'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past.
     First Freedom, and then glory--when that fails,
     Wealth, vice, corruption,--barbarian at last,
     And history with its volume vast,
     Hath but one page."

(footnote NOTE. Many of the quotations given in the above are to
be found in "Allan's History of Civilization." We are also
indebted to Mr. Randall, State Secretary of the Ohio
Archaeological Society, for material used.)


THE SHENANDOAH VALLEY

Shenandoah, "the Daughter of Stars," as the Indians have called
this lovely valley, lies in the northwestern part of Virginia
between the Blue Ridge mountains on the east and the Alleghanies
on the west, beginning near Staunton and extending in a
northeastern direction to the Potomac Water Gap at Harpers
Ferry. Through it runs what was once known as the "Great Valley
Pike" and which is now part of the National Highway. Not only
its incomparable scenery but its many thrilling campaigns of
historical significance make this valley the Mecca for thousands
of tourists. It has been the stage of vast scenic beauty on
which the bloody drama of war has so often been enacted. How
many and varied have been its actors! How sanguine and gruesome
the part they played!

"Many and thrilling were the Indian massacres that occurred
here; it knew the horrors of the French and Indian War; from it
during the Revolution Morgan conducted his vigorous operations
against the British; last but not least, it was the scene of
Stonewall Jackson's brilliant "Valley Campaign" and Sheridan's
Ride made famous by Thomas Buchanan Read.

"What stirring campaigns this broad and beautiful plain,
stretching from the foot of the Blue Ridge toward the sea, has
known! How like a vast citadel, this Old Dominion above the
other confederate states to guard their capital! The parallel
rivers made a water barrier on the north where the Federals were
compelled to wade to victory; while the western front, a high
range of the Blue Ridge, stretched along the sky like a vast
wall, its purple ramparts frowning down in defiance, or the
nearer hills rising impressively up from the plain, forming in
the valley ways between well protected avenues for invading the
North." (footnote Shenandoah Valley--Pond.) Ages before any
battles transpired here, Nature threw up these beautiful
fortifications and arranged the field of battle.

The road approaches the valley through its rocky gateway of
Harper's Ferry where the Potomac, after breaking through the
vast wall of the Blue Ridge, is joined by the Shenandoah. Here
great rocks rise and tower above you and the broad stream is
filled with boulders of various sizes, making innumerable
cascades, which present a scene of rare beauty. After climbing
by many and various curves you finally reach the top of a
towering cliff and look down on the wondrous picture spread
before you. The confluence of these two rivers is one of the
many beauty spots of the valley.

The Gap was of vast strategic importance during the Civil war.
In nearly every instance the Confederates were aided by the
contour of the land in the "Valley Campaign." A confederate
advance here would lead straight toward Washington, while a
Union advance south would lead from a straight course to
Richmond. The Potomac flows at right angles to the line of the
ridge, therefore a Confederate force crossing the valley mouth
would be in the rear of the north. One day's march from
Cumberland valley would carry the Southern troops into the
farmlands of Pennsylvania. Thus did Nature seem to contribute to
the aid of the South.

We soon forgot about the conflict for the valley in all its
beauty lay before us, and every day was a holiday. So it was not
important just then which way the river flowed or in what
direction those glorious mountains led. It was the bloom-time of
the year in the uplands; the landscapes of the valley were
sparkling in the sunlight, the songs of numerous larks rose like
incense from every meadow, the vireo filled in every pause with
her rapid voluble song, the clear ringing call of the quail
resounded through every valley, and the hillsides were so
covered with different hued grasses, ferns and flowers that they
seemed like vast paintings.

Here the fine automobile road wound among scenes of incomparable
loveliness. There were vast sheets of ox-eyed daisies; the rich
flaming orange of the butterfly weed, the purple of various
mints, the gleaming gold of numerous compositae making the place
rich in floral beauty, while an ever-fragrant breeze stirred the
grain into golden billows and the meadows into slight undulating
waves like an emerald sea.

Slow indeed was our progress through these glorious places and
each stop we made on the high ridges overlooking the valleys
unfolded a view more beautiful than the last we beheld.
Cultivation had been here many years, yet this only served to
enhance the loveliness of the scene; and we wandered enchanted
from place to place in long wavering curves, knowing that each
new turn held a vision of delight. Wander where you will in this
valley the Blue Ridge mountains are always in sight wearing
those misty blue veils on their graceful forest crowned ridges.

Harper's Ferry was not only of great strategic importance as a
gateway for the armies but it will ever be associated with the
memory of John Brown, that impulsive but noble soul for whom
Freedom was a passion. What matter though he was hanged, the
nation shall ever honor his memory. There is a monument marking
the site of the old John Brown fort near the railroad station
which may he seen from the high-way intersecting the valley.

As we looked at the monument we thought of this poem which, in
its majestic sweep of thought, is as stately as the Potomac:

     John Brown of Ossawatomie spoke on his dying day:
     "I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay,
     But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free,
     With her children, from the gallows stair put up a prayer
     for me."

     John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him out to die;
     And lo! a poor slave mother with her little child pressed nigh.
     Then the bold blue eye grew tender, and the old harsh face
     grew mild
     As he stooped between the jeering ranks and kissed the Negro's
     child.

     The shadows of his stormy life that moment fell apart,
     And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave the loving heart,
     That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the good intent,
     And around the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent!

     Perish with him the folly that seeks through evil good!
     Long live the generous purpose unstained by human blood!
     Not the raid of midnight terror, but the thought which
     underlies;
     Not the borderer's pride of daring, but the Christian's
     sacrifice.

     Nevermore may yon Blue Ridges the northern rifle hear,
     Nor see the light of blazing homes flash on the Negro's
     spear,
     But let the free-winged angel Truth their guarded passes
     scale,
     To teach that right is more than might, and justice more
     than mail!

     So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in array;
     In vain her trampling squadrons knead the winter snows
     with clay.
     She may strike the pouncing eagle, but she dares not
     harm the dove;
     And every gate she bars to Hate shall open wide to Love.

--Whittler.


Lee captured Harper's Ferry with eleven thousand men, seventy-
three heavy guns and thirteen thousand small arms. After he beat
Hooker at Chancelorsville this valley was his route of invasion.
After the battle of Gettysburg he fell back and pitched his camp
here. In fact, it witnessed so many captures and defeats that it
was known as the "Valley of Humiliation." It had to be wrested
from the enemy before the Richmond Campaign could be carried
out. General J. F. Johnston, commander of the forces known as
the Army of the Shenandoah, was stationed at the outlet of the
valley. Jackson, too, began his campaign in 1862. Being checked
by Shields, he fell upon Fort Republic, defeated Fremont at
Cross Keys, captured the garrison at Front Royal, drove Banks
across the Potomac and alarmed Washington by breaking up the
junction of McDowell's and McClellan's forces which threatened
the capture of Richmond.

Our campaign in search of beauty was a brilliant success, and
from many points of vantage did we spy upon the vast expanse of
golden grain and fresh green meadows in which cattle were
grazing, or ruminating in the shade of friendly elms. Here gush
clear springs, whose courses may be traced by tall waving ferns
and creeping vines that weave their spell of green. Swift
tumbling brooks have worn down the soil and enriched the valley.
This valley was called the "Granary of the Confederacy" and a
granary it really was, "for it was rich not only in grain but an
abundance of fruit and live stock; and what more would the North
want for the support of its army? It was in the possession of
the Confederates; much wanted by the Federals, and in time came
to be a great campaign ground of both armies"--the Belgium of
America. What thrilling marching and counter-marching the lower
valley might tell! What a history those villages must have had
from 1861 to 1865! Perhaps at dawn they sheltered an army of
"Yanks," at noon they may have been swarming with men from the
South, while night, with her ever-watchful stars, looked down
and saw them sleeping beneath the Stars and Stripes! In fact, it
was traversed so often that the men from both armies called it,
the "Race Course." So many were their journeys over the famous
"Valley Pike" that they knew the various springs, houses, and in
many instances, the citizens who lived there.

Alas! How many brave sons in the North said farewell to scenes
and friends to enter the Union Army in the valley, never to
return. How often, too, the gallant sons of the "Sunny South"
gazed with tear dimmed eyes for the last time on those purple
hills they knew from childhood. How many were the battles fought
here! How terrible the scenes of devastation and the toll of
life! Waste were the golden fields of grain upon which we gaze
with such rapt admiration. Waste, too, were these mills with
their whir of industry. The fury of war fell on those sunny
acres like a great pestilence, and their usefulness and beauty
became desolation. The only grist mill not burned by Sheridan
and his men when they went through is still pointed out to the
traveler. But Nature has again asserted her right and on this
delightful morning the valley smiles beneath its veil of dreamy
blue like the peaceful glow that spreads over the countenance of
some great and beneficent soul.

The high range of the Blue Ridge was seen stretching along the
sky like a vast purple wall, while, nearer, the lower hills rose
impressively up from the plain. How clean and pare and shining
the woods appear this lovely morning! The glorious old chestnut
trees reflect the sunlight and shimmering masses from their
shining green leaves, while their creamy white flowers make a
grand display amidst the various tinted foliage of all the
forest; and the stately basswood, covered with light yellow
bloom filled with the hum of innumerable bees, heightens the
picture. The shadowy hemlock and fragrant pine swaying in the
breeze still tell their age-old songs. The sunbeams spangled on
the broad green leaves of the sycamore tree, their tracery of
white boughs relieved against the dense groves of evergreens,
made studies in light and shade worthy of an Innes; while
beneath these grand trees tall ferns and velvety mosses
contrasted their various shades of green over which rose spikes
of flaming cardinal flowers and blue mists of mints making the
picture complete. Then, too, song birds enlivened the fair scene
with their notes. In the bushes along the highway Maryland
yellow-throats threw back their masked heads and called,
"Witchery, witchery, witchery," as if they appreciated their
charming home, while nearby, a cardinal appeared like an arrow
of flame from the bow of some unseen archer, and whistled
several variations that rang through all the woodland. The house
wren was fairly bubbling over with music and his rippling notes
seemed to express the exuberance of life in all Nature; while
the serene song of the woodthrush floated from far, dim forest
depths--fit prelude for the Angelic Choir.

Amid such inspiring music and scenes as this, it is not easy to
tell much about the topography of the country in reference to
its strategic importance. It is enough to know that from the
boughs of the elm above hang the orioles' gray castles where the
females' beady eyes from their dangling citadels look out on the
alien foes who pass beneath or up above where the great hawk
swims the aerial blue like a plane without bombs. The spider
weaves pontoons from tree to bush and sits in his silvery
fortress trying to beguile the unwary flies by his kingly
demeanor. The great blue heron, like a French sentinel on duty
along the muddy Meuse, awaits in silence any hostile
demonstrations from those green-coated Boches among their
camouflaged fortresses of spatterdocks and lily pads. The
muskrat goes scouring the water, searching for booty near the
river's bank or submerges like a submarine when discovered by a
noisy convoy of Senegalese boys on the bank. A wily weasel, no
doubt considered by those cliff-dwellers, the kingfishers, as
one of the "Ladies from Hell," was being hustled out of their
dugout at the point of the bayonet. No matter about the "kilts";
if he ever had them they were lost by his hurried flight.

The North, South and Middle rivers join in sisterly union near
Port Republic to form the Shenandoah. From Lexington to Harper's
Ferry at the foot of the valley the distance is one hundred
fifty-five miles. The "Valley's Turnpike" runs northward through
Harrisonburg, New Market, Woodstock, Strassburg, and Winchester
to Martinsburg. And what a pike it is! And through what superb
scenes it leads you! "At Staunton the Virginia Central railroad
crosses the valley on the way to Charlottesville. Fifty-five
miles north of Staunton an isolated chain of mountains known as
the Massanutten range, which is high and abrupt, divides the
valley for more than forty miles until at Strassburg it falls
again suddenly to the plain. Like the Appalachians it breaks
into two ridges--Massanutten and Kells mountain." Between these
mountains you will see a narrow and very picturesque valley
known as Powell's Fort Valley. Passage creek, a most delightful
little stream, winds through it and joins the Shenandoah below.
West of Kells may be seen a parallel sub-range containing Peaked
Ridge, Three Top and Little Massanutten, which is crossed by a
road that connects New Market and Luray.

New Market is a quaint old town on the valley pike eight miles
from above Mount Jackson and is joined by the turn-pike which
comes from Front Royal. It traverses the Massanutten mountain by
the Massanutten Gap. It was of vast military importance, for
here Breckenridge and Siegel met. Moore occupied an elevation
north of New Market. Now in place of the thundering cannon and
rattling musketry we were listening to a medley of bird notes
that fell thick as shrapnel around us. The vast hills covered
with their leafy verdure of summer; the rich valley spread below
us made radiant by the beauty of the descending sun and a light
rain; voices rising on the misty air from the valley below--all
seemed to unite in weaving a magic spell for the coming scene.
As we gazed out over the peaceful valley a rainbow seemed to
spring from a wooded hillside and arch the lovely meadow below
us, coloring the fields in the most singular beauty; while its
second reflection with softer colors arched like a corona above
a high wooded hill. Then followed sunset and twilight with the
hymn of the thrush. A single star like a great silver lamp
trembled above the summit of a hill, where the gathering mist
like a thin gossamer film was settling on its sides.

How different that night of inky blackness, in which a pouring
rain continued to fall daring the stormy night drenching the
Union men under Moore! Just as the gray of the eastern sky
announced the approach of dawn, skirmishers were leaving the
camp. A few hours later Siegel came up with the rest of his army
to accept battle. The night's rain made the march through the
sticky mud of the young wheat very toilsome. Moore was sent in
advance to break the enemy's onset. With him were the troops
from the 18th Connecticut and 123rd Ohio infantry; the 34th
Massachusetts brought up the artillery, while one company was
detached and thrown out as skirmishers in the woods of the river
bank. The line across the rising ground of another slope in
front was held by Moore. What a moment of awful suspense it must
have been when Breckenridge moved to attack with the veteran
brigades of Echols and Whartons! How the mountain must have sent
back the roaring echoes as McLaughlin's artillery went into
action on a sharp ridge that ran parallel with the pike!
Breckenridge overlapping Moore drove him in confusion to the
rear and with scarcely a pause came in excellent order against
Thoburn's position, but the gallant men of the Union right
checked him, whereupon Imboden, who was in command of
Breckenridge's cavalry, galloped with all possible haste down
Smith creek on the east bank to the bridge on Luray road in
order to get on Siegel's left flank. Here the cavalry were
routed and retreated hastily up the road, one battery being
captured. Moore's troops rallied on Rude's Hill and the 28th and
116th Ohio were brought up from the charge of the wagons. Siegel
resumed his retreat up the pike, crossed the Shenandoah river to
Jackson, burned the bridge behind him and went into camp behind
Cedar creek.

The country which now lies in quiet beauty here was ravaged.
Beeves, sheep, and grain were taken; the mills and factories of
Staunton were burned, also the railroad bridges and telegraph
wires were destroyed. It must have been a most dreadful sight
for the inhabitants of this fertile valley to witness the
eighteen thousand men under Crook, Averell, and Hunter marching
through the fields of luxuriant wheat that half hid them from
view. The ground was comparatively level and an army could
spread out and march with much greater rapidity although its
numbers were large.

Hunter had to retreat from Lynchburg with Early in pursuit. So
closely was he pursued that the mules and horses died for want
of fodder and rest; cattle were driven along by day and eaten at
night; many wagons had to be burned because there were not
enough animals to draw them. Such was the cruel fate of war in
this lovely and fertile valley.

But you quickly forget scenes like this as you see these
glorious mountains clothed in exquisite veils that brood over
their serene loveliness, steeping their sunny outlines in
infinite gradations of azure and purple hues. The swift flowing
streams with their liquid music rising from the distant woods;
the graceful forms of hemlock and elm; the dim twilight vistas
always cool and soft with emerald mosses redolent with the
breath of pine and sweet scented fern--all combine to make this
a place of wonderful charm where you are prone to tarry.

We saw men loading hay in the meadows that were bounded by rail
fences, and the fragrance from the fields was wafted to us as we
passed. As the road wound among fair scenes where beautiful
homes reposed among their delightful setting of trees, shrubbery
and vines, we noticed hill rising above hill, some covered with
fields of grass and grain, others clothed with forest; while the
main line of the Blue Ridge rose sharp and clear against the sky
with a series of undulating billows of woodland; green fading
into gray-green and gray-green into blue where the Alleghanies
lifted their rugged crests and divided the Atlantic from the
Middle states, blending imperceptibly into the skyline.

The high hill on which we stood, sloped down to the lovely
valley. Across it, other hills began to emerge, imperceptibly at
first, then plainly in the distance, then became more and more
abrupt, until they grew precipitous and climbed high up,
printing their faint outline on the azure sky of June. Looking
out over the valley we beheld a memorable scene. What wonderful
vistas, with unnumbered miles of fields, forests and mountains,
with the blue of the sky for a background!

We were forced to take refuge from a heavy rain storm in a
garage located in Charles Town, the county seat of Jefferson
county, West Virginia. While we lingered, we were told that the
old courthouse in which John Brown was tried was located here.
He was hanged in this city. Sadly we turned to look at the old
courthouse on Main street where he was sentenced to death. Seven
miles from here are located Shennondale springs which are said
to be very much like those of Baden-Baden. The town was occupied
by both Sheridan's and Banks' army during the Civil war. Two and
one-half miles southeast of the city is "Washington's Masonic
Cave," where it is said George Washington and other prominent
men held Masonic meetings.

We soon were passing through Berryville, admiring the beautiful
residences and well kept grounds of the old town, dating from
the close of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth
centuries. "Greenway Court," the home in which lived Thomas Lord
Fairfax, and "Saratoga," the former residence of Daniel Morgan,
are located here.

As you near the city of Winchester you see many fine apple
orchards with their well cultivated trees extending in long
converging lines and "disappearing over the top of some distant
hill as if they had no end." It must be a beautiful sight in
spring to see the pink and white blossoms of these extensive
orchards foretelling an abundant harvest. In June it is one vast
expanse of green and gold that lies before you, or stretches
away beneath its silvery veils of misty blue. More than three-
quarters of a million barrels of apples are shipped from here
annually.

But it is not alone for its scenic beauty and bountiful harvests
of its valley that we remember Winchester, for north of the city
on a high knoll situated in a clump of trees is the remains of
the old "Star Fort" which figured in the fiercest engagements in
the Civil war.

Winchester is said to have been occupied and abandoned eighty
times during the war. It was held by the Confederates until
March, 1862, when after Johnston's defeat at Manassas the
southern forces withdrew up the Shenandoah valley and the
northern forces occupied the city. Two armies surged back and
forth over the territory until March 23, 1862, when the Federal
forces under General Shields defeated an inferior federate force
at Kernstown, four miles south of Winchester. The second battle
of Winchester occurred on June 14, 1864, when the Confederates,
under General Early, drove the Union troops from the town. The
third or most important battle of Winchester occurred on
September 19, 1864. This is one of the most memorable battles of
the war, for, out of a seeming defeat the magnetic presence of
Sheridan brought to the Union men an almost miraculous victory.
We shall quote the famous Sheridan's Ride by Thomas Buchanan
Read:

     Up from the South at break of day,
     Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay
     The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
     Like a herald in haste to the Chieftain's door,
     The terrible rumble, grumble and roar,
     Telling the battle was on once more,
     And Sheridan twenty miles away.

     And wider still those billows of war
     Thundered along the horizon's bar;
     And louder yet into Winchester roll'd
     The road of that red sea uncontroll'd,
     Making the blood of the listener cold,
     As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
     And Sheridan twenty miles away.

     But there is a road from Winchester town,
     A good broad highway leading down;
     And there through the flush of the morning light
     A steed as black as the steeds of night,
     Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight,
     As if he knew the terrible need;
     He stretched away with his utmost speed;
     Hills rose and fell but his heart was gay,
     With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

     Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south;
     The dust like smoke from the cannon's mouth,
     Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster,
     Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster,
     The heart of the steed and the heart of the master
     Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,
     Impatient to be where the battlefield calls;
     Every nerve of the chargers has strain'd to full play,
     With Sheridan only ten miles away.

     Under his spurning feet, the road
     Like an arrowy Alpine river flow'd,
     And the landscape sped away behind
     Like an ocean flying before the wind;
     And the steed like a bark fed with furnace ire;
     Swept on, with wild eye full of fire.
     But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire;
     He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
     With Sheridan only five miles away.

     The first that the general saw were the groups
     Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops;
     What was done? What to do? A glance told him both,
     Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath,
     He dash'd down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas,
     And the wave of retreat, checked his course there,
     The sight of the master compell'd it to pause.
     With foam and with dust the black charger was gray;
     By the flash of his eye, and the red nostrils' play
     He seem'd to the whole great army to say,
     I have brought you Sheridan all the way
     From Winchester down to save the day.

     Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan!
     Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man!
     And when their statues are placed on high,
     Under the dome of the Union sky,
     The American Soldiers' Temple of Fame,
     There with the glorious general's name,
     Be it said, in letters both bold and bright;
     Here is the steed that saved the day
     By carrying Sheridan into the fight
     From Winchester--twenty miles away.


Strassburg, a strategical point in the historical Stonewall
Jackson valley campaign, is situated at the base of the
Massanutten mountain, which rising abruptly as it does and
extending parallel with the Blue Ridge divides the valley into
two parts. Thus it may readily be seen why the possession of
this place was all important to the Union troops, for with
Strassburg in the hands of the Confederates, they could have
menaced Washington, "either by way of Harper's Ferry over the
Valley pike, or by the way of Manassas, over what was then the
old Virginia Midland Railway. Flowing through the two parts are
the north and south forks of the Shenandoah river, which unite
near this point."

Passing through Woodstock, the county seat of Shenandoah county,
and its sister towns Edinburg and Mount Jackson, we were
impressed by the fine landscape about us. Vast stretches of
golden grain extended far up the ridges, whose meadows and oats
fields bounded in some places by rail fences made a charming
picture. As we journeyed on, the landscape had that luxuriance
of foliage that reminded us of the vales and hills of Scotland.
We became aware that our observation was correct, for we soon
saw in the distance the town of Edinburgh. In Scotland we miss
the vast wealth of forest-crowned ridges we have in the Blue
Ridge, and the sweep of unfenced grain-clad hills, stretch far
away, reaching the very tops except where they are too steep and
rocky. As we paused long and often to gaze in admiration at
these wonderful pictures we were always thrilled with their
indescribable beauty.

Little did it seem that here, where all was peace and
contentment, the cruel scourge of war had fallen upon the land
with its blighting power, leaving in its wake thousands of
widows and orphans. "But here are evidences of gruesome warfare
between unknown Indian tribes long before the day of the
Pioneer. At Redbanks Farm, north of Mount Jackson, is a great
mound filled with the skeletons of a whole tribe exterminated by
a war party of Indians from North Carolina," and throughout this
part of the valley there have been repeated and bloody massacres
and constant warfare that had other causes than that of slavery
for their waging.

Under the bright sky of June that was wonderfully clear and deep
lay the charmed landscape before us, with its ever-changing
scenery as we wound among its glorious hills or swept with
varied speed across the fertile plains. The old-fashioned
country homes, quaint and peaceful villages, and variety of
forest clad hills, all made this scene one that shall long be
treasured in memory for the magnificence and grandeur of its
beauty.

Far across the cultivated reaches, the smoothly flowing ridges
printed their faint outlines along the horizon in gray veils,
resembling a far-distant mass of water; nearer, the ranges were
blue-gray while those next to them wore a delicate shade of
ethereal blue. The peaks still nearer were clothed in a misty
veil of deeper blue while high hills ranked themselves on each
side of us with their forests of varying shades of green.
Hemlock and pine made dark green patches interspersed with the
brighter green of maple, tulip, poplar and beech, enlivened with
the frosty blossoms of the chestnut and the creamy tints of the
basswood; then there was the rich green of the meadows, the
silvery bluegreen of the oats fields, and the golden green of
the ripening wheat--all so well blended and harmonized by that
mysterious illuminating veil of blue that it challenged the
admiration of the most critical observer. On such glorious days
as these we seem to imbibe the gladness of the hills. Every
nerve thrills and vibrates, and the happy songs of the birds,
the myriad insect voices, the softly singing pines, make no more
music than our own happy hearts.

What a place is this in which to dine, while the noonday sun
sends his sweltering rays on the valley below! Away with your
grand hotels with their pretentions of cleanliness and comfort,
away with your stuffy restaurants with semi-intoxicating odors
of beeves long slaughtered and fish long hooked or chicken a-la-
King, whose husky voices have long since ceased to awaken the
sleeping farm hands. Away with all these, we say, and let us
dine in Nature's terraced roof garden at Hotel de Roadside at
the Sign of the Running Board or White Pine Bough. Give us some
fresh baked buns with country butter and honey, a dish of
delicious berries picked by our own hands fresh from the bushes,
a drink of sparkling ale from Nature's fountain among the cool
fern-clad rocks, and we shall not lament the fact that we are so
far removed from the public boarding house! Here in place of
soulless melodies issuing from automatic players we have the
heavenly notes of the woodthrush, the clear call of the crested
titmouse, and the wild ringing notes of the cardinal. A
matchless trio, accompanied by the vagrant breezes played upon
the tree-harps, seconded by the singing of distant waterfalls.
With greater reverence one breaks bread out here where spicy
aromatic fragrance drifts by. Here you have become a pilgrim
unawares, for before you are stately tulip poplars and graceful
hemlocks like long sought shrines, both reflecting the Creator.
Our table flowers were the pungent burgamot amid its border of
sweet- scented fern, but it would have been useless to tear them
from their places so near to our table did they grow. Other
travelers pass along the highway and these very ferns and
flowers may be to them "another sacred scripture," as Thoreau
would phrase it, cheering them along the road of life. If one
really loves these mountains with their wealth of ferns and
mosses and floral beauty, few, if any, of these children of the
mountains are disturbed. Out here in Nature's garden we feed not
only the body, but the soul, which hungers and thirsts for the
beautiful--which is not the least of our varied repast.

Like the youth in Excelsior one is always glad to accept the
invitation or challenge of the mountain to go higher, especially
when the heat flows in tremulous waves in the valley and even
the breeze seems like a draught of air from an open oven. The
intense heat only serves to make the insects more active. The
locusts shrill through the long sultry noon, the bees hum with
greater industry among the flowers, multitudes of butterflies
flit joyfully from place to place, and the turkey-vulture soars
high above the forest, for the intense heat only serves to make
his dinner more plentiful and for him more palatable. The small
animals now seek the shade of the forest and the birds, with
bills open and wings drooping, haunt the streams and seem to
enjoy the charm of their cool leafy wilderness that every lover
of nature finds.

Memory shall always linger fondly about the wonderful drive from
Cumberland to Hagerstown, Maryland. Here may be had the
loveliest of Blue Ridge views. Cumberland contains about twenty-
nine thousand people and is the second city in the state in
size. It is most picturesquely situated on the Potomac river,
about six hundred and fifty feet above tide water. It is on the
edge of the Cumberland Gorges creek coal region, and its rapid
growth and prosperity are largely due to the traffic in coal
collected here for shipment over the canal. It is also a
manufacturing center possessing extensive rolling mills for the
manufacture of railroad materials. It has iron foundries and
steel shafting works. The city occupies the site of Fort
Cumberland, which by order of General Burgoyne at the beginning
of the French and Indian war, Braddock constructed as a base for
his expedition against Fort Duquesne. After Braddock's defeat
and death the remnant of the ill-fated expedition returned to it
under command of Washington. Cumberland was the starting point
of the great National road often called the Cumberland road,
which was an important agent in the settlement of the West.

The route between Cumberland and Hagerstown is grand beyond
telling. This route takes you over a section of the old National
road. It would be difficult indeed to find another stretch of
road sixty-five miles in length that would lead through another
country of such varied and picturesque scenery. The road wound
through a very hilly, wooded, and farming country. The fields of
wheat were a rich gold that sparkled and gleamed in the warm,
mellow light. The oat fields wore a light bluish tinge which
contrasted with the deep green of the fresh meadows, thickly
starred with ox-eye daisies.

Near Cumberland the finest of mountain scenery is spread out
before you. Here you see many beds of tilted strata, vast rocks
standing on their heads as it were. How vast and immeasurable
the forces to bring to these hills their present contour! How
wonderful still those forces at work crumbling these rocks,
forming new soil for myriads of new plants to gladden the place
with their beauty. Beauty lingers all around; there is much
knowledge never learned from books and you receive from many
sources, invitations to pursue and enjoy it. How one gazes at
those glorious hills clad in their many green hues or distant
purple outlines lest their beauty be lost! You will need neither
notebook nor camera to aid you in the future to recall their
loveliness, for those haunting distances, mysterious
illuminations and filmy veils will make delicate yet indelible
etchings on your memory while those blue barriers, thrusting
their graceful and smoothly-flowing outlines into a clear sky,
will remain as long as memories of beautiful things last.

>From scene to scene we drifted along, enchanted, now gazing at a
broader, more wondrous view from some lofty ridge, now looking
upward in mute admiration and wonder from some charming valley,
now seeing again and again the wondrous beauty of the trees,
flowers and ferns, now gazing far out over some point to streams
and woods and softly lighted fields or vast orchards whose
straight rows disappear over the edge of some distant hill to
reappear upon another. "In the midst of such manifold scenery
where all is so marvelously beautiful, he would be a laggard
indeed" who was not touched by its import.

Here, along the roadside where the woods started to climb those
high rocky hills, grew innumerable ferns and wild flowers. Great
Osmundas, the most beautiful fern of all this region, were like
palms, so graceful and airy did their broad fronds appear. Here,
too, the giant brake with its single umbrella-like frond
appeared clad in its bright green robes; then where the shade
became more dense the lovely maiden-hair with its fragile,
graceful wave-edged leaflets swayed on its delicate dark brown
stems, and the ostrich fern stood in vase-like clusters along
the mountain side or spread their lovely fronds along some river
bank, while the dainty bladder bulblet draped ravines, gorges
and steep banks of streams with long feathery fronds whose
points overlapped the delicate light green of which formed a
vast composite picture in sunlight and shadow. Here we first
discovered the lizard's-tail, a tall plant crowned with a
terminal spike whose point bent gracefully over, no doubt giving
it its name. The stout stalks of elecampane with their large
leaves and yellowish brown flowers were seen, and numerous small
plants peeped from among their rich setting of vines and mosses.
If the ferns are numerous, charming the eye with delicate and
graceful beauty, the birds are more so, delighting the ear with
their rich and varied melodies. Here one catches the cheerful
strain of the Maryland yellow throat, a bird whose nest Audubon
never chanced to discover. The Baltimore Oriole now and then
favored us with rich notes and displayed his plumage of black
and orange, the colors of the coat of arms of Lord Baltimore.

Making our way over such enchanted ground we finally arrived at
Hancock, a town of about a thousand inhabitants located in the
center of a fruit belt, including one of the most extensive
orchard developments in America. To the west may be seen the
famous "Tonoloway orchards," also R. S. Dillon's orchard on the
state road where the mountain side is covered with nearly a
hundred thousand apple trees. This delightful summer resort
overlooking three states, as well as the broad Potomac and the
Chesapeake and Ohio canal, is worthy of a visit. About eleven
miles from Hancock we crossed a long stone bridge over a stream
with the unpronounceable name of "Conococheaque creek." This
valley was inhabitated by other than the whites in days gone by.
Here, where the golden harvest waits to be garnered, the Indian
maize grew in abundance; their camps and villages were scattered
here and there when the country was a wilderness. The dogwood
pitched its white tent here in early spring and the royal color
of the redbud shone from the steep hillsides like purple
bonfires, the same hepaticas with their blue, pink and white
blossoms peeped from among the moss and leaves to gladden their
hearts.

One afternoon we saw rolling masses of cumulus clouds rising
above the far blue ridges; then as they drifted nearer the
bright green of the forest made a background which brought out
in relief their finely modeled forms. They seemed to hang
motionless there until the sudden crash of thunder burst upon
the hushed air with violent explosions, where the cliffs took it
up and repeated it to the neighboring hills, and they in turn
told it to still others until its far away echoes died among the
more distant ridges. For a time the rain came down in torrents,
and as we watched its silvery sheets spreading over the hills
and through the valley it seemed as if every leaf and flower and
grass blade instantly took on new life. How fresh and pure the
old trees looked! The fragrance from the pine, sweet-scented
fern and numerous mints was more pronounced. "Detached clouds
seemed to be continually leaving the main mass like scouts sent
out in advance to drop their silver spears on the heads of ferns
and flowers on other hills." Some of the detached portions moved
up the valley, others rose slowly above the wooded ridges or
trailed their tattered fringes near the tree tops that seemed to
have torn their edges. Every bush and leaf was saturated with
their life-giving elixir. How the wild sweet carols of the birds
ascended from every forest! It seemed as if all Nature was
sending up a paean of praise for the beneficent rain, and our
thoughts took on that same serenity and calm, glad joy and the
melody of our hearts joined the universal anthem of praise to
the Creator. Amidst these fair scenes we watched the passing
clouds that were crossing the distant ridges and the whole mass
of verdant hill sides were brought out in fine relief; while the
darker mass of clouds seemed to be copying the outlines of the
far seen hills like another Blue Ridge range.

New Market is the oldest and most beautifully situated town in
the valley. The north fork of the Shenandoah river is seen
disappearing behind a range of hills that rises high above the
town to the northwest; while to the southeast one sees the
meandering mill stream known as Smith's creek, flowing 'round
the foot of the Massanutten mountains.

Near this spot the Indians had their camping ground in a ravine,
visible from the pike to the north. This ravine is known as
Indian Hollow, and well into the nineteenth century the smoke
could be seen rising from their numerous tepees, like small
clouds of vapor after a summer rain. Here if you look westward
you may see the gap in the Massanuttens, through which Stonewall
Jackson's army marched to Front Royal, where, by a surprise
attack, Banks' left flank was turned, thereby starting a retreat
of the Federal army which did not end until it had crossed the
Potomac at Harper's Ferry.

In the battle of New Market, which was fought along the
northwestern edge of town, occurred an episode of the Civil war
so remarkable as to equal the bravery of that of the three
hundred Spartans. The V. M. I. Cadets, a battalion of boys, from
fourteen to twenty years of age, was ordered from school at
Lexington, Virginia, to join Breckenridge's forces. In this
desperate crisis of the last months of the war, these brave lads
reached New Market at night after a strenuous march of three
days. "The early hours of the morning found them in battle line,
where for several hours they held their position in spite of a
galling fire from the infantry and a heavy destructive fire from
the artillery. Just when the Union troops were contemplating a
speedy victory at the most decisive moment of the battle, these
gallant boys rose as a unit, and charging across an open wheat
field, in spite of severe losses in killed and wounded, broke
the Federal lines and turned what seemed to be a defeat into a
victory."

In this village lives the noble old lady who in those awful days
of horror that knew no Red Cross organized the care of this
boys' army and carried on the nursing and relief work. No wonder
those brave lads called her the "Mother of the V. M. I." Her
deeds of mercy shine forth like stars on a winter night.

How many and delightful are the windings of the famous valley
Pile beginning at Winchester! Through what fertile stretches of
well cultivated land it leads you! The more serrated lines of
the Alleghanies rise faint and blue on the western horizon; the
lovely contour of the Blue Ridge is seen in the east while about
half way down the valley rises that wonder of wonders, Old
Massanutten. It may be an outcast among mountains, for the other
ranges leave it severely alone. It is a short range and rises
very abruptly from the valley being parallel to the other
ranges. Its rough bouldered sides form a striking contrast to
the other ranges of the valley. It is a strange, solitary range,
drifted away from its brother companions in the beginning of
time and was stranded there--a regular outcast of a mountain.
Perhaps it is no outcast but was set apart by Nature in the
early dawn of time. "It not only towers above the beautiful
valley but draws itself haughtily away from the other hills as
if it had a better origin than they."

Indeed, if you cross the range in an automobile, you think the
contrast with its sharp precipices quite dramatic. How the shock
absorbers of your spine are brought into play and how infinite
are the windings on this mountain road; yet it is worth climbing
for the scenes are thrilling. At a very steep incline, still far
from the top, we met a colored man holding a parley with some
others who were climbing the mountain in a Ford. He must have
been prejudiced toward this type of auto for he was heard to
repeat again and again: "No, sah, I'se nebber gwine to go to de
top ob old Massanutten in a 'Fod.' No, sah, yo ain't nebber
gwine to ketch me goin' up dat frien'ly invitation to de open
grave, in dat Fod. Man, Oh man! you-all don' know what chances
you-all is takin. Look away out over the valley to de homes you
am leaben for you sure'll nebber see dem any mo." With all the
solicitous advise given by their fearful companion the occupants
of the car were not to be stopped by this calamity-howler and
the little Ford soon stood triumphant upon the very crown of old
Massanutten. A lady also seen, walking down a very steep
descent, concluded that she too would rather push up daisies in
Shenandoah valley than ferns on old Massanutten.

No matter how steep the road or how numerous its windings no
fear seized upon us unless it was the fear of missing some of
Nature's most wonderful scenes. How often we admired the lovely
Dicksonia ferns with their lanceolate green fronds pointing in
all directions; how many times we heard the melody of the wood-
thrush as evening drew on and the shadowy ravines seemed hushed
and serene as his "angelus" sounded in these vast mountain
solitudes. Each note was a pearl to string on the sacred rosary
of memory and how often "we shall count them over, every one
apart" and be drawn nearer the Master of all Music! Oh these
vast, immeasurable days, filled to overflowing with sunlight and
fragrance and song! Out here in these beautiful hills there can
be no unbelief, for in a thousand mingled voices, caroling
birds, singing waterfalls, chirruping insects and whispering
breezes is told the story of Divine Love, and dull indeed is the
ear that cannot hear it.

On this famous mountain top we were hailed by a man of middle
age who belongs to that class of men who are constantly
reminding you they would have made good in life if they only had
a chance, despite the fact that many constant toilers find the
places of more educated men who are deceived into thinking their
education would take the place of honest toil. This particular
man doubtless never learned that "all values have their basis in
cost, and labor is the first cost of everything on which we set
a price." The prizes of life are not laid upon easily accessible
shelves but are placed out of reach to be labored for, like the
views one gets of the valley here only after paying the price in
an exceedingly toilsome journey. He was content to grope in a
dead past for glories that once had been.

"I stopped you," said he, "because I saw you are from Ohio and I
thought you might know some people for whom I once worked."
Looking across the way at the poorly kept home with its untidy
surroundings, where pigs, chickens, dogs, pet crows and children
alike had access to both parlor and kitchen, we doubted whether
the man could be located, for whom he ever had worked. We
learned that he had business that brought him from the fertile
valleys of Ohio to his mountain home. When anyone unsolicited
begins to tell of his business or what it used to be, beware,
for the real workers of the world have no time to tell what they
are doing. "Now, you see it is like this," he said, "a man who
owns forty-eight acres of timber here hired me to guard it
against timber thieves. He gives me the house and all I can
raise on the cleared ground, which is not much--just a few
potaters, beans, and sich like. Of course, I don't live high
like some, just bread and meat, no pie and cake and ice cream.
The kids ain't like they used to be, they like goin's on now and
then; but when I was a boy I allus tended to my business and
didn't keer to be goin' all the time."

With a stick he marked in the sand the better to represent the
exact boundaries of his master's possessions. Such was his
accuracy of observation. We verily believe he knew every bush-
heap and stonepile on this and his neighbor's line. It had been
evident from his conversation that there had been some changing
of stone piles and many disputes in regard to their right
location. To save a certain strip of land he "done bought eleven
acres more or less, then he goes down on the other side and buys
twenty-nine acres more or less, twenty-eight for sure." We soon
became fairly familiar with the lay of the land over which this
man held ever a watchful eye while he overlooked constantly the
bigger, better things of life. With such accuracy of observation
of minute details, looking inwardly and not outwardly, what a
character would have been his. As far as we could discern this
land was mostly stone piles and bushes, with growth of evergreen
and deciduous trees in some places not worth guarding.

To look at this policeman of Old Massanutten you would never
surmise that he ever had a worry in all his life, but he told us
that he had one. This even to us was not an imaginary one as he
had seriously contemplated moving down in the valley some day.
He said "'a rolling stone gathers no moss,' neither does a
settin' hen grow fat, but, I'll have to find a place to set for
I'm gettin' old." We thought he had set too much already. "I'd
as leave move a thousand miles as one hundred yards. It's the
startin' I hate."

How much of what he considered his misfortune was clue to no
other than his phrase, "I hate to start." He reminded us of the
girl we saw in the valley sitting out at the front gate beneath
an elm tree, waiting for something to turn up. She had failed to
see patches of weeds in the yard and the vegetables were crying
for help, yet she heard them not. Be wary, young men, for the
person who waits for something to turn up usually finds only
creditors.

"I was born in 1871. Yes, I was born, bred and raised near
Yellow Sulphur Springs, Ohio. I ramped around thar many a day."
Looking at the flock of children who lacked many of the bare
necessities of life, we thought what the Book of Books says: "He
who careth not for his own is worse than an infidel."

Out across the valley we beheld the beautiful Blue Ridge rising
like a grand graded way. Here was displayed a panorama that of
all our Shenandoah journeys still appears as one of our most
memorable mountain scenes. At our feet lay the valley
interspersed with villages, homes and vast stretches of corn,
oats and wheat, all clothed in that blue filmy veil making all
appear like a rich garden of various emerald tints. Far away
toward the horizon rose a lovely forest-crowned ridge so
gloriously colored and luminous it seemed like the scene of a
vast painting. Out over the tremulous billowy fields of grain
and over the forest and meadow the sunlight fell in pale
spangles of light over which a few gray shadows chased one
another.

The sun was gilding the west as we started down the mountain
side. The radiant host of evergreens stood silent in bold relief
against their luminous background. High in the azure dome a few
rose-colored clouds were drifting, scarce seeming to move in the
light filled ether. Over all the vast expanse of sky a crimson
spread which was followed by pink that was quickly succeeded by
violet purple. Never had we beheld such a striking crimson sea.

Soon those radiant splendors vanished in the purple twilight. We
watched the last faint color fade from the distant ridges. A
soft breeze sighed among the pines and rustled the aspen leaves,
then, died away. Mingled odors of pine and fern floated to us
from the nearby forests. The light vanished from the sky but the
mysterious charm of the time was not broken. In the east a
softer and more quiet splendor tipped the foliage with silvery
radiance, edging the fleecy clouds with mellow light. Only the
purling music of the distant waterfall now broke the restful
solemnity of the mountain solitudes. Night with its thoughts of
other fairer worlds than this, was here and we with all Nature
were preparing for rest.

As we drew near the Lawrence Hotel at Luray, the Moonlight
Sonata floated dreamily upon the calm night air, and we seemed
to feel the beauty of Hugo's lines:

     Come child, to prayer; the busy day is done,
     A golden star gleams through the dusk of night;
     The hills are trembling in the rising mist,
     The rumbling wain looms dim upon the sight;
     All things wend home to rest; the roadside trees
     Shake off their dust, stirred by the evening breeze.

     The sparkling stars gush forth in sudden blaze,
     As twilight open flings the doors of night;
     The bush, the path-all blend in one dull gray--
     The doubtful traveler gropes his anxious way.

     Oh, day; with toil, with wrong, with hatred rife;
     Oh, blessed night! with sober calmness sweet,
     The age-worn hind, the sheep's sad broken bleat--
     All Nature groans opprest with toil and care,
     And wearied craves for rest, and love and prayer.

     At eve the babes with angels converse hold,
     While we to our strange pleasures wend our way,
     Each with its little face upraised to heaven,
     With folded hands, barefoot kneels down to pray,
     At selfsame hour with selfsame words they call
     On God, the common Father of us all.

     And then they sleep, the golden dreams anon,
     Born as the busy day's last murmurs die,
     In swarms tumultuous flitting through the gloom,
     Their breathing lips and golden locks descry,
     And as the bees o'er bright flowers joyous roam,
     Around their clustered cradles clustering come.

     Oh, prayer of childhood! simple, innocent;
     Oh, infant slumbers! peaceful, pure and light;
     Oh, happy worship! ever gay with smiles,
     Meet prelude to the harmonies of night;
     As birds beneath the wing enfold their head,
     Nestled in prayer the infant seeks its bed.


CHAPTER III

LURAY CAVERNS AND MAMMOTH CAVE


     O! bear me then to vast embowering shades,
     To twilight groves and visionary vales,
     To weeping grottoes and prophetic glooms,
     Where angel forms, athwart the solemn dusk
     Tremendous, sweep, or seem to sweep, along,
     And voices more than man through the void,
     Deep sounding, seize the enthusiastic ear.
     Or is this gloom too much?
     Where creeping water ooze, and where rivers wind,
     Cluster the rolling fogs and swim along
     The dusky mantled lawns. --Thompson.


The Shenandoah valley is not only famous for its beauty,
picturesque scenery and many historical associations, but here
in Page county, Virginia, are located the beautiful caverns of
Luray. Here we find caverns that for variety and beauty of their
calcite formations excel many if not all caverns of the same
kind in the world.

The valley at Luray is ten miles wide, extends from the Blue
Ridge to the Massanutten mountain, and displays remarkably fine
scenery. These ridges lie in vast folds and wrinkles, and
elevations in the valley are often found to be pierced by
erosion. Cave Hill, three hundred feet above the water level,
had long been an object of local interest on account of its pits
and oval hollows, through one of which, August 13, 1878, Mr.
Andrew J. Campbell and others entered, thus discovering the
extensive and beautiful caverns.

There is a house built on the entrance to these caverns and one
does not realize that such a remarkable region is located here.
The natural arch that admits one to Mammoth Cave has a span of
seventy feet. It is very high and on its edges grow ferns,
vines, and various wild flowers, and the phoebe builds her nest
and fills all the space about with her sweet prophecy of spring.
It is what the entrance to a place so vast should be.

At the Luray Caverns cement walks have been laid, stairways,
bridges and iron railings have been erected, and the entire
route through this most beautiful of subterranean palaces is
illuminated by brilliant electric lights. On entering the
caverns you experience a thrill of strange emotion and mute
wonder. One speaks, if at all, in whispers. It is too much for
your imagination to grasp at once and you are overwhelmed as
much as you were on first seeing Niagara. Here is silence such
as never came to the outer world, darkness that far exceeds the
blackest midnight; glittering stalactites that gleam like
diamonds from the ceiling above; massive artistic drapery which
falls in graceful folds; cascades of rarest beauty formed by
stone of marble whiteness, in place of falling water; tinted
walls like evening skies; all these seen by the gleam of
brilliant electric lights fill one with admiration and deepest
awe. Here the Master Artist has carved spacious palaces of
rarest beauty. Columns of yellowish-brown, resembling
transparent amber, support great vaulting domes above you. These
lovely pillars seem to rise toward their proper arches as
majestically as those of Rheims, Amiens, and Cologne, only here
we find "no signs of decay" and "they never knew the cruel
ravages of war."

This calls to memory a visit to the Steen, the old Spanish
prison built in the eighth century in the city of Antwerp. A
crowd of English soldiers and American doughboys were viewing
the time-worn relics of the place when they found an old map of
the world dating from the year 1300, A. D., whereupon one of the
Englishmen exclaimed, "Where is America? Why, your bloomin',
bloody country was not on the map. at that time!" Such good-
natured humor was borne with about the same patience as the
bites of "cooties" or Jersey mosquitoes. As they journeyed on, a
companion of the first speaker said, "You don't have such
wonderfully old and interesting things in America." The fiery
American doughboys accepted this remark as a challenge and could
keep silent no longer. One of them, voicing the sentiment of
all, exclaimed in a voice that fairly awoke the echoes of those
aged walls, "No, we do not have much of this old trash in our
country. Everything in America is new and up-to-date." But in
Luray Caverns we have one of the world's great wonders "that was
old long before the foundation of the Pyramid of Cheops." Here
are columns of gigantic proportions, one of which has lain on
the floor of the cave for more than four thousand years. Some
geologists state that the glacial period was sixty thousand
years ago. If their deductions be true; we have in Luray a
cavern that was fifty-four thousand years old when Adam gazed on
Paradise.

These caverns are carved from the Silurian limestone, although
they are considered to date from the Tertiary period. Long after
the cave was formed, and after many stalactites had been hung on
those spacious halls with their down-grown crystals, it was
completely filled with glacial mud charged with acid, whereby
the dripstones were eroded in singular grotesque shapes. The
eroded forms remained after the mud had been mostly removed by
flowing water. Massive columns have been wrenched from the
ceiling by this aqueous energy and lie prostrate on the floor; a
hollow column, forty feet high and thirty feet in diameter,
stands erect, but has been pierced by a tubular passage from top
to bottom in the same manner; a leaning column almost as large
has been undermined so as to resemble the leaning tower of Pisa;
these are only a few of the many wonderful forms of Nature's
architecture formed by no other tools than time and waterdrops.

We find no streams and true springs here as in Mammoth Cave, but
there are numerous basins of pellucid water, varying from one to
fifty feet in diameter, and from six to fifteen feet in depth.
Crystal Lake is a clear body of water surrounded by sparkling
stalactites. How long its waters must have waited to mirror
these lovely formations! They gleam and sparkle, forming an arch
of dazzling splendor; fit drapery for such a gem of water, which
shows again their marvelous beauty.

Here these waters have lain for countless ages with never a
breeze to ripple their surface. At Mammoth Cave the waters enter
through numerous domes and pits in cascades of great volume, and
are finally collected in River Hall where they form several
extensive lakes or rivers, which are connected with Green river
by two deep springs that appear under arches on its margin. The
water has been known to rise sixty feet above low water mark
when there is a freshet in Green river. The waters of these
rivers are navigable from May to October.

The first lake approached is called the Dead Sea. Here you gaze
upward at vast cliffs sixty feet high and one hundred feet long,
above which you go with cautious tread, then up a stone stairway
that leads to the river Styx, a body of water forty feet wide
and four hundred feet long, which is crossed by a natural
bridge. A beach of finest yellow sand extends for five hundred
yards to Echo river, the largest of all, being from twenty to
two hundred feet wide, ten to forty feet deep, and about three
miles long.

You never can forget your trip on this river of Stygian
darkness. With oil lanterns that emit but a feeble flickering
flame you see ghostlike figures, goblins and grim cave monsters
that loom before you; your imagination peoples these
subterranean halls and their titanic masonry with fantastic
forms of its own creation. At this place these lines from Poe
will perhaps flash through your mind:

     By a route obscure and lonely,
     Haunted by ill angels only,
     Where the Eidalon, named night
     On a black throne reigns upright;
     I have reached these lands but newly
     From an ultimate dim Thule,
     From a wild, weird chink sublime,
     Out of space and out of time.


When you speak loudly your words have a weird sepulchral tone
that echoes far and near through the spacious halls and avenues
that makes the black pall of mystery all the more uncanny. As
you first enter on your journey on this stream of inky blackness
you are appalled by the awful darkness, and the stillness so
intense is like that of some vast primeval forest at midnight.
The ceiling is so low at one place you can touch it with your
hands. With rock above and on both sides of you and water
beneath, you think you have a faint conception of Hades. You
hear no sound but the gentle splash of the water struck by the
oars, or the labored and rapid breathing of the more timid ones
of your party.

Suddenly your boat stops and the guide utters a few tones
beginning low in the scale and running higher, when, lo! the
whole subterranean cavern seems filled with fairy tongues and
becomes melodious with softer, sweeter tones until they die away
among those avenues, like the music heard only in the realm of
dreams. Some one suggests that a song be sung, whereupon an
Irishman with deep sonorous voice starts, "Nearer, My God, to
Thee," but he only sings but one line, for the clamor of voices
insisting on another selection, is like that of a flock of crows
in autumn who have discovered an owl. The multitudinous echoes,
if not as musical as the voice of the guide, made more obvious
harmony.

Thus do these aged halls send back rarest melodies for the
discordant notes received. How like the noble souls one knows
who take the discordant jeers and taunts of the world and by a
life of serenity and steadfastness of purpose (which is ever to
help mankind onward) build for them an admiration and devotion
that returns from a multitude of grateful hearts like musical
echoes, perhaps too late unheard.

The temperature of both Luray Caverns and Mammoth Cave is
uniformly fifty-four degrees Fahrenheit throughout the year, and
the atmosphere is both chemically and optically of singular
purity. For this reason stone huts were once erected for
consumptives in Mammoth Cave. Thirteen was the original number
and for the poor unfortunates who inhabited them it was most
unlucky; the patients became worse, and on being taken from
their subterranean homes in Mammoth Cave quickly died. Only two
of the huts still remain.

"Those curious mortals who are always seeking morgues and
graveyard scenes should come here." What a place for
contemplation! "Into what vast unrecorded ages the philosopher
could let his thoughts go back!"

On entering Luray Caverns one of the first of the many curious
formations to attract your attention will be rows of stalactites
resembling fish on market. Here are fish that were on exhibit
before Noah entered the ark. How patient the old fisherman must
be to have stood through innumerable years and not yet have had
a sale. You will see other forms that represent hams and
sidemeat. You will, perchance, detect the lean streak as most
people do. This meat needs no sugarcuring or smoking and will
keep many more years with no fear of the blue-bottle fly.
Glittering stalactites. blaze in front of you; fluted columns
and draperies in broad folds with a formation that resembles the
finest hemstitching may be seen all around you, while Pluto's
chasm, a wide rift in the walls, contains a spectre clothed in
shadowy draperies. One wonders how long this grim, ghastly
person has stood here. Long ages came and went in that shadowy
and evanescent time with no record save these stony ghosts, and
over all a black pall of mystery still broods.

One of the most remarkable formations as well as one of the most
beautiful which may be seen in Mammoth Cave is the flower
garden. Dr. Hovery describes its beauty thus: "Each rosette is
made of countless fibrous crystals; each tiny crystal is in
itself a study; each fascicle of carved prisms is wonderful and
the whole glorious blossom is a miracle of beauty. Now multiply
this mimic blossom from one to a myriad as you move down the
dazzling vista as if in a dream of Elysium; not for a few yards,
but for two magnificent miles all is virgin white, except here
and there a patch of gray limestone, or a spot bronzed by
metallic stain, or as we purposely vary the lonely monotony by
burning chemical lights. We admire the effective grouping done
by Nature's skillful fingers. Here is a great cross made by a
mass of stone rosettes; while floral coronets, clusters,
wreaths, and garlands embellish nearly every foot of the ceiling
and walls. The overgrown ornaments actually crowd each other
till they fall on the floor and make the pathway sparkle with
crushed and trodden jewels."

We find several forms of life in Mammoth Cave, such as light
gray or stone colored crickets, with antennae and legs twice the
length of our black musician. If this cave dweller is a musician
like our cheery outdoor fiddler, how the empty walls must ring!
We found several of these odd insects near Echo river and on the
walls of the cave near the well known as the "Bottomless Pit."
White crayfish moved back and forth on the sand at the edge of
Echo river and backed away from us when we tried to procure one
for a specimen. His subterranean home has seemingly not affected
his habits. This cave also contains a fish known to scientists
as "Amblyopsis Speloens," meaning "A weak-eyed cave dweller."

At one place in the caverns rows of stalactites are arranged in
lines of various lengths in reference to tone, just like the
strings of a piano, in regular graduated system. A small boy who
accompanies the guide will strike those stone harps in rapid
succession which give forth delicious liquid tones, sweet and
silvery as the chimes of Antwerp Cathedral. They waver and float
through those vast halls until the ear catches only a faint echo
from some far, dim aisle. "How many centuries elapsed before
this subterranean organ gave forth its delightful tones!" It
lacked only the soul of a Beethoven or Chopin to interpret them
aright. How like many noble lives whose talents perhaps shall
only bud "unseen" or waste upon the desert air of environment.
One thinks of Keats, whose wonderful Ode to the Nightingale and
lovely Nature Poems might never have been sung had he not gone
out into the fragrant fields and woods, where the song of the
lark and the breezes, "heaven born," touched his great soul like
an Aeolian harp which dispersed sweetest melodies for all
mankind to hear.


CHAPTER IV

FOUR UNUSUAL PICTURES

We spent another memorable day on the mountain roads marveling
again at the omnipotent power that creates such beauty. Looking
out over the valley from the slope of a hill we had a glorious
view. From the ravishing beauty of the scene, our minds fell to
musing over that other race who had dwelt here, whose destiny
the coming of the white man changed. We wondered how the valley
appeared to them and what bird songs burst upon the fragrant air
when that other race possessed the land. Our thoughts were soon
recalled from the vague past; for over the summit of a green
hill a thunder head pushed itself into view. As the great mass
spread swiftly over the heavens, darkness began to creep over
the land like a premature twilight. The songs of the birds that
had been so noticeable before were hushed, the passing breeze
paused a moment as if undecided which course to pursue, then in
sudden fury swept over the land, hurling the leaves and dead
branches in wild confusion through the air.

Like a mighty trumpet summoning those cloud warriors to battle
sounded the thunder, whose terrific peals shook the hills around
us. The clouds, as if obedient to the summons rushed from all
directions, like frightened soldiers. The lightning began to
leap to the earth in angry flashes, or spread through the masses
of rolling clouds like golden chains, or leaped and darted like
the lurid tongues of serpents. The trees rocked and roared on
the hills about us; now and then one fell with a mighty crash
scarcely discernible in the awful roar of the raging wind. The
rain came in blinding sheets to the earth. Soon, however, the
fury of the storm was spent and we heard the echoing peals of
thunder among the distant hills.

The sun came out again and shone among the water drops that
clung in countless myriads to the leaves. They glittered and
scintillated like vast emerald crowns studded with millions of
diamonds. Not an hour had passed and there again was the
heavenly blue smiling down upon the glorious woods. A rainbow,
like a radiant, triumphal arch, bent lovingly over the earth,
now more tranquil and beautiful than ever. It was as if Nature
had made a fitting frame for the endless variety and beauty of
the picture she had painted. The birds came forth from their
leafy coverts and shook the water drops from their feathers
while their notes rained like "liquid pearls" around us. As we
watched the fading hues of the lovely bow and listened to the
bird song that rose and fell in tides of rarest melody we
thought how like life the passing storm had been. The early
hours of summer sky, how quickly they pass away, to be overcast
by dark foreboding clouds of doubt and fear. Yet, after the
storm of life is almost past a radiant bow of promise, tender as
memory and bright as hope, lingers on its ebon folds and we seem
to glimpse through the dispersing gloom fairer fields beyond.

We neared the old historical town of Frederick on a Saturday
afternoon. The rose light from the west that shone upon the
hillsides of green seemed to mingle its hues with that of its
own, and it sifted through the transparent leaves and spread
itself in a mellow glow upon the ground beneath. Never did light
seem so impressive as that which streamed through the forest and
lit up the hills with "strange golden glory." There had been a
rain in the afternoon and the shimmering light from the west was
trying his color effects. It was such an evening as Longfellow
describes in Hiawatha:

     Slowly o'er the shimmering landscape,
     Fell the evening's dusk and coolness,
     And the long and pleasant sunbeams
     Shot their spears into the forest,
     Breaking through its shields of shadow,
     Rushed into each secret ambush,
     Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow.


Gazing at the quiet and luxuriant loveliness of the landscape
about us we almost forgot we were entering the town where
Washington met Braddock to prepare for the expedition against
Fort Duquesne. This town was twice taken by the Confederates and
when occupied by the troops of General Early the inhabitants
were forced to pay a ransom of two hundred thousand dollars. It
was occupied in 1862 by General McClellan.

It was not of armies or their generals of whom we were thinking
as we entered the old town, now wearing its evening smile. The
twilight song of birds came to us from the maple trees as we
passed, or broken phrases were just audible from the distant
meadows. It seemed that plenty, purity and peace had always
reigned here and it was with a feeling of rare delight we
approached the charming Wayside Inn, peeping from its gracefully
overhanging elms. After procuring rooms for the night we went in
search of the spot where Barbara Frietchie lived. The day had
been extremely oppressive, but since the shower we were enjoying
a cool breeze that was stirring the leaves and rippling the
grass with its purifying breath. Slowly we made our way along
the streets of the town until we arrived in front of the spot
where Old Glory had been flaunted over the Confederate troops.
We thought of that day when,

     "Forty flags with their silver stars,
     Forty flags with their crimson bars,
     Flapped in the morning wind; the sun
     Of noon looked down and saw not one."

But,--

     "Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
     Bowed by her three score years and ten;
     Bravest of all in Frederick town
     She took up the flag the men hauled down."


We proceeded from this spot to the beautiful Mount Olivet
cemetery. Here we were thrilled anew, for near the entrance we
beheld the splendid monument erected in memory of Francis Scott
Key. This, aside from its significance, is one of the finest
statues our country affords. The grace and beauty of that
figure, as if still pointing toward his country's glorious
emblem, causes the heart of the beholder to swell with emotion.
We seemed to catch from those lips the grave question: "O! Say,
does the Star Spangled Banner yet wave, o'er the land of the
free, and the home of the brave?" Something in this monument
made us think of the fine statue erected to the memory of Vauban
in Verdun.

We passed the grave of Barbara Frietchie over which waved the
flag she so dearly loved, and in a twinkling came the answer to
the eager questioner of bronze, as the west wind caught the
lovely banner and waved it, oh, so gently, over this hallowed
spot. A robin repeated his evening song softly from a maple near
it, and a mourning dove began his meditative cooing. Slowly we
left the secluded place where the hero and heroine slumber and
returned to the Wayside Inn, while myriads of stars began to
sparkle and gleam on the vast field of blue above, reminding us
that "ever the stars above look down on the stars below in
Frederikctown."


What a bound our hearts gave as the gleam of the massive dome
met our sight. A crowd of old associations thronged through the
galleries of memory to see printed there, radiant and bright
with many a glorious page of American history, the dome of the
Capitol at Washington.

As we drew nearer we saw how this beautiful structure, which
ranks today as one of the noblest architectural objects in the
world, dominates the lovely city. This beautiful structure,
which covers an area of three and one-half acres, stands on a
plateau eighty-eight feet above the level of the Potomac.

The crowning glory of this magnificent edifice is the statue of
freedom which surmounts its dome three hundred and seven feet
above the esplanade. This great cast iron dome, from which a
lovely view of the city may be had, weighs four and one-half
thousand tons. It was erected at a cost of six million dollars,
and required eight years for its construction. To the north,
nearest the Union station, which, too, is an architectural
dream, is the Senate wing of the Capitol. The senate chamber is
located in the center of the building. The president's room,
that of the vice-president and the marble room, are opposite the
corridor from the Senate chamber. These sumptuously and
elegantly furnished rooms defy description.

Connected with the new Senate wing by a corridor is the old
Senate chamber, now used by the Supreme Court. To the south is
the great awe-inspiring Rotunda, which is three hundred feet in
circumference and over one hundred and eighty feet in height. It
is adorned with marvelous life-size paintings and beautiful
statuary. This dome is a little higher than that of Antwerp
Cathedral, where you look upward one hundred and eighty feet, to
gaze upon the glorious Assumption by Corneil Schutt. Passing
through the corridor you come to the old House of
Representatives, now the Hall of Statuary. "Each state may
contribute bronze or marble statues of two of her most
illustrious soldiers or statesmen." The south wing of the
Capitol, adjoining Statuary Hall, is entirely occupied by the
House of Representatives, the luxurious Speaker's Room, and many
committee rooms.

On the east central portico the oath of office of each
succeeding president is administered by the Chief Justice of the
United States in the presence of a multitude of spectators.

You are impressed far more while gazing at this marvelous
structure where the combined duties of its members represent the
greatest governmental undertaking in the world than when you
behold the palaces at Versailles where gilded interiors but
poorly hide the corruption of their former days. Then, too, what
are crumbling moss grown castles in which dwelt those robber
knights, along the Rhine, seen through the glorious perspective,
made radiant with American ideas of the present century! What
wonderful crops from the fertile brains of men have been
produced since the beginning of this mighty structure! What
plans for the future greatness and prosperity of the Nation have
been made. But, alas! here, too, come seasons of drought when
seeds of humility, virtue and love fail to sprout and those of
discord, strife and malice, like thorny cactus, crowd out the
rare blossoms.

No one visiting Washington should fail to see the Library of
Congress, which is the best example of exclusive American art.
"The interior of this wonderful building is the most inspiring
and marvelous combination of gold, silver, rare marbles and
mosaics on as gigantic a scale as is to be found in America.
Built primarily for congressmen, this great storehouse of
valuable books and works of art is used more freely by the
people than any other library in the world."


We shall never forget the lovely view we had from the Lee
mansion, that stands in the beautiful Arlington Cemetery. We
gazed out over the landscape, where the fields of golden grain
and green meadows stretched toward the city. The broad silvery
current of the Potomac flashed in the sunlight. Beyond lay the
city in its Sabbath stillness. The song of a blue bird, with its
softly warbled notes fell upon our ear, and the dreamy threnody
of a mourning dove made a soft accompaniment. We left this
charming spot and wandered slowly through this beautiful abode
of the Nation's heroic dead. At one place we paused before a
fuchsia-bordered plot of ground, where we read from a tablet:
"To the 4,713 unknown dead who slumber here," and opposite this
a coleus-lined space "dedicated to the 24,874 known dead," who
offered their lives, that the black stain of slavery might be
removed from the land. As we looked at the stretches of grass
and flowers which shone in their midst, at the myriads of leaves
upon the trees, the birds, the bees, and at the butterflies--
winged blossoms hovering over duller hued plants--we thought how
soon the tide of this joyous life around us would begin to ebb.
Soon the frost would dull the grass, tint the leaves with
rainbow hues and cause the flowers to fade. The birds would take
wing and leave the place for warmer climes. Then, after the
shroud of snow had been spread o'er the lifeless landscape, a
new and fairer spring would lift the pall of winter, and
glorious waves of warm life would cover the earth with beauty
again.

While in the city of Washington the traveler should see the
Corcoran Art Gallery. What a priceless treasure William Wilson
Corcoran left the American people when he deeded to the public
the Corcoran Gallery of Art to be used solely for the purposes
of encouraging American genius in the production and
preservation of works pertaining to the Fine Arts and kindred
subjects.

Over one-third of the artists represented in the Corcoran
gallery are American born and a look at the wonderful works of
art to be seen here will convince the most pessimistic person
that America has produced works that are worth while.

Among the many treasures of sculpture to be seen in this gallery
are Vela's "Last Days of Napoleon First," and Powers' "Greek
Slave," while among its canvases are Mueller's "Charlotte
Corday," Brooke's, "A Pastoral Visit," Von Thoren's "Lost Dogs,"
and Renouf's, "A Helping Hand."

Landscape art seems to be our "special province," and no wonder,
for what other country possesses such vast stretches of
prairies, magnificent rivers and lakes, unbounded primeval
forests and falls of such incomparable grandeur?

"We naturally turn to George Innes (1825-1894) as America's
foremost exponent of landscape art." Fortunate indeed is the
gallery to possess his "Sunset in the Woods." It is of interest
to note that it was not completed until many years after the
sketch was made. On July 23, 1891, Mr. Innes wrote of the
"Sunset in the Woods": "The material for my picture was taken
from a sketch made near Hastings, Westchester county, New York,
twenty years ago. This picture was commenced seven years ago,
but until last winter I had not obtained any idea commensurate
with the impression received on the spot. The idea is to
represent an effect of light in the woods towards sundown, but
to allow the imagination to predominate." Herein perhaps lay the
original power of the artist's genius; he had learned to labor
and to wait. Genius, without exceeding great labor, has never
accomplished much that shall last through time.

One feels when gazing on this exquisite poem of twilight, that
if only this one picture of the woods had been painted it were
better than to have produced a thousand inferior scenes. How
beautiful that glow on the "Venerable old tree trunk and the
opening beyond the great boulder." It is indeed a wonderful
creation filled with the mystery and silence of approaching
nightfall. As you gaze at the seemingly deepening gloom, you
feel the very spirit of the violet dusk. A wood thrush is
ringing her vesper bell softly. A marked stillness pervades the
atmosphere. A gray rabbit hops among the swaying foxglove and
fern tops; the plaintive note of the whippoorwill tells us night
will soon be here. One almost fears to look again, after turning
away, for a time, lest the last glow has faded and night is
there.

What marvelous beauty this poet of Nature has portrayed from the
common scenes of woods, meadow and stream, which so few really
see until an Innes shows us how divinely beautiful they are.

If you have never had the pleasure of gazing upon Niagara you
will want to pause long before Frederick E. Church's painting of
it, for he seems to have caught some of its fleeting beauties
and transferred them to canvas. This picture had a startling
effect upon Europeans when it was exhibited in Paris. When they
compared the falls of Switzerland to it, they gained a more
definite idea of the vast expanse of our natural wonders.

You will not fail to admire the painting, "The Road to Con
Carneau," by William Lamb Picknell. How well he has painted this
scene of quaint old Normandy. As you gaze at the vast stretch of
marshy country, with stone roads, marked by milestones, you
begin to appreciate the wonderful genius of the artist. You can
readily see that evening has come and you seem to feel its
message quite as much as when gazing upon the "End of Day" by
Corot.

Our day here recalled our visit to the Luxembourg gallery and
the Louvre. How much better it is to see part of these
magnificent palaces dedicated to art than to be used by
worthless rulers.

One can never forget the impression made upon him as he gazes at
the halls which are filled with the grandest works of antiquity.
Any of these standing alone would challenge the admiration of
all who see them, but the "Venus de Milo" and the "Winged
Victory" stand out in memory among the innumerable works of art
as the Alps tower above the vales of Switzerland. That
magnificent piece of sculpture, Venus de Milo, was found by a
peasant in the island of Milo in 1820. "It belongs to the fourth
century before Christ and represents that flowery period of
Greek sculpture when Praxiteles was at its head."

Here we may also enjoy the "St. John" and "Madonna and Child" by
Raphael, many works by Leonardo Da Vinci, Corregio, Rubens,
Mttrillo, and Titian.

Before leaving the city we climbed to the top of Washington
monument. This monument is an imposing mass of white marble,
rising to a height of five hundred fifty-five and one-half feet.
No visitor to Washington should fail to make the ascent for no
finer view of the city, the surrounding hills and the Potomac
can be had than from the observation point, at a height of five
hundred four feet. As we looked down on the lovely avenues,
gardens and statues of this well-planned city we compared it
with our view of Paris from the Arch of Triumph and Eiffel
Tower. While Eiffel Tower is nearly twice as high as Washington
Monument it revealed no lovelier view than we beheld in this
magnificent city.

We shall never forget the spell cast over us as we said goodbye
to the City of Magnificent Distances and sped along the road
that led to the Nation's shrine. What memories hallowed by art
and song came thronging round us as we made our pilgrimage to
the pleasantly situated estate of Mount Vernon.

The old estate bears the name given it by Major Lawrence
Washington in honor of his commander, Admiral Edward Vernon, of
the British navy. Imagine our feelings upon arriving at this--
one of the most sacred spots in America--when we found the very
undesirable custom of charging a fee to view a scene that above
all others should be free to the public. This place to all true
Americans belongs in the same class as sublime mountain views,
indescribable sunsets, whereon to place a price would be
sacrilege, for they are priceless.

As soon as we entered the gates of this hallowed spot we passed
through the lovely flower garden. The air was fragrant, almost
heavy, with the perfume of box bushes which had been trimmed in
fantastic designs of rare beauty. How slowly we walked down the
paths whose sides were enameled with brilliant hued flowers,
artistically arranged. There was something almost sacred in the
solitude here. We seemed to see the stately form of the master,
as he gazed in admiration at this charming spot or stooped to
pluck a few rare blossoms for his companion. What hours of calm
and unsullied enjoyment he must have spent here. What grand
thoughts those lovely flowers must have suggested. How often he
stood here or wandered slowly along these same paths at
twilight, while the mocking-bird's song harmonized with his
evening reveries.

Pausing to admire the beauty of the royal spikes of purple
foxglove we were thrilled with a familiar yet much loved song,
for in accord with the train of our thoughts, a mocking bird
sprang into the air with the most extraordinary turns and
gyrations and at last settled down on the chimney of the store
room as if overcome by his own ecstatic singing--this was our
welcome to Mount Vernon. With brilliant bewildering staccato
phrases he started singing in one place, then mounted to the
air, spread his wings and floating down to the tops of a cedar,
never missing a note. It was purely a song of joy expressing
exuberance of life and whole-souled enjoyment. He mimicked
thirty different American birds, but their songs were hurried
without the proper pauses and phrasing. It was what piano player
music is to hand-played melodies, lacking the beauty and soul of
the original artists.

How delightful it was to linger here. You could spend days and
weeks in forgetting the maddening strife and cares gazing out
over the majestic Potomac, lulled to rest by this matchless
songster.

Here one can readily see that Washington was fond of trees and
shrubs, and many were the excursions he made to the woods to
select specimens to be transplanted to the grounds around his
home. Just outside the garden are the tulip trees he planted
over one hundred and thirty years ago. The master of these
stately trees has long since gone, yet his spirit seems to
linger there. These glorious tulips are tall and straight as the
man whose hands first broke the sod and pressed the ground
tenderly about their roots. They still aspire and shed delicious
perfume on the balmy summer air and their verdure is perennial
like the memory of a grateful nation.

Bartram, an eminent botanist of Philadelphia, was a close friend
of Washington. In the rear of the mansion is a fine lawn
comprising a number of acres, around which winds a carriage
drive bordered by grand old trees.

We thought of the truthfulness of Mrs. Sangster's words as we
gazed in admiration at these lovely trees:

     "Who plants a tree for fruit or shade,
     In orchard fair, on verdant slope;
     Who plants a tree a tryst has made
     With future years, in faith and hope."


When visiting the palace of King Louis XIV of France at
Versailles and the hundreds of rooms that accommodated his
courtiers and their servants, also the two large wings which
housed The State Ministers and contained their offices, you are
greatly impressed at the Herculean labor and immense cost such
magnificence must have required. Here the best artists of his
time, by long years of patient toil, and money in profusion,
were employed on this glorification of a man.

Here was laid out a vast and beautiful garden, filled with noble
statues and marble basins, that extended its geometrical alleys
and lines of symmetrical trees to a park around which spread the
magnificent forest. You see the room in which our great and
illustrious Franklin stayed and marvel at the glorious Hall of
Mirrors where the Peace Conference met. Yet you are glad to get
out and contemplate that wonderful avenue of European elms whose
straight round trunks, bearing innumerable branches which divide
again and again, form glorious fountain-like crests of verdure.

But with what a different feeling you look upon the home of
Washington. Here, too, visitors find in the wonderful trees a
symbol of something serene, protective, sacred, so like the man
who once walked beneath them.

"The dawn of great events in which Washington was to play such
an important part began to blow on the eastern horizon of New
England." From the ocean-bordered shores were faint streaks of
light that ere long began to deepen into hues of a sanguine
color that seemed to presage a tempest. At first the sound was
like the faint lisping murmur of pines along the shore or the
sobbing surf as it retreated from the charge it made; but ere
long it broke forth in loud, angry tones like the wailing of
branches on a stormy night or the booming breakers on the stern
rocks of her rugged coast, until the dwellers of the interior
heard the ominous sound and made ready to defend those
inalienable rights of man, liberty and justice.

The aeolian melodies of freedom were heard by the Master of
Mount Vernon as he walked beneath his liberty loving trees. It
was not easy to leave a charming home where happiness and love
reigned supreme; yet when the call, that echoed from far New
England's rugged shores, rebounded from fair Virginia's hills
Washington sacrificed all the pleasures of love and home on the
altar of Freedom.

We admired the picturesque seed house with its ivy covered walls
and dormer windows, quite as much as the mansion itself. This
was built for the storing of seed and the implements of
horticulture.

We next visited the stately mansion, whose plan as well as that
for all improvements made, were drawn by Washington.
"Convenience and desirability he sought in his home," and last
but not least, location. The mansion is built of pine. It
contains two stories and is ninety-six feet long and thirty feet
wide, having a piazza that is supported by sixteen square
columns which are twenty-five feet in height. The width of the
piazza is fifteen feet, having a balustrade of pleasing design
around it; and in the center of the roof is a circular
observatory from which a wonderful view of the Potomac may be
had. The roof contains several dormer windows. There are six
rooms on the ground floor and on entering the passage way that
leads from east to west through it you are at once impressed
with its wainscoting and large worked cornices which present to
the eye the appearance of great solidity. The parlor, library
and breakfast room are on the south side of the hall; while to
the north are the reception room, parlor, and drawing room. All
of the rooms are what you would expect, "tasteful and charming,
yet simple."

An exquisitely wrought chimney-piece from the finest Sienite
marbles in Italy was presented to Washington for his Mount
Vernon home by Mr. Vaughan, of London. Upon three tablets of the
frieze are pleasing pastoral scenes, so fitting for this rural
home.

We were much impressed by a picture of Washington seen here. How
much more inspiring is a noble human countenance than the
grandest natural scenery.

Any one seeing a crowd of men in which Washington is one of the
number will at once ask, "Whose is the distinguished form
towering above the throng, a figure of superb strength and
perfect symmetry? He at once receives that hearty admiration
which youth and age alike bestow on a man who so forcibly
illustrates and embellishes manhood. No one finds cause of
regret for lavishing it, for that finely formed intellectual
head held a clear, vigorous brain; those fine blue eyes look
from the depths of a nature at once frank and noble; and in that
broad chest beat a heart filled with the love of freedom,
country and his fellow man."

The spirit of the boy pulsating with youth's warm blood who
carved his name on the west side of the Natural Bridge, where it
remained alone for nearly three-fourths of a century--that same
indomitable spirit rose high above the treacherous rocks of
fear, where it shone on the troubled sea of political injustice,
a beacon light to the venturesome mariners, until they were
landed safely upon the shore of Freedom.

Never did a family bear such an appropriate coat of arms: Exitus
Acta Probat, "The end justifies the means." Here we have a man
whose noble life of self-sacrifice and true devotion to his
country accomplished the "greatest end by the most justifiable
means." He had an Alpine grandeur of mind that towered far above
the sordid lowlands of selfish ambitions to those sublime
heights of whole-souled devotion to public duty and
incorruptible integrity, where the great soul of the man shone
forth like the lovely Pleiades on a winter night. In this
"Cincinnatus of the West" resided a liberal mind, broad as his
sunny acres that led far back from the river; his clearness of
thought was like that of his native springs which gush in
crystal clearness, leaving a path of verdure along their course;
his loftiness of purpose towered sublimely above average life,
like the glorious outlines of the Blue Ridge mountains.

"Skill, prudence, sagacity, energy, and wisdom marked all his
acts." That wonderful trinity--candor, sincerity and simplicity--
 were the striking features of his character and "an air of noble
dignity never left his manly features, in either defeat or
battle." On following his brilliant career as a commander one
realizes as never before, that "intellect and not numbers rule
the world; liberty-loving ideals and not force overmaster
bigness; and that truth and right, when supported by strong and
worthy purposes, always prevail in the end."

Among the many interesting relics to be seen at Mount Vernon are
the Sword of Washington and Franklin's staff. While gazing at
these mementoes of the past we recalled these significant words
of the poet:

     "The sword of the Hero,
     The staff of the Sage,
     Whose valor and wisdom
     Are stamped on the age.
     Time hallowed mementoes
     Of those who have riven
     The sceptre from tyrants,
     The lightning from heaven.

     This weapon, O, Freedom;
     Was drawn by thy son,
     And it never was sheathed
     Till the battle was won.
     No stain of dishonor
     Upon it we see.
     'Twas never surrendered--
     Except to the free.

     While Fame claims the hero
     And patriot sage
     Their names to emblazon
     On History's page,
     No holier relics
     Will Liberty hoard
     Than Franklin's staff guarded
     By Washington's sword."


Another relic is the key of that grim prison, the Bastile, sent
to Washington by Lafayette as a symbol of the overthrow of
despotism and triumph of free government in France. That symbol
is today one of America's most treasured mementos, carefully
guarded in the Nation's shrine at Mount Vernon.

An exact reproduction of the old prison was made from a stone of
its walls and presented to Washington. "We felt an awe in
treading these lonely halls, a feeling that hallowed the spot as
if there yet lingered a faint echo of the Master's footsteps
through the silence, although he had departed forever."

Having viewed the places that to him were most dear, the places
still redolent of the beauty and sacredness of home life, we
wanted to stand beside his tomb. Past beautiful cedars and
venerable maples we made our way to a quiet secluded spot where
so many had gone before us, to leave the most perfect roses of
Memory, filled with the incense of grateful and loving hearts.
We cannot tell with what feeling we added our sprays of
blossoms, perennials springing from the garden of the heart,
waxen white and fragrant as the narcissus.

We saw the wreath placed here by King Albert of Belgium as a
loving tribute of respect of that brave little country.

An old colored man who conducted us to the tomb said that, as
near as he could remember, about twelve years before he
witnessed one of the largest crowds that he ever saw at Mount
Vernon. The Ohio Corn Boys were afforded the wonderful
opportunity of visiting this famous spot. What an ideal place to
take them, for the farm has always been the best place on earth
for the family. "It is the main source of our national wealth;
the foundation of all civilized society." The welcome fact that
a rural community could produce such men as Washington or
Lincoln should be an added incentive for these Ohio lads to make
the most of their golden opportunities.

Leaving the sacred spot to its quiet, mournful beauty, we again
passed through the garden over which floated the notes of the
mocking-bird, like an oft-repeated farewell.


Travelers leaving Mount Vernon should pause a while in the old
city of Alexandria, for there is much of historic interest here.
It is located on the right bank of the Potomac river, six miles
below Washington, with which it is connected by a ferry and
electric lines. Here the Potomac is a mile wide though it is one
hundred miles from its mouth. It forms a harbor sufficiently
deep for the largest ocean vessels. A fine view of the Capitol
at Washington may be had, and from the Virginia end of the
bridge spanning the Potomac a magnificent view of Lee's old
home. Now Arlington cemetery opens to your gaze. This city was
the headquarters of Braddock prior to his ill-fated expedition
against the French in 1775. Here still stands Masonic Lodge, the
building in which the governors of New York, Maryland,
Pennsylvania, and Virginia met to form plans for the expedition.

But you forget the historical associations of the place as you
enter the little brick church where Washington was one of the
first Vestrymen. Washington's and Lee's pews are pointed out to
the visitor. Upon the wall back of the chancel may be seen the
Law, the Creed and the Lord's Prayer. How often the eyes of the
Father of his country must have rested upon that prayer. It was
here, during the "times that tried men's souls" that
thoughtfully and prayerfully he received courage and strength
which led him to espouse the Cause of Liberty. A feeling of
solemnity steals over you akin to that which you experience
while treading the dim lighted aisle of some vast cathedral. On
first beholding the Notre Dame in Cologne, you feel as if you
were indeed lingering at the gates of the "Temple Beautiful."
And on entering, how majestic are the arches, how long the
vista, how richly illuminated and emblazoned the windows, and
how heavenly the music that thrills the "iris tinted silences."
It yet lacks the solemnity of these moments in which you linger
in the old-fashioned church at Alexandria, where if you listen
you may still catch those sky-born melodies, the chimes of a
noble life. Leaving the place to its hallowed memories we
started on our way to Baltimore.


>From beneath that humble roof went forth the intrepid
and unselfish warrior--the magistrate who knew no glory
but his country's good; to that he returned happiest
when his work was done. There he lived in noble
simplicity; there he died in glory and peace.

While it stands, the latest generations of the grateful
children of America will make this pilgrimage to it as
to a shrine, and when it shall fall, if fall it must,
the memory and the name of Washington shall shed an
eternal glory on the spot.

--EDWARD EVERETT.


CHAPTER IV

LANCASTER COUNTY AND GETTYSBURG

One of the most pleasant, recollections of travelers in
Pennsylvania will be their trip through Lancaster county. For
fifty years this county has led the United States in the value
of cereal products. Lancaster, the county seat, has a population
of fifty-eight thousand. It is one of the oldest towns in the
state and was its capital in 1799. It was also the capital of
the United States for one day, September 27, 1777.

We resolved to keep close watch as we drove across this
wonderful agricultural county to see what we could learn of the
methods employed in producing such bountiful crops. Surely, we
thought, here will be a region lacking many of the beauties of
rural communities. But what was our surprise when we found fine
homes embowered in grand old trees. The dooryards contained many
trees, shrubs and flowers--not cluttered up, but most admirably
arranged, showing forethought and good taste. Then, the glowing
masses of the flower-bordered gardens were a quaint commingling
of use and beauty. "Squares of onions, radishes, lettuce,
rhubarb, strawberries--everything edible," reminded one of the
lovely weedless vegetable plots of the Rhine country. Theirs
seemed the homes which Gene Stratton Porter described in her
incomparable manner in her "Music of the Wild." "Peter Tumble-
down" has long ago moved from Lancaster county and only a few
distant relatives yet remain.

We were delighted to find large barns in which the implements
were sheltered. Nearly all contained coats of paint and the
stables were whitewashed, giving an added appearance of
cleanliness to the place as well as destroying lice and vermin.
Everything spoke of thrift. The manure was not thrown out in the
barnyard but stored under sheds. The straw was kept in the
barns. Noticing these things we began to learn that aside from
good soil it was also good sense that made this the garden spot
of the United States. Tobacco, so impoverishing to the soil, is
still raised here on farms that have known cultivation two
hundred years.

It is more refreshing than mountain scenery to behold such homes
as you find here. The highways were not bordered by unsightly
weeds but had been mown. These thrifty farmers were not afraid
that they would spend their last days in the poorhouse if they
chanced to leave a few shade trees standing; so, in many places
along the highways, lovely maples and graceful elms make of
them, instead of furnaces, a traveler's paradise. Thus we
learned that those who combine use and beauty are not financial
failures and live happier and longer than the people who "see no
beauty and hear no songs and fail to perpetuate them for the
future generations."

     "For he who blesses most is blest;
     And God and man shall own his worth
     Who toils to leave as his bequest
     An added beauty to the earth."


The motorist will find an ideal road from Baltimore to
Gettysburg. He will see a beautiful and fertile agricultural
country whose well kept homes speak of refinement and prosperity
among the people. It was over this wonderful highway that we
sped while on our way to the famous town.

We entered Gettysburg at nightfall, passing the house where
General Meade had his headquarters. The sky was overcast in the
early part of the evening and now the rain began to fall. It was
too dark to make out the flag as it rose and fell over the
little house. But as we peered through the uncertain light, a
flash of lightning revealed the banner, which at once spoke an
emblematic language too powerful for words. Darkness swallowed
it up again; but we knew that for those stars gleaming on their
field of blue, and for the purification of its white stripes
that had been blackened by slavery, these charming ridges about
us had been washed in the blood of thousands of our fair land.

We had to detour on account of the repair of sewers. Red
lanterns warned the traveler of danger, but it seemed as if they
spoke not of the dangers of the present but of those graver
dangers that once had been. We spent the night at the Eagle
Hotel. The rain continued to fall and by its soothing patter on
the leaves and roof above us we were ushered into the land of
dreams.

The next morning we met the father of Lieutenant Ira Ellsworth
Lady who was one of the first of Pennsylvania's loyal sons from
Adams county to offer the supreme sacrifice in the World War.
The Post of the American Legion at Arendtsville is named in his
honor.

Alas! How poor, how futile are words to express the nobleness of
those young men, the fairest and purest our land could offer. In
cases like this there is not much to be said. As we picked up
the hat that dropped from trembling hands unnoticed to the
floor, we thought what a sad Christmas the year 1918 brought to
this home. Then we thought, too, how in the last moments of his
earthly sojourn Lieut. Lady had wandered back to the lovely
hills and the old homestead with its dear remembered faces in
his native county.

Our first meeting was in the Evacuation Hospital at Glorenx;
almost within the shadows of the frowning citadel of Verdun. How
well we remember the first day of his arrival in Ward E! The
litter bearers came and went on their ceaseless journeys,
bringing new patients still under the influence of ether or
transferring others who were sent by ambulance to base
hospitals. It was during those terrible days of the Meuse-
Argonne drive, while the air overhead hummed with those cruel
messengers of fate--coming from no one knew where--that the
litter bearers slowly and carefully lowered a patient to the
newly-made cot we had just prepared. Looking at the diagnosis
card that we found, we learned that the patient, Lieut. Ira
Ellsworth Lady, had had an amputation of his limb above the
knee, and that he also had been gassed.

The first question that he asked as we stood by his cot, when he
again regained consciousness was: "How am I wounded?" When we
told him the misfortune which had befallen him, a shudder ran
through his frame as he repeated: "It is bad enough, but it
might have been worse." A shade of sadness spread over those
noble features but it was only for a moment, and he appeared
utterly resigned to his cruel fate.

Always there was that smile of appreciation as we moved among
the numerous cots of the suffering and dying. Whether in the
morning upon inquiring how he had spent the night, or after the
thick curtains were lowered at the windows, that no gleam of
light might reveal our location to hostile planes, or when we
paused at his bedside to wish him a painless night and restful
slumber, we were always greeted by kind words of hope and cheer
and a pleasant smile. How those cheery good-nights softened the
roaring cannon, and screaming shells into a mere echo, and that
smiling countenance made radiant the grim halls of indescribable
suffering and death!

Well do we remember that Lieut. Lady's concern was not for
himself but only for the welfare of others. As he looked across
the way where Private Everson of Company A, in the 26th
Division, who had been wounded in such a manner as to make it
impossible for him to lie down, sat propped up with blankets, he
exclaimed, "I pity that poor fellow so! Oh, how I wish I could
help him!" How self vanished like a blighted thing as we heard
those words of pity coming from one whose suffering was beyond
human words to express. Truly, a life like this had caught a
glow of that redeeming light which radiates from the cross
itself.

Again, we recalled that awful night in November when we moved
with hurried yet silent tread among the cots on which lay
figures in many uneasy attitudes, some brokenly slumbering and
muttering through helpless delirium; others uttering suppressed
moans as they lay tossing upon their cots.

Just as we were preparing to leave the ward to the night men,
after the temperatures and pulse rates of all the patients had
been taken and registered, the gas alarm sounded. Instantly we
made ready to put onto the patients the gas masks which were in
readiness at the head of each cot. Just then the cry of fire was
whispered to the ward men, who at once began preparations for
the removal of the patients to the opposite side of the hospital
grounds. All out of doors was intense blackness--a blackness
only relieved by the flashes of guns that made the eastern sky
blaze with their crimson light.

Suddenly the flames leaped from the operating room, in the end
containing the sterilizer. Soon they cast a lurid glow upon the
dark clouds. Hurriedly, yet quietly, we removed the patients to
a place in which they would be safe. Two of the wards had
already caught fire on their sides nearest the operating room.
The many patients in this room along with those undergoing
operations on the thirteen operating tables were rushed into
another building where the work was immediately resumed. Each
patient who caught sight of the bright light that streamed in
through the open doors, was busy with many eager questions on
his perturbed mind. Yet no one spoke a word but watched in
suspense that was almost pain, the fiery glow that spread
around, until horror distorted many a face.

Suddenly, as if reflected from some unimaginable furnace the sky
was all aflame. What had happened or was happening those wounded
boys could only dimly imagine. Yet, how calm, how wonderful they
were in their utter helplessness. Rain began to fall as we were
removing the patients. Gradually the dreadful light faded from
the sky and the flames that had began to eat their way in the
walls of the nearest buildings were extinguished. Only the
operating room was burned to the ground.

As we moved among the patients, doing what little we could to
ease the pain and quiet the fears of those dear, noble boys, a
hand from one of the cots seized oars in a clinging firm embrace
and we recognized the voice of Lieut. Lady as he said, "I am so
glad you are with me tonight."

When that eventful day of the 11th of November came and the
bells from Regret and Verdun rang out the glorious news of the
armistice, how the hearts of all the boys in the wards were
stirred! It was a beautiful day resembling our American Indian
Summer, when we threw open the doors and windows to admit the
glorious message. It seemed that the prayers of not only France,
but of the world, were being said and the theme that ran through
them all was: "How beautiful are the feet of Him upon the
mountains that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace."
And chiming in with the music of the bells, the clear voice of
Lieut. Lady was heard, as he exclaimed, "I hope and pray God
that this will be the end of all wars." Let us sincerely hope
that the noble sacrifice of such men as this shall not have been
in vain. To many the bells that morning meant peace, home and
love, but alas, to others they had a sadder meaning!

When spring came again to the shell-torn fields near Verdun, we
saw how Nature in places was reclothing the meadows in their
mantles of green and around the ruined, tenantless homes along
the Meuse, how the primrose and violet were covering up the
scars made by unnumbered shells. The air was filled with the
joyous notes of the lark, and the linnet and the black-cap
warbled among the hedgerows. Here where once had dwelt the
peasant, the cuckoo called from the evergreens and nightingales
made the evening breeze vocal with their rapturous notes. This
wealth of flowers and song only served to call up bitter
memories for, alas! how many brave hearts lay sleeping in that
vast abode of the dead, all unmindful of the beauty of flower or
joy of song about them.

Slowly we made our way from the flower gardens to the French
cemetery, where thousands of valiant Poilus who had said: "they
shall not pass" were sleeping. We saw where the hand of
affection had planted the fleur-de-lis or hung beautiful bead-
wrought wreaths upon the crosses until this abode of the dead
resembled a vast flower garden.

Just to the west and divided by a narrow road, our own American
heroes were resting. Here we reverently paused and placed a
wreath of ivy inwrought with flowers, upon the grave of Lieut.
Lady and another on that of our own Ambrose Schank as a last
loving tribute to all who had so dearly purchased the peace we
now enjoy. While thinking of those other dear friends, Corporal
Edgar Browder, of Chicago, and Lieut. Erk Cottrell, of
Greenville, Ohio, who perished nobly upon the field of duty, we
felt the significance of the words of the poet:

     "In Flanders fields the poppies grow,
     Between the crosses, row on row,
     That mark our place, and in the sky,
     The larks still bravely singing, fly,
     Scarce heard amid the guns below.
     We are the dead; short days ago
     We lived, felt dawn, saw sunsets glow,
     Loved and were loved, and now we lie
     In Flanders fields.
     Take up our quarrel with the foe!
     To you from falling hands we throw
     The torch; be yours to hold it high;
     If ye break faith with us who die
     We shall not sleep though poppies grow
     In Flanders fields."


If you are approaching Gettysburg for the first time you cannot
help but admire those even swells that stretch away from South
Mountain like an emerald sea. No doubt you will begin to wonder
where the town is situated as you advance. Numerous low ridges
are crossed and at last the famous town lies before you.

What a charming situation it has! Vast waves of undulating
meadow and farm land appear with fields of gleaming grain and
clamps of elm, oak and maple to break its smoothly flowing
billows. Farther away rise higher treeless ridges or wooded
slopes, but all alike are smoothly flowing.

Looking out over the land in a northwestern direction on a
bright day you can see South Mountain, "forerunner of the
sierrated Alleghanies," looming up between the town and
Cumberland Valley. Back of it the serried ranks of the
Alleghanies rise in hazy indistinctness and blend imperceptibly
with the blue along the far horizon.

You will soon discover the two ridges that are so important from
a military point of view. These ridges are about one mile apart,
although in some places they approach much nearer each other.
Cemetery Ridge slopes very gently to a more level tract of
ground when you compare it to the undulating land about it. "You
will discover that the ridges have stopped short here, forming
headlands above the lower swells. Two roads ascend this hill and
the ascent is not difficult. It does not seem to you as being a
formidable stronghold." Gettysburg is located here; its houses
extend to the brow of the hill and the cemetery is located upon
the brow itself.

Looking across the valley you will see the western ridge with
its fringe of deciduous trees. These grow along the entire crest
of the hill. They effectually hide the view in that direction.
Rising from its setting of trees at a point opposite the town
you will observe the cupola of the Lutheran Seminary from which
the ridge took its name--Seminary Ridge.

Both ridges are comparatively level at the top and the
undulating slopes of both are very easy of ascent. Only far down
the valley will you find them cut up by ravines and water
courses.

Rising like giant sentinels off some distance from the ends of
Cemetery Ridge are those hills whose possession meant victory or
defeat. The northern-most group consists of that memorable trio
of Wolf's, McAllister's and Culp's Hills. There is a slender and
low ridge joining Cemetery Ridge and Culp's Hill which seems to
be thrown behind the ridge.

Between Culp's Hill and Wolf's Hill flows Rock Creek. It is very
shallow and winds through a wild ravine. What news it could tell
of those three days of fighting if we were able to interpret its
rippling music. But the vast numbers who listened to its softly
murmured notes have long since gone, borne down the rippling
stream of Time, from which there is no returning.

Here we learned why the soldiers made such a desperate attempt
to secure Culp's Hill, for what use would it have been to get
Cemetery Hill and leave a back door open, as it were, for the
enemy to pass through.

Here in spring the ravine is gay with the blossoming dogwood and
the redbud fills the place with its royal purple.

As we gazed at the many fine monuments on this, the best marked
and most beautiful of ail battlegrounds in the world, we thought
of the terrible waste of life. But then had it been wasted,
after all? As we passed down by the peach orchard, we saw a
battle between two robins being waged. Then we thought how each
spring, from remotest times this same battle-ground has been
used by Nature's children to settle questions of gravest import
to their race. Each season brings renewed conflicts. Down by the
Devil's Den ground squirrels wage their battles again and again.
Aerial battles, too, are fought by hawks above the tree tops.

In Nature, to the strongest usually comes the victory. For her
children cruel, relentless, bloody war seems inevitable. But is
it necessary that human life be sacrificed? What could be the
plan, the purpose of it all? Perhaps there was no plan, no
purpose; we do not know. But as we look across the changing
scenes that come and go with the changeless years, we seem to
see a plan, a purpose, and there are wars and bloodshed in them,
yet, they appear Divine. It seems that only the great principle
of the Universe is being fulfilled; that from the sacrifice of
life a richer, fuller life is gained.

Here the birds still come to bathe and drink and their songs
float to you from far and near. Among the branches of an oak
top, a red-eyed vireo is saying, "brigade, brigadier," and we
well know that he is not military and do not know where he
learned those military terms. But, he is destroying whole
battalions and even armies of caterpillars, those green coated
Boches and striped convicts of our forest trees; and we think
"brigadier" none too noble a title for the bravery he shows in
carolling all through the hot summer day. Someone has called him
a preacher, but we confess, we have listened to many a lengthy
discourse whose effect was slight in comparison to his wild
ringing text, so redolent of rustling leaves and murmuring
brooks--one of the sermons of God's great out-of-doors. Across
the "peach orchard" a cardinal, like a swiftly hurled firebrand,
comes toward us and utters his clear metallic Chip, then
alighting among some wild grape vines, plays several variations
on his clear, ringing flute. From an elm tree, an oriole answers
his bold challenge in his rich voice, while a band of chickadees
indulge in their querulous calls as they inspect each leaf and
twig for larva and eggs. Up in a linden tree, a blue jay is
crying "Salute me, salute me." Like a second lieutenant just
commissioned. He wears his close-fitting uniform and overseas
cap with a dignity that becomes one of that most enviable rank.
The bold bugle of the Carolina wren sounds through the leafy
encampment and like the colors ascending for retreat, the red,
white and blue of the red-headed woodpecker is seen rising
diagonally to a dead oak stub. Like a fine accompaniment the
music of the fluttering leaves blends with that of the rippling
stream and the many woodland voices mellow and supplement them
until the symphony rises a soothing and harmonious whole which
can never be forgotten.

>From Little Round Top a night hawk screams and comes booming
down to earth where squadrons of insects are manoeuvering; by
the Devil's Den a red squirrel is berating an unseen enemy,
hurling all sorts of abusive epithets at him in his wheezy,
irate manner.

Rising in strong relief at the southern edge of Cemetery Ridge
are the picturesque hills known as Little and Great Round Top.
They are wooded from base to summit. What mighty forces have
been at work here! Crevasses of broken ledges, immense boulders
cropping out on the slopes or lying here and there all show that
a battle royal has been here waged by Nature. Here, thrust out
from little Round Top, is a heap of "ripped up" ledges and
massive rocks where a great fissure leads back to a place where
the Southern sharpshooters hid while picking off the Union
officers on Little Round Top. It seemed that some great mass had
slipped from Little Round Top and had been hurled still farther
by some unknown force--a vast heap of stone deeply seamed by
rents and scars thick set with boulders and filled with holes
providing excellent hiding places for the men.

"All through that moonlight night while Buford kept watch the
roads leading to Gettysburg were lighted up by gleaming
campfires. How peacefully lay the little village slumbering in
the quiet moonlight, with never a thought of the coming battle
on the morrow. Soon the lovely valley of Willoughby Run with its
emerald meadows, flashing brooks and green woods would be
deformed by shot and shell."

It seems difficult even to imagine the terrible price that was
paid at Gettysburg--while wandering here in this charming spot,
where stretches a beautiful world of woodlands with their feast
of varying shades of green whose rare vistas open up to fields
of hay and grain.

Marry flowers and ferns grow here and, like the birds, they,
too, have their preacher. Jack in his pulpit of light green is
proclaiming wildwood messages to his flower brethren. If scarlet
represents sin among the flower family then in his congregation
are many sinners, for the vivid hues of the cardinal blossoms
burn like coals of fire against their setting of green shrubs
and vines. Joe Pye weeds blush at what they hear, as if guilty
of some flagrant wrong, although they took their name from Joe
Pye, the Indian who cured typhus fever in New England by means
of these plants. Elecampane stands up tall and straight as if
conscious of having been mentioned by Hippocrates, the father of
medicine, more than two thousand years ago, as being an
important stimulant to the brain and stomach. Fox gloves, those
Good Samaritans among the flowers, bend low their lovely heads
to catch Jack's text, and among the patron Saints John's wort
humbly rears its yellow flowers, unmindful that it was hung at
the doors and windows on St. John's Eve as a safeguard against
thunder and evil spirits. As if to destroy the good Jack wished
to do, the Devil's Paint Brush (European Hawk-weed) had been
busy among the brethren, sowing seeds of strife and contention
and the brilliant orange blotches interspersed among the other
members told how successful were his labors.

We have not told much about the battle of Gettysburg and the
observing historian may say that our time was wholly wasted, but
the wonderful words of Lincoln's Gettysburg Speech still ring in
our ears like heavenly music and as we turned to leave this
"hallowed"--this "consecrated"--spot, the lines repeated here by
Ella Wheeler Wilcox came to us like some grand triumphal strain
of music:

     "We know that you died for Freedom,
     To save our land from shame,
     To rescue a periled Nation,
     And we give you deathless fame.
     'Twas the cause of Truth and Justice
     That you fought and perished for,
     And we say it, oh, so gently,
     'Our boys who died in the war.'

     Saviors of our Republic,
     Heroes who wore the blue,
     We owe the peace that surrounds us,
     And our Nation's strength to you.
     We owe it to you that our banner,
     The fairest flag in the world,
     Is today unstained, unsullied,
     On the summer air unfurled.

     We look on the stripes and spangles
     And our hearts are filled the while
     With love for the brave commanders
     And the boys of the rank and file.
     The grandest deeds of valor
     Were never written out,
     The noblest acts of virtue
     The world knows nothing about.

     And many a private soldier
     Who walks his humble way,
     With no sounding name or title,
     Unknown to the world today,
     In the eyes of God is a hero
     As worthy of the bays,
     As any mighty general
     To whom the world gives praise.

     For next to our God is our Nation,
     And we cherish the honored name,
     Of the bravest of all brave armies
     Who fought for the Nation's fame."


CHAPTER V

ATLANTIC CITY

     O ye, who dwell in youth's inviting bowers,
     Waste not, in useless joy, your fleeting hours,
     But rather let the tears of sorrow roll,
     And sad reflection fill the conscious soul.
     For many a jocund spring has passed away,
     And many a flower has blossomed to decay;
     And human life, still hastening to a close,
     Finds in the worthless dust its last repose.
     Still the vain world abounds in strife and hate,
     And sire and son provoke each other's fate;
     And kindred blood by kindred hands is shed,
     And vengeance sleeps not--dies not, with the dead.
     All nature fades--the garden's treasures fall,
     Young bud, and citron ripe--all perish--all.

--From the Persian.

"The excessive heat of the summer of 1921 made it the first
impulse of travelers to plunge straight into the cool, kindly
ocean, where they could wade and bathe in the surf, sprawl for
hours in the sand, or indulge in races and various games along
the beach."

One is greatly impressed with the vast numbers of resorts on the
Atlantic coast. All along the Jersey shore from Bar Harbor to
Cape May you will find it almost as thickly settled as a town.
Here along this coast an amazing degree of congestion exists.
You will marvel to see all along the beach from Sandy Hook,
fifty miles of crowded street, of hotels, and houses, and behind
these still others. How this vast seaside population thrills
one, bringing visions of the "vastness and wealth of teeming
millions" of this great nation of ours. One author says, and
with truth, that Atlantic City could accommodate all of France
and still have room for more while Asbury Park would furnish
ample room as a seaside resort for Belgium and Holland.

Atlantic City, known throughout the world as a great all-the-
year resort, is situated upon Absecon Island off the Jersey
coast. Absecon is an Indian name given to this island, meaning
"Place of Swans." Great flocks of these graceful birds are said
to have frequented this spot, where they fed on clams and
oysters. The swans have long since gone, their place being taken
by less graceful and more richly attired birds, that at stated
times flock there in vast numbers. Its close proximity to the
large eastern centers of population give it an unrivaled
location. The climate is made equable by the Gulf Stream. It is
much warmer here in winter than at New York or Philadelphia and
weather records show sixty-two per cent sunshine. Motorists
visit the seashore metropolis by tens of thousands in all
seasons of the year.

Atlantic City has one thousand two hundred hotels and boarding
houses to meet every purse and entertains twenty million people
annually, the transient population reaching four hundred
thousand in August and never being less than fifty thousand.

For six miles along one of the finest bathing beaches on the
Atlantic seaboard extends the world-famed board walk, sixty feet
wide, topped with planking and built upon a steel and concrete
foundation, where promenade health and recreation seekers from
all parts of America and foreign climes. There are four great
piers varying in length from one thousand to three thousand
feet, with auditoriums and all kinds of amusements which are as
varied as the visitors are versatile. The shops of the board
walk are one of its most attractive features.

One's motto at Atlantic City as well as the world over should be
that of a certain medicine man who gave this advice to his
customers: "Let your eyes be your judge, your pocketbook your
guide, and your money the last thing you part with." But, alas!
how few heeded the free advice he gave them, but persisted in
buying his patent nostrums until their pocketbooks could
scarcely raise an audible jingle!

Money may befriend one at Atlantic City but it will never admit
him into real society where the passwords are wit, wisdom and
beauty of character; which, united, forma truly royal life.
There are people who care not whether their clothes come from
Paris or Mexico just so they are comfortable, serviceable and
becoming. Society of this type is not exclusive but admits alike
all worthy people.

     "What space bath virgin's beauty to disclose
     Her sweets, and triumph o'er the blooming rose.
     Not even an hour!"

What a motley crowd of human beings throng the board walk! How
like the vast interminable deep is this thronging, surging mass
of humanity, where they, like restless waves, pause awhile on
the margin of the boundless sea until the ebb tide moves out in
the vast sea of life. "Here the fury of fashion ebbs and flows,
a constant stream, representing all the states of the Union."
Here are men with silk plug hats and petite mustachios who seem
"straight from Paris!" Others whose ruddy faces and commanding
air proclaim them genial sons of the Emerald Isle, while still
others are the possessors of so many and varied characteristics
one might be justified in calling them mongrels. One would think
the lovely Pleiades themselves came every night on a long
journey to look at the board walk with an interrogation mark in
every twinkle. Here come youth and beauty seeking pleasure.
Here, too, you will see old age trying to recall their youthful
days "when the serious looking canes they so carefully carry
gave place to the foppish switches they so artfully carried in
their younger days." Here the gilded doors of idleness and
pleasure are ever ajar but they never lead to the halls of noble
aims and the palaces of worthy ambition. Here the entrances are
always crowded with that class of people whose motto is, "Things
are good enough as they are," or "Eat, drink and be merry," or
"We are weary of well doing."

Here beauty assembles, but it is ofttimes not the beauty of
life. It is the glaring show and tinsel array of society that
attracts great numbers, who, like the beautiful colored night
moths, are enamoured of the gleaming light, venturing nearer
until they scorch their wings, or blinded by the brilliant rays
plunge headlong into the flames and are burned to death. "The
allied army of fashion meets here." Here, then, is their
Thermopylae or Argonne, it may be.

The test here as elsewhere is the using of means already
acquired to some worthy end. Many can acquire wealth, but few
know how to use it wisely The art of spending is more readily
acquired than that of saving, as may be easily seen. An article
appeared in an American newspaper telling how the appearance of
the world's greatest spender startled London by blazing her way
into the Prince of Wale's box in Albert Hall--a literal walking
diamond mine. Her costume, which contained more than seventy-
five thousand diamonds and pearls, was insured for five million
dollars. The article stated that this person would visit the
United States to show us something real in the art of spending.
We as a people need no instruction in this art, but need to read
more our illustrious Franklin's advice on saving. One wonders
what this dressing may bring to the American home or how much
the common interests of mankind will be helped! What a blessing
is wealth when rightly used! True society looks inwardly and not
outwardly, and all that does not belong to it falls away as does
wheat fanned by a sheet; the trash and chaff being blown away.

One cannot tell the rich from the poor in their camouflage, but
the really rich in character are easily discernible, arrayed in
modest garbs as unostentatious and serviceable as those of the
nightingale or the thrush. Like all great people the melody of
their lives eclipses their array until only the soul-thrilling
memories of what they are or were remain to gladden the weary
pilgrim on life's road. The indigo bunting is arrayed in
splendid robes, yet his song is high pitched and rasping. But
the dull robed songsters delight the ear. Some people have not
yet learned that a fifty-dollar hat can never cover the
deficiency of a two-cent head. Ofttimes money only makes a mean
life more conspicuous. True, some of these people dress more
becomingly than they suspect for their slim, pointed-toed
English shoes admirably match their few ideas. They are much
persecuted for their belief, thinking that a number six shoe can
be worn on a number nine foot.

It is almost as interesting to watch people in the act of
scraping acquaintance as it is to see a group of flickers love-
making in early spring. Some one will purposely drop her
kerchief at just the right moment. If you would see the glaring
look given to some sprightly lady who picks it up before the
intended one arrives, you will leave kerchiefs alone, especially
if you belong to the feminine gender. There are others who take
a great interest in a dog or child while they examine a register
or look at the thermometer, if the master or more often mistress
of said dog strikes their fancy. If perchance they find they
have stopped in New York or Boston at hotels of notable
expensiveness, then it does not take much scraping until their
acquaintance is made.

On the famous board walk may be seen girls who were sixteen some
twenty years ago. They remind you of the man who has an old or
repainted Ford who advertises his machine not as old but
reconditioned. There are women riding in wheel chairs, being
pushed along by colored men. They see, not the magnificent
reaches of the vast ocean or the wild breakers that come rolling
in upon the beach, but ever anon caress the poodle they have
with them or notice the wart on the nose of a passer-by in the
place of his charming manners. Perhaps the poodles are taken to
the sea beach for their health but their vitality surely could
never become so low as that of their mistresses.

These very people may have toiled most of the summer so they
could feign riches by taking a few rides in the wheel chair.
There are idle poor as well as idle rich and both should receive
no commendation for not trying to better their lowly lot.

Rare flowers do not grow in great clumps. The orchids bloom in
gloomy swamps, far removed from the haunts of men; the morning
and evening hymn of the hermit thrush rises from solitary places-
 -along wild lakes and among high mountains.

One old dame with a glowing face like an ocean sunset and a gown
that for richness of color and vivid contrast would have made
Joseph's coat of many colors appear very ordinary, remarked that
she came out on the board walk to study types. But types of
what? Perhaps she was observing the lilies of the board walk
whose raiment was so dazzling that Solomon would not have
arrayed himself like one of these even though he could. They are
true lilies for they toil not, neither do they spin, unless it
be a fabulous yarn about some fair rivals, and for this lack of
toil they lose the real meaning and significance of life.
Everything about them is toil, not that grinding toil with no
final goal to reach but that exhilarating joyful kind as seen in
the waves, in bees and flowers. The waves come running up to
shore sending silver reflections glinting along the beach,
always blending beauty and usefulness; the air about the linden
trees is melodious with multitudes of murmuring toilers
preparing for a winter's need; the purple fox-glove, that good
Samaritan among the flowers, in modest beauty holds aloft its
purple bells all unmindful of the cheer it brings to lonely
hearts or the hope it bears to thousands of sufferers.

It is surprising to see that by far the greater numbers of
people turn their backs on the ocean while they scan the daily
papers for sensational items or the latest styles. It seems a
cruel waste of glorious linden trees to say nothing of the
wealth of sweets that the bees have lost to record at least some
vamp's trial in a murder case or some miserably rich woman's
divorce scandal.

There are those who go to Europe who bring back to their native
land only the latest fashions of Paris with a little knowledge
of foreign profanity picked up from the cafes and boulevards.
They can tell nothing about the wonders of the Louvre; the
grandeur of Raphael's Madonnas; the beauty and charm of the
Mediterranean shores. Their souls perhaps have never been
touched by the grand sublimity of the Alps. What feasts they
have attended, taking away only the husks! Far away in some
foreign land they have spent years vainly seeking for pleasure
only to learn that:

     "Pleasures are like poppies spread.
     You seize the flower, its bloom is shed.
     Or like the snowfall in the river
     A moment white, then melts forever.
     Or like the rainbow's lovely form
     Evanishing amid the storm."


The first cool breeze blows away the froth of fashion, for it is
composed of delicate flowers that the first chill wind of
adversity causes to wilt and droop and lose their fragrance.
"Now the cool forenoon serenity of the ocean is no longer
profaned." They have followed the siren voices of this
bewildering region until they have arrived on some shoals that
hint of a coming winter, and emerge with duller plumes like
birds of passage, ready to flock to sunnier climes. They remind
one, too, of the gorgeous colored butterflies which flew about
all summer, at first things of beauty, dazzling the eye with
their brilliant colors; haunting the most fragrant flowers for
nectar, reveling in the sunshine the whole day long. Now they
appear in their torn and faded robes to hover over a few pale
flowers as if "loath to leave the scenes of their summer's
revelings."

Only the more hardy remain to enjoy the grandeur of the winter
ocean like the chickadees and cardinal grosbeaks that enliven
our winter woods. The many flowered asters remain regal and
cheery though a thousands winds may blow. Those who see the real
beauty and indescribable grandeur of the ocean here, if they
cannot remain, will show evidences in their beneficent lives
that they have had a wonderful summer by the sea. Here amid the
most beautiful manifestations of Nature's power and grandeur
they have gained broader hopes, higher aspirations and a purer
life. They leave the frivolous things of life on its remotest
shores, where a few returning tides bury them in the sands of
forgetfulness or the receding waves wash them like clams far out
to sea.

     Look at the fate of summer flowers,
     Which blow at daybreak, droop ere evensong
     And, grieved for their brief date, confess that ours
     Measured by what we are and ought to be,
     Measured by all that, trembling we foresee,
     Is not so long!

     The deepest grove whose foliage hid
     The happiest lovers' Arcady might boast,
     Could not the entrance of this thought forbid:
     O be thou wise as they, soul-gifted maid!
     Nor rate too high what must so quickly fade,
     So soon be lost!

     Then shall love teach some virtuous youth
     To draw out of the object of his eyes
     The whilst they gaze on thee in simple truth
     Hues more exalted a refined form,
     That dreads not age, nor suffers from the worm,
     And never dies!     --Wordsworth.


CHAPTER VI

HURRIED FLIGHT THROUGH NEW JERSEY

An eight-hour drive through the interior of New Jersey is
attended with much interest and some surprises. Leaving Camden,
which is reached by ferry across the Delaware from Philadelphia,
the road traverses many miles of level, sandy country which is
almost entirely given over to truck gardening and poultry
raising. To those who all their lives have been accustomed to
fields of wheat, oats and corn the almost interminable rows of
beets, beans, sweet potatoes and melons are very interesting.
Proceeding onward through this highly cultivated section by a
somewhat circuitous route, there was gradually entered as day
merged into night, a wild, sparsely cultivated region which
contrasted strangely with the orderly acres left behind.

The land here is flat, largely of a swampy nature, covered
mostly with a thick growth of saplings, ferns and bushes. Here
and there were also to be found some trees of fairly good size.
It was in the east but a few miles removed from the great
metropolitan district of New York and Philadelphia. There could
still be found many square miles of unimproved land. It was
surprising also to find excellent highways running throughout
this semi-wilderness, between almost impenetrable walls of
green, which though beautiful, produced a feeling of loneliness
under their weird shadows. Some distance ahead the country
appeared more rolling, the trees higher and the undergrowth less
dense. Vistas opened up, revealing an occasional farmstead.
Suddenly the scene changed for, instead of the emerald hues of
thrifty vegetation, there were seen the brown, seared forms as
of the desert; the charred ruins of buildings, the ashy outlines
of fences and blackened stumps. The reason for this devastation
was soon discovered, as exclamations arose simultaneously from
all sides--"Forest Fire." Upon penetrating the ruined district a
little farther the cause of this widespread destruction was soon
learned. On a large bulletin board by the roadside were
stenciled these words Forty thousand acres of timber, besides
crops, fences and buildings destroyed by fire, started from a
cigarette stub carelessly thrown away. Coupled with expressions
of sincere regret over the country's irreparable loss were heard
strong denunciations of the criminally careless smoker who
caused it. A terrible indictment cumulative in character is
being drawn against the cigarette habit, not only as being
responsible for the sad scene just witnessed, but for the
useless waste of money, the undermining of health, yea even to
the destruction of life itself, for that day was not destined to
close until there had been seen the ghastly ruins of the hotel
in Hoboken where twelve lives were snuffed out by fire started
from a cigarette.

It is not good, however, to dwell for a considerable time in the
valley of the shadow of death, even to adorn a tale or point a
moral, so the journey was continued toward fairer fields and
happier surroundings.

Again highly cultivated areas were entered though much more
rolling in character than upon first entering the state.
Beautiful scenes abounded upon every hand not unlike Lancaster
county, Pennsylvania, which seemed like a vast park under
cultivation. It is significant to note at this juncture that in
respect to value of agricultural products, Lancaster county
ranks first in America; this section of New Jersey second; and
we cannot pass this opportunity of stating that our own Darke
county, Ohio, is third.

There is abundant evidence that the larger portion of the state
was at the time of settlement by the white man heavily wooded.
Numerous ponds provided mill sites for manufacturing logs into
wood products for the use of the colonists. Most of these mills
are in varying stages of decay, but the ponds filled with
stagnant water remain. There are also numerous lakes and marshes
which are due to the fact that New Jersey has no drainage laws.

Ponds, lakes and marshes all propagate that well-known pest the
"Jersey skeeter." There can be no question of the truthfulness
of all that has been said of him in song and story. This was
fully attested by an erstwhile happy quintet of travelers. There
was apparently nothing in the wide world to mar that happiness
until the ominous growl of distant thunder gave warning of a
rapidly oncoming storm. With its nearer approach it was decided
to seek shelter, so upon seeing a short distance ahead the open
doors of a barn, its protecting walls were soon gained,
permission to enter having been readily given by the owner. It
was thought afterward that there was detected in the man's face
a dry sense of humor, provoked, no doubt, by the experience of
many a luckless traveler who had gone that way before. No sooner
had the shelter of the building been obtained and these same
grateful travelers ensconced themselves in comfortable positions
on the cushions of the car when from the right and the left, the
front and the rear and from the ground beneath and the air above
they were beset by whole companies, battalions, divisions,
armies, yea, tribes and nations of thick-set, sharp-billed
little devils who had come to torment them before their time and
whose every impact brought blood. There was needed no council of
war to determine the course to pursue, so a hasty retreat was
ordered--an ignominious flight, feeling that it were better to
face the perils of the storm without than go down to certain
defeat before this relentless enemy within. These blood-thirsty
villains began to probe eyelids, ears; in fact there was no part
of one's anatomy where they did not alight; and unlike other
members of their tribe that dwell farther north, who advance,
buzz, sting and retreat these "Jersey Skeeters" knew no retreat.
Hurriedly gaining the highway and cautiously proceeding there
was seen broad grins on the faces of a detachment of soldiers in
motor trucks drawn up beside the road. These boys seemed to
thoroughly enjoy witnessing this inglorious retreat, from what
they at first thought, a protecting smoke screen which they had
provided in the rear of their trucks. This smoke screen proved
to be only camouflage, for behind it were seen a number of the
boys with bleared countenances whose limbs were twitching as
though they had the St. Vitus dance.

It takes more than a little smouldering fire to route this pest
of the marshlands and it is doubtful whether all the smoke from
the forest fire, whose devastation had just been witnessed,
could have sufficed to drive these fine sopranoed prima donnas
of the marsh away. Preferring just mosquitoes to both smudge and
mosquitoes the more fortunate party in the auto left the jolly
soldiers amid many wavings of kerchiefs--those white flags of
truce.

Along the road was seen a man whose attire made one think that
perhaps he had started for a stroll and strayed away from
Atlantic City. He wore a scissor-tailed coat, once black but now
having a reddish brown tinge. His vest contained immense black
and white stripes across which a great silver chain dangled. His
hat had been struck so often that it resembled a battered sauce
pan. He seized a branch and beat the air wildly about him but
still the blood coursed in tine rivulets down his face and
hands. His little dog that had a bell attached to its collar
made numerous stops while he rang a suggestive peal as he
scratched his ear with his hind foot. Leaving them to their
tragic pantomimes and protracted agony a swift run for the
highlands was made and at last there was safety from the
plotting of such a fearsome foe as the "Jersey skeeter."


CHAPTER VII

GLIMPSES ALONG THE HUDSON

NEW YORK CITY

You might as well leave France without seeing Paris as to travel
through the East and not make a visit to New York. But there is
so much to see in this great city that if you have not decided
before coming what you wish to see you will miss many places of
interest.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art should be visited, for it
contains the greatest art collection in America. It is located
within the borders of Central Park, its principal entrance being
on Fifth Avenue, between Eighty-second and Eighty-third streets.
A trip to Bronx park, where the beautiful botanical and
zoological gardens are located, should not be missed. It is
watered throughout its length by the Bronx river and is one of
the most beautiful parks in existence.

As we crossed the ferry over to this wonderful city we thought
how scarcely more than three centuries ago, when Paris and
London had been great for a thousand years, New York City with
its wonderful buildings rising before us was only a little
wooded island with here and there scattered tepees, and in place
of magnificent avenues and boulevards were found morasses
crossed by streams and presided over by wild beasts.

Civilization was old in Europe before Henry Hudson appeared on
this beautiful river.

Some one has described New York as a chaotic city, where huge
masses of masonry and iron rise mountain high with no
relationship existing between any of the structures. One views
their stupendous forms as he does the mountains along the
Hudson. "They are serrated, presenting ragged, irregular
outlines, which are lost in the accidental sky-line, giving one
at once the impression of power, wealth, and aggressiveness."
The vast, impenetrable wall of solid masonry along the river is
almost as wonderful as the Palisades.

The magnetic attraction of such an enormous amount of steel
concentrated in so small a space is said to be so great that it
frequently varies the points of the compass on boats in the
harbor as much as seven degrees. Here rises the Woolworth
building, towering seven hundred fifty feet above the level of
the street. It is the highest inhabited structure ever built by
man.

How the ceaseless activity and seemingly untiring energy of this
great city thrills you! Here the sound of traffic rises
continually, not unlike the booming breakers of the ocean. Here
ebb and flow those vast throngs of humanity, drawn irresistibly
by some compelling force like the tides of the ocean. Think of
the lonely hearts among such a throng of people. Think, too, how
many hunger while the wharves may be choked with food. "What
lives and fates are foreshadowed here." What great souls have
toiled and striven and perhaps died unknown to the world.

Then, too, what associations gather here! What sacrifice, what
triumphs of the early settlers, and alas, what disasters! "Thick
clustered as are its walls and chimneys, are its grand
achievements, pageants, frivolities;" all interspersed with toil
and care.

The scene beheld by Hudson as he came up the river must have
been at once grand and of unrivaled wildness. When he made that
first memorable voyage up the river, no wonder he thought that
here at last was a grand passage leading to remote regions not
yet visited by man. Start by boat from New York for Albany today
and you, too, will feel as though you were bound for some
enchanted land.

"A man by the name of Anthony VanCorlaer was dispatched on a war-
 like mission to the patroon van Rennselaer. When he came to the
stream that forms the upper boundary of Manhattan Island, warned
not to cross, he still persisted in advancing, intending to gain
the other shore by swimming. "Spuyt den Duyvil," he shouted, "I
will reach Shoras kappock." But his challenge to the Duyvil was
his last, as at that moment his Satanic Majesty, in the form of
an enormous moss bunker, took him at his word. This phrase is
repeated a thousand times a day by men on the railroad with no
idea of invoking the evil spirit. Here it was that the Indians
came out to attack the men on the Half-Moon with bows and
arrows. Here, too, was the rendezvous of the Indians who menaced
Manhattan in early Colonial days. Nearly a thousand braves,
hideous in war-paint and feathers, came together and threatened
New York. Governor Stuyvesant was absent in the South. The
frightened burghers of the little city took to their forts like
deer. Fortunate indeed is the person who is privileged a trip
along the River Drive on a clear sunny day."

You will probably retain longest in memory those great imposing
masterpieces of nature, the Palisades, as seen from the Jersey
store. You are fascinated by the wonderful detail and color
effects in this picturesque mass of rocks quite as much as when
viewing Niagara. What a perpetual feast of beauty and grandeur
the dwellers along this river have before them. These rocks rise
like airy battlements from the river, their base laved by the
majestic stream, while cloud wreaths float round their emerald
crowns.

Of all pleasant memories you carry with you of New York City,
that of your journeys along the Riverside Drive will return most
often to unroll its panorama before you.

There are few roads in the world that can compare with it, as it
not only has a wealth of natural beauty and noble grandeur, but
almost every hill has its historic associations no less than the
far-famed Rhine.

"Across to Fort Lee along the sheer wall of the Palisades or
down past the busy shipping, where Bartholdi's statue lifts her
unwearied arm, the outlook presents a display of exquisite
charm." The changing hues, evanescent shadows and glimpses of
the rising hills--who can ever forget them?

Many people who have looked on the wonderful scenery of the
Hudson still long for the time when they shall behold the
Rhineland. They will find that legends and traditions, more than
the wonderful scenery, give to the Rhine country an added charm.
Every hilltop there is surmounted by a storied castle, which is
falling into decay along with so many Old World institutions
that have been kept green by the ivy of custom and tradition,
which can scarcely keep them from tumbling.

It is not our object to belittle any natural scenery, but to
make Americans pause to consider the incomparable beauty of
their own land, before rushing to other countries.

We shall never forget our trip up the Moselle and Rhine. That
the scenery is very beautiful we shall not deny. It was in the
lovely month of May in the spring of 1919 that we were favored
with a free ride from Uncle Sam through the most beautiful
scenery to be found anywhere in Germany. We cast a farewell look
at the beautiful meadows of the Meuse and the old Roman towers
of Verdun and a nameless longing, a vague inexpressible sadness
seemed to take possession of us as our eyes rested for the last
time on the gray weather-stained buildings of Glorieux hospital.

In the clear sky a crystal shower of lark notes rippled above
us; from the fragrant box hedges nightingales sang their love
songs; the air was filled with the riotous notes of the linnet
and the loud, sweet phrases of the blackbirds, but we heard them
not. For our thoughts wandered back to that spot where many of
the buddies whom we had learned to love lay sleeping their long
sleep. Near the hospital where thousands of French soldiers had
at last found a glad relief from their pain and suffering,
straight rows of white crosses met our sight and we knew the
grim reaper Death had garnered his choicest sheaves. How quiet,
how peaceful was the morning! No thundering cannons or whistling
shells, no sputtering of machine guns or hum of hostile planes
was heard. Peace had again come to the valley. The poor peasants
were returning to their ruined homes, some carrying all their
earthly possessions in bundles. Yet as we looked at that vast
field of crosses and thought how the best blood of both France
and the United States had been spilled to bring about peace, we
shuddered at the awful price paid for it.

We passed a number of ruined villages on our way to Toul. From
there we had a most delightful trip, motoring through Metz and
Luxemburg and arriving at Coblentz late in the evening.

The scenery along the Moselle is in many places just as
beautiful as that along the Rhine. The steep hills that ran down
to the river were cultivated in many places to near their tops.
All along the railroad track lay plats of vegetables, and the
neat homes that nestled at the foot of the hills among
blossoming pear trees looked as if "neither care nor want had
ever crossed their threshold." The foliage had not yet clothed
the vines that rose in terraces far above the houses. At Kochem
we beheld the ruins of a splendid castle and monastery. The old
cities of Kardon and Treves were seen through a sunlit rain, and
the level rays of the descending sun produced an effect of the
most singular beauty.

We spent the night in Coblentz and on the following morning set
out to see Ehrenbreitstein. The view from this place is very
fine. At our feet lay the town with its zigzag fortifications
clasped by the silver fork of the two streams that were spanned
by four bridges. The great outworks of the fortress reach far
beyond, while to the right rise the dark, frowning mass Of
volcanic rocks known as the "Eifel." Far away our eyes rested
upon vineyards not yet clothed in verdure.

But the most delightful part of our journey was that from
Coblentz to Cologne. Here we passed through the lovely region of
the Seven Mountains where the old castles "still look down from
their heights as if musing on the spirit of the past."

Even after viewing these medieval castles the scenery along the
Hudson loses none of its charm. But what a contrast! In place of
low vineyard-clad hills, as you see along the Rhine, the
majestic Hudson winds in leisurely fashion among its primeval
forests, the bases of its mountains laved by its current, while
their summits are often shrouded in clouds. You see a grandeur
in the majestic sweep of this beautiful river that you will miss
in the Rhine. The latter is beautiful, we will admit, but it
seems to be swallowed up in detail which detracts rather than
adds to the beauty of it. Whoever has seen both rivers will see,
if he looks with an impartial eye, the points of excellence
found in each. But, standing above the Hudson and gazing out
over the wonderful scene from West Point, you forget your
Rhenish raptures and exclaim with the traveler "Few spots in the
world are as beautiful as this."

As we passed through Tarrytown we thought of Stephen Henry
Thayer's many "sweet transcripts" redolent with the siren voices
of woods and waters of Sleepy Hollow. Like some faint, far-off
lullaby we seemed to hear floating across the opposite shores of
the Tappan-Zee the tranquil evening reverie of his "Nyack
Bells":

     "The lurking shadows, dim and mute,
     Fall vaguely on the dusky river;
     Vexed breezes play a phantom lute,
     Athwart the waves that curl and quiver

     And hedged against an amber light,
     The lone hills cling, in vain endeavor
     To touch the curtained clouds of night,
     That, weird-like, form and fade forever.

     Then break upon the blessed calm,--
     Deep dying melodies of even,--
     Those Nyack Bells; like some sweet psalm,
     They float along the fields of heaven.
     Now laden with a nameless balm,
     Now musical with song thou art,
     I tune thee by an inward charm
     And make thee minstrel of my heart.

     O bells of Nyack, faintly toll
     Across the starry lighted sea.
     Thy murmurs thrill a thirsty soul,
     And wing a heavenly hymn to me."

How wonderfully beautiful appeared Tarrytown on that quiet
Sabbath afternoon of July. The fine homes embowered in a
landscape which "for two centuries had known human cultivation
seemed to have that touch of ripe old world-beauty which comes
from man's long association with Nature; a beauty that revealed
to us its depth in warm tones, fullness of foliage of its
ancient trees, and velvety smoothness of the lawns which had the
appearance of being long loved and cultivated." One is strangely
reminded of some charming villas of Nice and, clothed in that
dreamy haze, viewed front a distance they need only the
blossoming orange trees, mimosas and palms to lift their royal
forms about them, to make them a reality. The town rises from
the water's edge to the summit of a low hill that runs parallel
with the eastern shore of the Hudson. The one main road with
many laterals coming into it, is almost buried in masses of
foliage.

According to Irving, Tarrytown owes its name to the fact that
the farmers who used to bring their produce here found the kind
hospitality of its taverns so beguiling that they tarried in
town until their wives gave it the name. We, after beholding its
quiet air of repose and superb charm, did not blame those old
Dutch farmers for tarrying in a spot so romantic.

The Hudson here is singularly beautiful and the tranquil waters
flow past many legendary and historical places. This town lay in
the path of both armies during the Revolution and knew the
uncertain terrors of war. It was harried alike by friend and
foe. There is a monument near the west side of Broadway, marking
the spot where the three patriots, Williams, Paulding and Van
Wert, captured Major Andre, the British spy. He was returning
from an interview with Benedict Arnold, carrying papers of a
treasonable nature for the surrender of West Point to Sir Henry
Clinton.

A stone memorial bridge to Irving was presented to the town by
William Rockefeller, replacing the bridge over Pocantico brook,
at North Tarrytown, over which the headless horsemen of Sleepy
Hollow rode. On the east side of the road just north of the
bridge is the old Dutch church, built probably in 1697 or
possibly earlier. It is no doubt the oldest church in New York
state, now holding regular services. Washington Irving is buried
in the cemetery of this church, where the river almost unseen
flows under its canopy of foliage, while to the north and
sloping gently down to the brook lies this ancient burying
ground. This peaceful spot, whose gentle slope is dotted with
ancient graves, is protected on the northeast by wooded heights,
crowned with high old trees. It has a commanding view of the
west of the Tappan Zee, the tree embowered town and gleaming
river, also the distant front of the Palisades. Andrew Carnegie,
Whitelaw Reid and other men of note are buried here. It indeed
seems as if when walking here you are treading upon hallowed
ground, for how much the world owes to these great souls, Irving
and Carnegie. Irving, whose genius combined with toil gave the
people the choicest flowers of his fertile brain, and Carnegie
who made it possible for millions to enjoy those treasures, make
this spot, aside from its quiet beauty, a place of inspiration.

Sunnyside, the home of Washington Irving, is still kept in its
original condition, and visitors are welcome certain days of the
week. Mrs. Helen Gould Shepard owns a large and beautiful estate
here. The Rockefellers also live here.

The glimpses of the broad blue river, the wonderful shrubs and
trees and the tranquil and romantic beauty of the hills seen
through the blue veil had in them faint suggestions of Indian
Summer. This stanza from Hofflnan, who was a life-long friend of
Irving, glided from the dim portals of memory:

     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.

The trees became thicker and the scenery more rugged as we
neared a place where the road doubled back, forming a sort of
triangular piece of land known as "Hairpin Curve." This seems to
be one of the shrines of travelers, and the goal of many a
summer pilgrimage. There is an observation tower here, where a
wonderful view of the country may be had. The view, though not
so extensive, is very much like that obtained from Whitcomb's
summit. Here we met two boys with pails well filled with
blueberries and huckleberries. They kindly gave us a sample of
each variety, the quest of which would furnish an excuse for so
many memorable rambles in the days to come.

Indeed the Mecca of travelers is Mount Whitcomb, from whose
summit you look over a vast expanse of mountain peaks stretching
away in all directions like a huge sea. Standing on the summit
of Whitcomb, one of the finest views of pure wild mountain
scenery in the East is disclosed. Immediately in front of you
loom vast numbers of wooded slopes with their varied tints of
green in grand variety, stretching shoulder to shoulder like
works of art. A great many peaks, rivers and dark blue lakes,
all saturated in the warm, purple light, lie dreamily silent in
the far distance. Rounded summits rise up from the vast
undulating mass like a never-ending sea, whose surface is broken
as far as the eye can reach with their immense billows of blue
and green.

The nearer forests comprise the green-tinted waves, which recede
and blend imperceptibly into infinite gradations of color from
palest sapphire to darkest purple tones. Standing here, gazing
at the glorious landscape circling round with its far-flashing
streams, placid lakes, and the infinite blue dome of the sky
above, and an air of mystery brooding over all, we exclaimed
with the poet: "And to me mountains high are a feeling, but the
hum of human cities torture."

What a wealth of natural beauty greets you here! It is the
highest point along the Mohawk trail, twenty-two hundred and two
feet above sea level. From the sixty-foot observatory the eye
sweeps sections of four states: Vermont, New Hampshire,
Massachusetts, and New York. Among the prominent peaks that
distinguish themselves are Monadnock, in New Hampshire, Mount
Berlin in New York, Wachuset, Mount Tom, and Graylock in
Massachusetts, the latter being monarch of them all, rising to a
height of thirty-five hundred and five feet. A remarkable
feature of the place is a spring issuing from the rocks near
Mount Whitcomb's summit.

There is more sublimity in the towering snow-clad Alps, more
real wildness in the Adirondacks, more gracefulness in the
flowing contour of the Catskills, yet few are so beautiful or
"bring more lasting and inspiring memories." Lying dreamily
silent in thick purple hues, old Graylock is a vision of
splendor that looms as a charming surprise to all observers. The
sunbeams that filter through innumerable leaves give the place a
cathedral-like solemnity. How all sordid thoughts disappear,
vanishing on the far shores of forgetfulness like the pale tints
that grow dim and melt along the sky-line! How the so-called
splendors and pomp of your cities pale into insignificance out
here among God's eternal hills! The eye roves over this vast
domain in unwonted freedom.

How quickly one imbibes disdain for all unrighteous restraint.
No wonder the inhabitants dwelling among the Swiss Alps could
not bear the crushing yoke of tyranny thrust upon them. The very
atmosphere they breathed had in it an elixir, and the lofty,
snow-clad hills, as they gazed upon their seeming
unchangeableness, were only loftier principles that led their
souls in trial flights heavenward.

As you look out again at this vast wilderness of mountains
towering together you are aware how many and superb are the
views you never could have enjoyed by remaining in the valleys
below. Only by continued effort can one leave the lowlands of
self, and it requires a courageous soul indeed not to look back
as did Lot's wife at the smoking ruins of her village. How much
of indomitable courage and firmness is taught by those hills!
How much of humility by the little blue campanula peeping from
rocky ledges, with heaven's own blue "gladdening the rough
mountain-side like a happy life that toils and faints not."

We do not know why the Florida range in the Hoosacs was so named
unless it was on account of the wonderfully luxuriant ferns that
present an almost tropical appearance along its sides. Here are
vast meadows of Osmundas, waving their plume-like fronds of rich
green in tropical beauty. These are the most luxurious plants
our low wet woods or mountain meadows know. They are all superb
plants whose tall, sterile fronds curve gracefully outward,
forming vase-like clusters with their resplendent shields.

The regal fern belonging to this family is all that its name
implies. It has smooth pale green sterile fronds, with a crown
that encircles the fertile, flower-like fronds, forming a vase-
like cluster of singular beauty. This fern was one time used by
herbalists to prepare a salve for wounds and bruises. We thought
that it would be harder to destroy such beauty than to bear the
wounds and bruises. It has in it the very essence and spirit of
the woods, and "as you approach and raise these fronds you feel
their mysterious presence."

Here, too, you meet with the interrupted fern, whose graceful,
sterile fronds fall away in every direction, holding you captive
with its charm. It is fair enough to interrupt Satan himself.

An old English legend relates that near Loch Tyne dwelt an
Englishman, Osmund, who saved his wife and child from imminent
danger by hiding them upon an island among masses of flowered
fern, and the child in later years named the plant for her
father.

Wordsworth was familiar with these ferns, for he writes:

     Often, trifling with a privilege
     Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now,
     And now the other, to point out, perchance
     To pluck some flower or water weed, too fair,
     Either to be divided from the place
     On which it grew, or to be left alone
     To its own beauty. Many such there are,
     Fair ferns and flowers and chiefly that tall fern,
     So stately, of the Queen Osmunda named:
     Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode
     On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side
     Of Grecian brook or Lady of the Mere,
     Sole sitting by the shores of old romance.


The mngled beauty and majesty of the landscape near Deerfield
was so simple, yet so charming, that thoughts of serious
questions were out of the question. The sky was partly overcast
with clouds offering lovely breadths of light and shade. Every
ledge of rocks along the brown, foaming water of the Deerfield
river was draped with weld clematis, ferns, vines, and moss. As
the stream dashed along at our left it broke the rich mass of
verdure with its silvery gleam.

By the side of the road a woman was selling honey made from
mountain flowers. We bought several pounds and found it most
excellent. The comb was so thin that it seemed to melt in one's
mouth, and the flavor had in it a "subtle deliciousness" clearly
indicating its source.

We halted here not so much, because we wanted the honey, but to
have more time in which to take a last look at the valley. What
a picture it made! The few scattered houses reposing in the
valley or nestling along the edge of the towering hills made a
frame for the rich green and gold of the fields whenever the sun
peeped out from behind the clouds. Higher up we caught the
outlines of the hills whose light, gray sides of purest aspect,
peeping froth their rich verdure, made a picture which we can
never forget. The rustic homes scattered about had always some
noble elms to shelter them. Soon we beheld clusters of wooded
heights with here and there a single pointed summit rising above
the rest. Each spot possessed a beauty, differing only in its
type and not in quantity.

Again we were traveling along a trout stream that sang its songs
of freedom as cheerily as the cardinal or vireo nearby. A glow
of color permeated its banks where it was more open. A host of
blue mints, fragrant burgamot, and glowing masses of cardinal
flowers attracted the eye. Over these hovered, like larger
flowers, the black and yellow tiger swallowtail, argynnis,
painted lady, and mourning-cloak butterflies. Earlier in the
season laurel and honeysuckle shed their fragrance into it.
Blackberries, redbud and dogwood enliven its banks in the
spring, and we saw where hepatica, bloodroot, and anemone grew
in abundance.

At Deerfield amid so much repose, who could think that here was
committed one of the most terrible of Indian massacres. Men,
women and children were put to death in the most horrible
manner. A company of ninety, with eighteen wagons, went to
Deerfield to get a quantity of grain, which had been left behind
by the fleeing citizens. After securing the grain, they forded a
little stream, throwing their fire-arms into the wagons. In an
instant hundreds of bullets and arrows came whizzing from the
surrounding thickets. Only seven out of the number were not
killed, and this stream where they fell bears the significant
name of Bloody Brook to this day.

"Captain Mosley, (the pale-face-with-two-heads) arrived with
seventy militia before the Indians could escape. He hung his wig
on a bush while he fought. "Come, paleface-with-two-heads," they
shouted, "you seek Indians? You want Indians? Here are Indians
enough for you!" And they brandished aloft the scalp-locks they
had taken. Mosley stationed his men under a shower of arrows,
and began the struggle with over a thousand savages. He was
beaten back, but was re-enforced by one hundred and sixty
Mohican and English troops, and beat the enemy back with great
loss."

The memorial association of Deerfield has erected a stone
monument, marking the spot where Eunice Williams, wife of
Reverend John Williams of Deerfield, was slain by her Indian
captor on the march to Canada after the sacking of the town,
February 29, 1704.

How often the meadows were damp with the blood of their victims!
How often the gold of the buttercups were stained ruby red! It
is impossible to dwell at length on scenes of such terrible
cruelty in a spot where all is so peaceful. We seemed to catch
the restful spirit of the place, and yielding to its soothing
influence, sauntered on into deeper solitudes where we viewed
nature in one of her wildest strongholds. Here ferns and mosses
grew in abundance.

What a place to commune with Nature! "Was ever temple
consecrated by man like this in beauty and filled with such holy
solemnity?"

These glorious hills seemed to be calling the dwellers of the
hot and dusty lowlands to come and enjoy their cool, leafy
retreats. The slopes were covered with large leaved maples;
pines that always towered so straight; and birch that grew in
clusters all along the highway. These comprised the foreground.
The middle of the picture was composed of many hills rising one
above the other in finely modeled forms with evergreen and
deciduous trees fitting so closely together they appeared as a
great, rich tapestry.

While in Massachusetts it is well worth while to go to the old
historical town of Springfield. As we viewed the old arsenal
located there, these significant lines from Longfellow's
"Arsenal at Springfield," kept singing themselves over in our
mind:

     Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
     With such accursed instruments as these
     Thou drownest Nature's kindly voices,
     And jarrest the Celestial Harmonies?

     Were half the power that fills the world with terror,
     Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,
     Given to redeem the human mind from error,
     There were no need of arsenals and forts.

     Down the dark future, through long generations,
     The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
     And like a bell with solemn sweet vibrations,
     I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace."

     Peace no longer from its brazen portals
     The blast of war's great organ shakes the skies!
     But beautiful as songs of the immortals
     The holy melodies of love arise.


The arsenal of Springfield was built in 1794. In 1846 it had a
storage capacity of five hundred thousand rifles. It is
earnestly to be hoped that the old arsenal's mission is over,
and that future generations will visit it only because our
illustrious Longfellow was inspired to write his poem about it.

One will be well repaid for a trip to Charlemont. Many memories
of bygone days fraught with gravest meaning are recalled at this
place.

"Charlemont has many places of historical interest. At the
western end of the village near the long bridge across the
Deerfield river is, the famous sycamore tree under which the
first settlers slept. Just back of it is the place where Charles
Dudley Warner lived, when he had the experiences related in
"Being a Boy." Back of the house on a hill is a monument marking
the resting place of Captain Rice and Phineas Arms, who were
shot by Indians in June, 1775. About two miles from the crossing
of the river on the Mohawk trail on a high ridge is a tall,
lonesome pine which marks the point where the aboriginal Mohawk
trail ascended the hills. The trail can be very clearly traced
at the present day from Cold river up the mountains and along
the ridge to the west for several miles." What a different scene
the road presents today when compared with that of two hundred
years ago!

What a charming location North Adams has in the hollow of the
hills! They seem to surround it on all sides like sentinels
watching over the birthplace of one of the world's great souls,
Susan B. Anthony.

     A silvery brook comes stealing
     From shadow of its trees
     Where slender herbs of forest stoop
     Before the entering breeze.

--Bryant.


The silvery stream seems to grow wider, dashing its mossy rocks
with foam, and swaying from side to side with its swift,
impetuous flow as it descends. Past leaning willows it goes;
past graceful elms and fragrant groups of gleaming birch;
whether fast or slow, morning or night, it fills all the
woodland with its liquid music. One turns again and again to
admire the white birch arranged in groups, each lovelier than
the one just beheld. It takes an artist's soul to really enjoy
these wonderful and harmonious scenes. We carried notebooks and
a camera, but used them slightly. Shall we ever forget the azure
sky, the gleaming yellow and white of the birch, the green
meadows, the silvery flashing of the happy streams, or the
bright green and blue of far lakes? No, they shall remain as
long as memories of beautiful things last.

What fine traveling companions these lovely New England brooks
make! What grace and freedom is theirs ! What songs of joy they
sing, telling of the grandeur of the hills through which they
flow! Gladly we followed their winding way, "asking for no
better friend or finer music." No wonder they are so cool and
refreshing, for in what crystal pure springs do they find their
source? Like well born children with a beautiful environment,
they bathe all the wood land flowers and trees with their
beneficent water until they leave a trail of richest verdure
from the mountain to the sea, where they mingle in the great
expanse of waters not to perish, but to be resurrected, into
glorious summer clouds, to carry life and health to the thirsty
plants of earth.

The very sight of their rushing crystal waters beside the
widening road on a hot day gives one a new lease on life. Truly
did Wordsworth say, "earth has not anything to show more fair."
All afternoon we wandered "by shallow rivers to whose falls
melodious birds sang madrigals." We, like the river, were
journeying "at our own sweet will."

Grand balsam fir sprang from the crevices of the rock, family
groups of white birch rose and spread their graceful masses of
foliage on either side of us; mounds of virgin bowers, wild
grape vines, and bittersweet crowned the rocky sides of the
cliffs, spreading from tree to tree or hung from them like
folded curtains; and the sunlight and shadow among pine and
hemlock where grew mosses, ferns and flowers, made vast sheets
of rich mosaic. The hermit and veery thrush sang in the woods
around, tree swallows cut the air above in graceful flight, and
even the lone scout out for a hike, carrying his supplies, had
yielded to his environment and sang such a rapturous strain (to
which a redwing whistled a gurgling accompaniment), we were
reminded of these lines from Roger's "Human Life": "And feeling
hearts, touch them but rightly, pour a thousand melodies unheard
before." He seemed to sing out of very wantonness, and his song
seemed to have that soft undercurrent of melody heard in the
chimes of Belgium--with just a hint of plaintiveness in it to
make the joy and the brightness of the day complete.

No wonder the Indians thought these majestic white mountains the
abodes of their god. Marvelous stories were told about great
shining stones that glittered on the cliffs through the darkness
of the night. Now and then specimens of crystal were shown to
white settlers which they said came from the greatest mountain.
The whites at first called it the "Crystal Hill."

"But," said the Indians to the whites, "nobody can go to the top
of Agiochook, to get these glittering stones, because it is the
abode of the great god of storms, famine and pestilence. Once,
indeed, some foolish Indians had attempted to do so, but they
never came back, for the spirit that guarded the gems from
mortal hands had raised great mists, through which the hunters
wandered on like blind men until the spirit led them to the edge
of some dreadful gulf, into which he cast them, shrieking."

These mountains were not discovered until 7642, when a bold
settler by the name of Darby Field determined to search for the
precious stones. It must have been wonderful, this trip through
these beautiful hills in June. He came to the neighborhood of
the present town of Fryeburg, where the Indian village of the
Pigwackets was then located.

With the aid of some Indian guides he was led to within a few
miles of the summit when, for fear of the evil spirit, all
except two refused to go farther. On he went with these two
guides clambering over rocks, crossing rocky mountain torrents,
until he came to a stony plain where were located two ponds.
Above this plain rose the great peak that overlooks all this
wonderful New England region. This they also climbed. How the
sight of this great wilderness of forest and mountain must have
thrilled him. He has said that the mountain, falling away into
dark gulfs, was "dauntingly terrible." Here, as you stand upon
this great watershed of New England, you will indeed find
precious stones worth coming from afar to see. You, like Field,
will carry away crystals, but unlike his, which he thought were
diamonds, yours will gleam and sparkle in the halls of memory
with a clearer radiance than any gems this world affords. While
Field was above the clouds, a sudden storm swept over the Indian
guides who remained below. Here he found them drying their
clothes by a fire, and they were greatly surprised at seeing him
again, for they had given him up for lost.

We came to Crawford's notch by way of the Mohawk trail with
visions of the lovely Berkshires and old Mount Graylock still
vivid. Richer and wilder still seemed this vast mountain range
with its glorious forests and songful streams. Here indeed is
the tree lover's paradise. Here you will find primeval woods
with decayed leaves and plants underneath, almost a foot in
thickness. The massed foliage at noon let in the light in
shimmering patches of sunshine and shade, making squares and
angles like a Persian rug with flower and fern designs.

Here weary travelers may find a camper's heaven. Just opposite
Mount Jackson is a velvety lawn with grass and flowers in
abundance. Water may be had not far distant. The lovely birch
trees gleam where your camp fire is kindled and the larger
evergreens stand like sombre sentinels on watch through the
night. But one sometimes learns a camper's life is not all
places of cool retreats, bright camp fires, dry beds of plush-
like boughs, with delicious breaths of birch, pine and mountain
wild flowers sifting through his tent. Because the wood thrush
and cardinal sang while you ate your supper of well-cooked trout
is no sign you will be so highly favored the next time you pitch
your tent. Instead you often find unsuitable places for camping
with dust and heat in place of cool retreats; instead of the
cheerful campfire anticipated, you may work hard to get a
"smudgy smouldering fire." Your meal will in all probability
consist of raw salmon eaten at The Sign of the Smoke Screen;
while your dry bed of balsam boughs may turn out to be rain
trickling down your neck, Niagara-like, and your resting place a
veritable Lake Erie. Your fragrance of a thousand flowers may be
the pungent aroma of the skunk, borne by the evening breeze; and
your evening serenade perhaps will be made by an immense number
of "no see ems" whose shrill and infinitely fine soprano is paid
for in so many installments of blood, to say nothing of the
furious itching and nights of "watchful waiting." Even to enjoy
Nature in her finer moods you must always pay a price, and
people gain "beauty, as well as bread, by the sweat of their
brows."

But here we are at Crawford's notch, gazing at the mountains
that tower far above us. Their bases already lie in deep shadows
which are creeping continually upward. We lifted our eyes toward
the masses of light gray rock many hundreds of feet in height,
which kept watch over the lovely glen below. There were the tops
of the mountains bathed in floods of golden light, while their
lower levels were already dim with twilight gloom. How true, in
life, we said, are the sunshine and shadow. The paths of ease
and self-indulgence are full of mortals because they wind and
diverge from the way of truth, leading to lower and more easily
attained levels. But up on the mountain top no dissatisfied
throng stirs up the dust and we feel that joyous exaltation of
spirit which comes to those who climb a little nearer heaven.

In the park-like space in which we find the Crawford House, how
quiet and beautiful all things are! Towering all around are
lofty peaks as if to shut out the beauty from the rest of the
world. We are not artists, so we sit down in this quiet-retreat
and let Nature paint the picture. The breath of the pine and
birch fills the place like incense. The softly sighing pines
with the distant waterfalls are singing their age-old songs. The
evergreens are marshalled in serried ranks, spire above spire,
like a phalanx of German soldiers clad in their green coats,
their spiked helmets gleaming in the evening light. But they are
pushing on to "victory and peace," and each soldier with aeolian
melodies marches to his own accompaniment while the evening
breeze softly thrums its anthem of divine love. We wished our
lives might be pierced by the mystery of their gleaming javelins
that we too might learn their lessons of strength, endurance and
noble aspiration. As we stood at the base of these glorious
forest-crowned mountains, gazing in rapt admiration and wonder
at God's "handiwork," we were conscious of a revelation
whispered through the myriad needles of the pine. How small seem
the honors, customs, cares, and petty bickerings of men seen
through the vast perspective of these eternal hills. How quickly
we forget our seeming ills and are more in "tune with the
Infinite."

     "The holy time is quiet as a nun
     Breathless with adoration."


As the shadows crept higher along the ridges the breeze died
away. The great artist, evening, with all rare colors was
painting another masterpiece. The last rays of the sun were now
gilding the mountain peaks; long ago their bases rested in
purple shadow and the yellow light seemed to be reflected from
all their wooded heights. At our right lay Mount Tom in deep
shadow; the pines on Mount Jackson to the east cut the blue
vault of the sky with their serrated edges. The drooping birch
trees stood silent as if awaiting a benediction. The sky all
along the eastern horizon was a broad belt of old rose which
deepened to crimson, then crimson was succeeded by daffodil
yellow. Far up in the mountain above a wood thrush poured forth
his clear notes. "The last rays that lingered above the purple
peaks were slowly withdrawn into that shadowy realm called
night." Only the wind sighed again among the faint silvery
clashing of distant waterfalls. How like a prayer was that vast
sea of changing colors. The poem of creation was written
unmistakably upon the evening sky. Out here God himself is
teaching his grandest lessons, but alas! how few there are who
really hear them.

How wonderful the dawns and twilights; how vast and changeable
the ocean; how pure and deep the lakes; how strong and high the
mountains; how infinite and full of mystery the sky, yet how few
there are who really see and enjoy them.

If only all people would accept the invitation froth that sweet
singer of the Wabash, Maurice Thompson, we would hear fewer
people say, "It isn't much," or "We are exceedingly disappointed
in it."

     "Come, let us go, each pulse is precious,
     Come, ere the day has lost its dawn;
     And you shall quaff life's finest essence
     From primal flagons drawn!

     Just for a day to slip off the tether
     Of hot-house wants, and dare to be
     A child of Nature, strong and simple,
     Out in the woods with me."


How calmly and soothingly night came on! Over the quiet glen at
Crawford's notch, the sunset, moonlight, and starlight were
weaving the mysterious spell of the night. On the very edge of a
mountain ridge glowed the evening star. There was no sound
except the rhythmical murmur of the pines and far-heard sound of
waterfalls. Presently a night hawk rose from a wooded ridge and
uttered her weird cry, then a bat darted "hither and thither, as
if tethered by invisible strings." Then began the real serenade
of the evening. Down in the waters of Lake Waco the frogs broke
the silence. We moved slowly to the edge of the water,
disturbing some of the members of the aquatic orchestra, who
kept springing into the lake with a final croak of disapproval.
We made our way back to the hotel across the velvety grass,
already wet with dew, to find a crowd of splendidly attired
tourists, poring over their cards or dancing away those rare
hours, at the close of "one of those heavenly days that cannot
die."

     "Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet,
     With charm of earliest birds."


So thought we as the day that was breaking found us out in the
lovely glen; hemmed in on all sides by lofty hills. The birds at
this season of the year do most of their singing in the morning
hours. Early as the time was, we were not the first to greet the
coming dawn.

The blue mantle that clothed the mountains had been withdrawn so
that the serrated points of spruce and pine stood out in bold
relief against the pale blue of the morning sky. The stars, like
far-off beacon lights along the mountain tops, slowly melted
into the dawn. Over in the direction of Mount Willard the rich
contralto of the wood thrush sounded; the white crowned
sparrow's sweet, wavering whistle rang from the spruce crested
slopes; from the telephone poles down by the railroad station
the king birds were loudly disputing with the indigo buntings
for full possession of the wires; flickers and downy woodpeckers
called loudly or gave vent to their morning enthusiasm by
beating a lively tattoo upon the dead pine stubs; while the
ringing reveille of the cardinal must have awakened the
sleepiest denizen of the forest.

But another song rises pure and serene above the general chorus
of vireos and warblers. You saunter along a murmuring stream,
scarce noting the fresh green of bush and tree, or the ferns,
flowers and moss that are massed in marvelous beauty. Nature has
arranged her stage in the amphitheater of the hills for some
great pageant. All the while you are listening to the rich
melody coming from the shadowy depths of hemlock in the
direction of Mount Willard. "It seemed as if some unseen Orpheus
had strayed to earth and from some remote height was thrumming a
divine accompaniment." Here among the majesty and stillness of
the White Mountains was a song most fitting and infinitely
beautiful to express their loveliness. It seemed to have in it
the purity and depth of crystal clear lakes; the solemn and
shadowy grandeur of hemlock forests, the faint, far-away spirit
music of mountain echoes, the calm serenity of evening skies,
the prayers and hopes and longings of all creation. With such a
prelude as this did we behold the coming of the dawn. Nature had
erected an emerald portal for the triumphal entry of the king of
day. The curtains of misty green were drawn back at the signal
of some nymph. Between the broken ridges of Mount Clinton and
Jackson the sun appeared long after his first beams were old on
the opposite side of the mountains.

While the swallows that built their nests beneath the eaves of
the Crawford House were busy many hours with their family cares,
the card-crazed players and the dancers of the night before were
sleeping the troubled sleep of the idlers.


CHAPTER VIII

WHITE MOUNTAINS

The traveler who comes to the White Mountains should not fail to
see Chocorua. "Chocorua," how rich and sonorous is that word. It
has in it something expressing the wildness and loneliness of
these lovely hills. Its rhythm suggests the sigh of the wind
among mountain pines or the continuous and far-heard melody of
distant waterfalls. This famous peak is everything that a New
Hampshire mountain should be. It bears the name of an Indian
chief. It is invested with traditional and poetic interest. In
form it is massive and symmetrical. The forests of its lower
slopes are crowned with rock that is sculptured into a peak with
lines full of haughty energy in whose gorges huge shadows are
entrapped and whose cliffs blaze with morning gold, and it has
the fortune to be set in connection with lovely water scenery,
with squam and Winnepesaukee, and the little lake directly at
its base.

"On one side of its jagged peak a charming lowland prospect
stretches east and south of the Sandwich range, indented by the
emerald shores of Winnepesaukee, which lies in queenly beauty
upon the soft, far-stretching landscape. Pass around a huge rock
to the other side of the steep pyramid, and you have turned to
another chapter in the book of nature. Nothing but mountains
running in long parallels, or bending ridge behind ridge,
visible, here blazing in sunlight, there gloomy with shadow, and
all related to the towering mass of the imperial Washington.

"And Chocorua is the only mountain here whose summit is honored
with a legend. 'In the valley where the lovely forest-clad
mountains tower above the blue lakes dwelt Chocorua, the last
chief of his tribe. Here too lived a settler by the name of
Cornelius Campbell.

"Chocorua had a son, nine or ten years old, to whom Caroline
Campbell had occasionally made such gaudy present as were likely
to attract his savage fancy. This won the child's affections, so
that he became a familiar visitant, almost an inmate of their
dwelling, and, being unrestrained by the courtesies of civilized
life, he would inspect everything which came in his way. Some
poison, prepared for a mischievous fox which had long troubled
the little settlement, was discovered and drunk by the Indian
boy, and he went home to his father to sicken and die. When
Chocorua had buried his wife by the side of a brook, all that
was left to him was his little son. After the death of the boy,
jealousy and hatred took possession of Chocorua's soul. He never
told his suspicions, but he brooded over them in secret, to
nourish the deadly revenge he contemplated against Cornelius
Campbell.

"The story of Indian animosity is always the same. Campbell left
his but for the fields early one bright, balmy morning in June.
Still a lover, though ten years a husband, his last look was
towards his wife, answering her parting smile; his last action a
kiss for each of his children. When he returned to dinner, they
were dead--all dead--and their disfigured bodies too cruelly
showed that an Indian's hand had done the work.

"In such a mind, grief, like all other emotions, was
tempestuous. Home had been to him the only verdant spot in the
desert of life. In his wife and children he had centered all
affection, and now they were torn from him. The remembrance of
their love clung to him like the death grapple of a drowning
man, sinking him down into darkness and death. This was followed
by a calm a thousand times more terrible, the creeping agony of
despair, that brings with it no power of resistance.

     "It was as if the dead could feel
     The icy worm around him steal."


Such for many days was the state of Cornelius Campbell. Those
who knew and reverenced him feared that the spark of reason was
forever extinguished. But it rekindled, and with it came a wild,
demoniac spirit of revenge. The death groan of Chocorua would
make him smile in his dreams, and when he waked, death seemed
too pitiful a vengeance for the anguish that was eating into his
very soul.

Chocorua's brethren were absent on a hunting expedition at the
time he committed the murder, and those who watched his
movements observed that he frequently climbed the high
precipice, which afterwards took his name. He was probably
looking for indications of their return. Here Campbell resolved
to carry out his deadly plan. A party was formed, under his
guidance, to cut off all chance of retreat, and the dark-minded
prophet was to be hunted like a wild beast to his lair.

"The morning sun had scarce cleared away the fogs when Chocorua
started at a loud voice from beneath the precipice, commanding
him to throw himself into the deep abyss below. He knew the
voice of his enemy, and replied with an Indian's calmness, 'The
Great Spirit gave life to Chocorua, and Chocorua will not throw
it way at the command of the white roan.' 'Then hear the Great
Spirit speak in the white man's thunder,' exclaimed Campbell, as
he pointed his gun to the precipice. Chocorua, though fierce and
fearless as a panther, had never overcome his dread for
firearms. He placed his hands upon his ears to shut out the
stunning report. The next moment the blood bubbled from his
neck, and he reeled fearfully on the edge of the precipice, but
he recovered and, raising himself on his hand, he spoke in a
loud voice, that grew more terrific as its huskiness increased:
'A curse upon ye, white men. May the Great Spirit curse ye when
he speaks in the clouds, and his words are fire. Chocorua had a
son and ye killed him while the sun looked bright. Lightning
blast your crops. Winds and fire destroy your dwellings. The
Evil Spirit breathe death upon your cattle. Your graves lie in
the warpath of the Indian. Panthers howl and wolves fatten over
your bones. Chocorua goes to the Great Spirit--his curse stays
with the white man.'

"The prophet sank upon the ground, still uttering curses, and
they left his bones to whiten in the sun, but his curse rested
upon that settlement. The tomahawk and scalping knife were busy
among them; the winds tore up the trees, and hurled them at
their dwellings; their crops were blasted; their cattle died,
and sickness came upon their strongest men. At last the remnant
of them departed from the fatal spot to mingle with more
populous and prosperous colonies. Campbell became a hermit,
seldom seeking or seeing his fellowmen, and two years after he
was found dead in his hut." (footnote: From The White Hills, by
Starr King.)

As we looked out over the sylvan beauty of the scenery that is
unsurpassed, we realized that long ago the curse had been
removed. The hills are intersected by charming labyrinths of
wood that lead to peaceful valleys. These dreamy forest
solitudes, with their deep foliage and singing rills which
wander here and there, lull your senses like an enchantment
after the noise and scrambling bustle of the busy manufacturing
centers from which you no doubt have so recently come.

"The Appalachian mountains in their long majestic course from
northeast to southwest rise to their greatest height in the New
England states, culminating in Mount Washington, sixty-two
hundred and ninety feet elevation, surrounded on all sides by
lesser peaks, mostly from two thousand to five thousand feet
high. "Bretton Woods," an estate of ten thousand acres, lies in
a very picturesque section of these mountains. The Amonoosuc
valley is somewhat less than four miles west from the head of
Crawford's notch. Here a railroad and the one through highway
skirt the east side of the Amonoosuc river; while on the west
side a level meadow extends about a half mile directly across to
a range of low foot-hills back of which Mount Washington rears
his immense bulk. All through this region you will find the most
ample accommodations that tourists could wish; along the
tributary routes as well as in and about the mountains, you will
find comfortable, well-kept rooms and good, wholesome food, and
the finest of American resort hotels, with all the luxuries to
be found in the city. Notably among the latter class is the
Mount Washington, a three-million-dollar hotel, and said to be
the finest tourist hotel in the world.

When we left Crawford's notch the pine needles were still
shimmering with sparkling points of light; the long bright green
of the balsam fir and the silvery blue of the graceful hemlocks
were full of glory and splendor; myriads of luminous green
scalloped beech leaves sent back a million glinting beams of
light as they caught the rays of the morning sun. The yellow and
white birch waved their spicy branches soothingly above the
songful streams, like emerald sprays of art. The vireo's cheery
strain sounded from many points in the vast wilderness of
foliage. This song coming from afar, only served to heighten the
vast and lonely grandeur of the forest solitudes. From the
wooded hills of southeastern Ohio to the Green Mountains of
Vermont we heard his cheery notes. Whether in the morning when
the pine needles glistened in the bright light; at noon when the
heat flowed in tremulous waves; or at evening when the last rosy
beam gladdened the west, his song was alike full of contentment
and rarest melody.

As we proceeded on our journey we beheld country homes
charmingly embowered among their trees and vines, yet the region
still retains that wild and primeval beauty that defies
civilization.

Boys and men were busy making hay and their industry proclaimed
that they had heeded the proverb of "make hay while the sun
shines." Now and then herds of cattle were grazing or standing
up to their knees in the cool of streams. What pictures of
homely contentment they made! How much they add to the beauty of
pastoral scenes!

More and more we were impressed with the grandeur and grace of
the restful, flowing outlines of these mountains. With the light
gray of their granite walls and the vivid green of their
forests, they make beautiful harmony.

We paused along a beautiful sheet of water, Echo lake. A bugler
whom some tourists paid for his crude attempts was doing his
best (which was none too good) to awake the echoes. How harsh
and grating were the tones he made, seeming like the bleat of a
choking calf; yet, with what marvelous sweetness were those
rasping tones transformed by the nymphs of the mountains. After
a few moments' pause they were repeated among the nearer ridges,
but softer and with a rare sweetness as pure and clear as a
thrush's vesper bell. Again a short pause and we heard them
higher, fainter, sweeter, until they died away among the hills;
too fine for our mortal ears to catch. It seemed as if some
sylvan deity, some Mendelssohn or Chopin of this vast forest
solitude heard those harsh notes and putting a golden cornet to
his lips, sent back the melodies the bugler meant to make. As
the last reverberations died away among the hills we thought of
those lines in Emerson's "May Day":

     Echo waits with Art and Care
     And will the faults of song repair.


How crude the attempts of man at producing the melodies of life!
How beautiful the discordant notes become when the Master
Musician breathes into them the melodies of infinite love!

     "O love, they die in yon rich sky,
     They faint on field, or hill or river
     Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
     And grow forever and forever."


The water of the lake was so clear we could see the white
pebbles at the bottom, or the pike that swam slowly to the edge.
How pure the mountains looked! How fresh and new the grass and
flowers! The sky above was blue; the water of Profile lake was
dark blue; the mountains wore a delicate veil of misty blue;
blue were the myriads of delicate campanula that peeped from
their rocky ledges; silvery blue was the smoke that curled from
the forest's green from a dozen camp fires; and out of that
mysterious all-pervading blue lifted the benign countenance of
the Great Stone Face.

When Nature made this grand masterpiece, she set it on the
topmost edge of Cannon Range so that all could see it. It may be
seen from the edge of Profile lake, and stands in the midst of a
magnificent forest preserve of six thousand acres, rising nearly
two thousand feet above sea level. On either side are Profile
and Echo lakes, vieing with each other in their crystal
clearness; behind it are towering cliffs and wooded heights, and
in every direction lead woodland paths and rocky trails offering
ever-changing glimpses of wonderful White mountain scenery.

With what infinite patience has Nature sculptured this great
face! Centuries ago among the American Indians there was a
legend that in time there should appear in the valley a boy
whose features would not only be a resemblance to, but be like
those of the face on the mountain side. When the people of the
valley heard the legend, they too looked for the coming of a
great man who would tower far above the ordinary life of those
who dwelt in the lowly valley. How long they waited in vain for
the appearance of one with features noble, tender and serene as
those upon which they gazed! How many years slipped by and only
rumors came concerning those who were thought to bear a
resemblance to the wonderful "old Man of the Mountains." Yet,
those very people had infinite possibilities with their own
faces while in their youth. Only by having a vision of some day
attaining that far mountain height of purity and victory, as
written on those features, could they carve out a countenance so
divine.

Gazing out over the lake through vistas of maple and beech we
thought of Hawthorne's words: "It was a happy lot for the
children to grow up to manhood or womanhood with the Great Stone
Face before their eyes; for all of the features were noble, and
the expression was at once grand and sweet, as if it were the
glow of a vast, warm heart, that embraced all mankind in its
affections and had room for more."

Truly, this face appears like a great mountain god. A wreath
seems to adorn his brow like that which was worn by the poets of
ancient Greece. A faint light surrounds and illuminates his
features scarcely discernible from the valley below. How one's
earthly schemes seem to pale and fade, as did "Gathergold's"
fortune when he beheld the wealth and beauty of Nature about
him! How sordid the striving for fame and power appear, which as
quickly fade as did that of "Old Blood and Thunder" and "Old
Stoney Phiz!" "Nature is the Art of God." How mighty the forces
that lined these majestic features! How wonderful still the
unseen hands at work to make life richer as the years go by!

You almost imagine you see the natural pulpit set in its rich
framework of verdure and festooned with vines placid in a nook
in the hills. You seem to hear the words of life uttered by the
pure lips of Ernest because "a life of good deeds and holy love
is melted into them." The ancient pines stand hushed and
tranquil in the quiet light as if awaiting a message from those
lips of stone. You gain new faith in the beauty and freshness of
Nature out here. Those lips seem to say "do not live in the mean
valleys of earthly ambition, but strive to gain higher
conceptions of life with truer, nobler aims, that soar above the
sordid world until you attain that benign look of the Great
Stone Face." It comes to you like a far-off echo of a divine
chant, sweeter than any melody you have ever caught.

Many people on first beholding the Great Stone Face ascribe
firmness to its features. They perhaps judge their fellowmen in
like manner. They fail to see the depth of thought or honest
sincerity of soul that shines forth from many a rough exterior,
beneath which beats a heart of purest gold. How many seek high
positions, notoriety, or public approbation, but alas! how few,
like Ernest, put forth the effort to fit them for the places
sought!

Almost as remarkable as the Great Stone Face itself are the
cannon that seem to guard the abode of the Man of the Mountains.
Indeed, they have been sculptured so remarkably well that some
tourists exclaim, "I wonder how they ever got those huge guns up
there." On being told these guns too, had been carved out of
rock and set in place to guard ever this beautiful and vast
domain since the beginning of time, they still were not
convinced that they were only harmless piles of stones, whose
thundering tones never had awakened the echoes of this peaceful
spot. One of the party said, "but see, up there are the gun
carriages!" True, they were very like the original implements of
destruction, but no lurid light ever profaned the night skies,
and no warriors shall ever drag these guns across the ocean to
do grim service in a "Meuse-Argonne."

Again you gaze at Profile lake, the source of the wild and
beautiful Pemigewasset river, which is joined by a few, small
streams the first few miles of its journey, then other branches
unite with it to form the Merrimac, which, after gradually
descending through Concord, supplies immense amounts of water
power to Manchester, Nashua, Lowell, Lawrence and Haverhill
before passing majestically out to sea at Newbury port.

No wonder Whittier wrote so much about the Merrimac river and
Lake Winnepesaukee, because both seem to typify the Indian name
of the latter "The Smile of the Great Spirit."

In the immediate locality about the lake a botanist will find
the hours passing all too swiftly, for here is indeed a place to
commune with Nature. You will find rare flowers and ferns, and
to what rich and lovely places they lead you! Along lonely
mountain roads where the golden song of the wood thrush comes
from the cool depths and the sweet, pearly notes of the winter
wren ripple down through the gloom; out along lonely forest
lakes or where trout brooks wander beneath dark hemlock trees
and lose their way in the shadows; high up on inaccessible
mountain ledges where the river plunges in a solid amber sheet
and breaks up into avalanches of shimmering rainbow mist, and
down in the marsh where acres and acres of green grass and sedge
stretch away like gleaming stars on a winter night. Going out to
commune with Nature sounds very nice, but it requires the
patience of a job, the eyes of a Burbank, the ears of a Mozart,
and the great loving heart of a Burroughs if one is to gain the
most from one's rambles. You will never learn the hymns that the
forest and waterfalls have been singing for ages; never really
know the song of the hermit thrush or the mystery and grandeur
of mountains, if you are unwilling to pay the price. You must be
willing to climb high mountains, scramble down rocky gorges and
ravines, thread the almost impenetrable bogs and marshes, endure
fierce heat, mosquito bites, hunger and toil, "but once you are
admitted into the secrets of the out-of-doors you will begin to
wonder why you ever dined in hot stuffy restaurants, spent your
holidays in smoky, dirty cities, or did any of those
conventional things that rob us of so many fine moments of
life!"

We looked once more at the view across the lake. Someone said
God never made anything more beautiful than the scenery at
Franconia notch. But as we turned away from this entrancing
scene, we saw a boy gazing in rapt admiration away across the
lake, his face glowing with enthusiasm, his every gesture
speaking of joy and love. Here, we said, is a work more
beautiful than any mountain scenery. What infinite possibilities
are wrapped up in the soul of a boy! Leaving him standing there
we wondered what thoughts were passing through his mind, we made
our way along the mountain road.

     The soul of music slumbers in the shell,
     Till waked and kindled by the master's sped,
     And feeling hearts--touch them but rightly--pour
     A thousand melodies unheard before.


CHAPTER IX

BOSTON

What could be more delightful than a visit to Boston? Those
motoring through the New England states will find it both
interesting and profitable to tarry a while in this quaint old
place. There are so many places of interest in this city that
space forbids an enumeration of only a few of the most
important. You will probably want to see the State House with
its gilded dome which was once covered with copper plates rolled
by Paul Revere. The corner-stone of this building was laid by
the Masons, Paul Revere, Grand Master, July 4, 7795. Three times
the original building has been enlarged--an extension to the
rear in 7889, later a wing on the east, and very recently a wing
on the west.

What a throng of past memories cluster here! Near the
intersection of Boylston and Tremont streets lies the old
Central burying ground, noted as the final resting place of
Gilbert Stuart, the famous artist. You will not want to miss
seeing Park Street church, for it was here William Lloyd
Garrison delivered his first address and "America" was sung in
public for the first time. "Standing on the steps of the State
House, facing the Common, you are looking toward Saint Gaudens'
bronze relief of Col. Robert G. Shaw, commanding his colored
regiment. This is indeed a noble work of art and should not be
overlooked. "The Atheneum is well worthy of a visit, and if you
have a penchant for graveyards, you may wander over the Granary
Burying Ground, where rest the ashes of Samuel Adams, Hancock,
Sewell, Faneuil, Otis, and Revere."

We spent a delightful morning in Cambridge. It has been the home
of some of the foremost literary lights of the United States,
and just to the west of it, in Mount Auburn cemetery, lie the
mortal remains of Longfellow, Prescott, Lowell, Holmes, Motley,
and many other prominent men.

Across the blue Charles, like Greek temples rise the buildings
of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. The noble marble
group of buildings of the School of Medicine of Harvard are very
impressive. As we crossed the river, we thought how often our
beloved Longfellow had looked on its peaceful tide from his
charming home in Cambridge. The view from his home is still
unobstructed, and it speaks of the veneration in which he is
held by the people of the city. It was while living at Cambridge
that he wrote his Ode to the Charles river, given below:

     River, that in silence windest
     Through the meadows bright and free,
     Till at length thy rest thou findest
     In the bosom of the sea.

     Four long years of mingled feeling
     Half in rest, and half in strife,
     I have seen thy waters stealing
     Onward, like the stream of life.

     Thou hast taught me, Silent River,
     Many a lesson, deep and long.
     Thou hast been a generous river;
     I can give thee but a song.

     Oft in sadness and in illness,
     I have watched thy current glide,
     Till the beauty of its stillness
     Overflowed me like a tide.

     And in better hours and brighter,
     When I saw thy waters gleam,
     I have felt my heart beat lighter,
     And leap upward with thy stream.

     Not for this alone I love thee,
     Nor because thy waves of blue
     From celestial seas above thee
     Take their own celestial hue.

     Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,
     And thy waters disappear,
     Friends I love have dwelt beside thee,
     And have made thy margin clear.


We paused in front of the old homestead to take a picture of it.
But it mattered little about the picture, for what pictures of
rarest beauty he has left us, always speaking to our hearts
messages of sympathy and love! Even as the years pass,
Longfellow is still the universal poet, and it was with pleasure
we recalled how the Belgian children in the King Leopold school
of the city of Antwerp were acquainted with his more familiar
poems. He is better known among foreigners than any one except
their own poets.

We next paid a visit to the home of James Russell Lowell, that
other sweet singer and nature lover of Cambridge. As we gazed
upon the many venerable trees that drooped their graceful
branches over the old homesteads, we did not wonder that the
people of New England became alarmed when the ravages of the
gypsy moth threatened the trees. At Elmwood we saw the efforts
the people had made to preserve them. The stately trees had been
severely pruned and their trunks wore black girdles of a sticky
substance to ensnare the female moths. The foliage had been
sprayed.

Henry Van Dyke said the last time he saw James Russell Lowell,
he walked with him in his garden at Elmwood to say goodbye.
There was a great horse chestnut tree beside the house, towering
above the gable, covered with blossoms. The poet looked up and
laid his trembling hands upon the trunk. "I planted the nut,"
said he, "from which the tree grew. My father was with me when I
planted it."

As we admired the shrubbery and trees at Elmwood, we thought of
the inspiration this spot afforded that generous soul who dwelt
so happily here.

     "Give fools their gold and knaves their power.
     Let Fortune's bubbles rise and fall;
     Who sows a field or trains a flower,
     Or plants a tree is more than all."


Every schoolboy has read about the famous Washington elm of
Cambridge. What a marvelous tree to think about and gaze upon!
It is difficult to analyze your emotions while standing near
this historic spot gazing at this famous tree.

Since the balmy breeze of some far-off springtime caught those
winged seeds from which America's most celebrated tree sprang,
what changes have come to our land! When this patriarch was
young, in the nearby woods Indians and fierce, wild beasts
brushed past its companions. Perhaps the squaws fastened their
linden cradles to their limbs while they planted their maize in
the springtime, and when they had grown larger, orioles hung
their corded hammocks amid their pendulous branches, with no
fear of squirrels or that horror of all low nesting birds--the
black snake.

Summer after summer brought new verdure to their branches. Many
autumns turned their wealth of emerald leaves to golden glory.
Winter upon winter twisted their tough branches and weighed them
down with snows until they now stand the monarchs of other days.

There is the very spot where Washington took command of the
Continental Army on July 3, 7775. How like the man who stood
beneath it was this tree then. It had beauty, strength and
grace, without signs of any weakness, proclaiming it the king of
trees. Here once stood "a man of great soundness of judgment,
moral self-control, intense fiery passions curbed by a will of
iron. His sweet, tender soul had been enshrined in a worthy
temple." His grave and handsome face, noble bearing and courtly
grace of manner all proclaimed him king of men.

But here still stands that great old elm, a nation's shrine. It
struggles bravely to clothe with verdure its few remaining
limbs, still speaking eloquently of those stirring days "that
tried men's souls." Each green leaf in its aged crest tells of
those noble patriots, whose memory of the glorious lives of self-
 sacrifice shall forever remain, verdant in the hearts of a
liberty-loving people. This glorious tree, with its few broken
limbs and scanty foliage, wears signs of many a wintry combat
and summer winds surprise attacks "as heroes their scars,"
unbending still through all those years of toil and strife.
Perhaps a few more years and this venerable tree shall yield to
some wintry blast; its present site to be marked by a monument
of bronze or marble. But how much more fitting would it be to
plant a young tree where the old one stood. This would be a
living monument where its cooling shadows would still fall upon
the weary travelers "like a benediction on the road of life."
Here pilgrims from Maine to California's farthest bounds might
some day rest beneath its beneficent branches. We fancy how they
will gaze in admiration at a new tree, whose symmetrical gray
trunk rises like a mighty fluted column, from which graceful
limbs spread out to form a glorious canopy. Its serrated leaves,
each an emerald in that vast corona of verdure, will become in
autumn a topaz in its gleaming crest. When the snows of many
winters shall have clothed its slender, drooping branches with
clinging drapery of star flowers and many springs thatched its
myriad twigs with emerald that droop like sprays of art, it too
shall grow hoary and give way to some fierce blast, making room
for another and still more glorious Washington Elm.

Other places you surely will care to see are Old South Church,
often called the "Sanctuary of Freedom," lying between Milk and
Water streets. The present building was erected in 1730. Faneuil
Hall, the Cradle of Liberty, which is at the disposal of the
people for public meetings whenever certain conditions are met;
on the upper floor of this hall is the armory of The Ancient and
Honorable Artillery Company, the oldest military company in this
country. Old North Church is known to every school boy and girl
in the land as the place where Paul Revere saw the two lights
that were his signal for starting on his memorable ride. Over
the river is Bunker Hill Monument, recalling that resolute stand
made by the patriots in 1775, and from which a fine view over
the city is afforded. King's Chapel, at the corner of Tremont
and School streets, is a most interesting landmark, which was
completed in 1753. Entering, you find a decidedly old-fashioned
atmosphere in the high-backed, square pews and handsome
decorations. George Washington's pew will be pointed out to you.

The Old State House was built in 1748. In it "the child
Independence was born." Here the royal governors of the province
and the royal council sat. It was from the balcony on the State
street side that the news of the Declaration of Independence was
proclaimed. Here, in 1835, William Lloyd Garrison found refuge
from a mob which had broken up an anti-slavery meeting and
threatened the life of this brave agitator.

On the corner of Washington and School streets is a quaint
building, the oldest now standing in Boston. It was erected in
1712 and is known as The Old Corner Book Store. Some of the
largest and most influential American publishing houses had
their inception in this building.

One must not fail to see Copley Square, the center of artistic,
literary and educational life in Boston. Fronting on this square
are Trinity Church, commonly known as Phillips Brooks' church,
as his pastorate there covered a period of twenty-two years. St.
Gaudens' statue of Brooks stands in front of the church. Also
facing this square is the chaste and classic front of the Boston
Public Library. Two of Saint Gaudens' groups adorn enormous
pedestals at either side of the entrance. Inside, on the walls
of the grand stairway, are magnificent paintings by John La
Farge and others, while on the four sides of the main public
room are mural paintings by La Farge, depicting the entire
history of Sir Arthur and the Holy Grail.

Just before crossing the river into Charlestown one's attention
is directed to a small triangular space surrounded by an iron
fence, no side of which is more than five or six feet long, in
which is growing a single tree. To this is attached a sign
proclaiming that "Dogs are not allowed in this park." Just
across the river, not far from Bunker Hill Monument, is the Navy
Yard.

The museum of Fine Arts in Boston contains many important works
from both the old and modern masters. Here you will see Turner's
"Slave Ship." "This picture has been the cause of more criticism
than any that has ever been brought to our shores. Every
gradation of opinion was expressed from Ruskin's extravagant
enconium where he says, 'I believe if I were induced to rest
Turner's immortality upon any single work I should choose the
Slave Ship; the color is absolutely perfect,' to the frank
disapproval of our own George Innes, when he says that it is
'the most infernal piece of clap-trap ever painted. There is
nothing in it. It is not even a fine bouquet of colors.' Some
one said it looks like a 'tortoise-shell cat having a fit in a
platter of tomatoes.' The lurid light that streams through the
mist of the angry sea intensifies a scene already too horrible."

Whoever has seen the peasants of France in their own harvest
fields near Barbizon will not fail to recognize the close
relations and the intimate knowledge Millet had of these humble
peasants. As you gaze at the great mounds of wheat with the
crowd of laborers resting, you seem to catch the very spirit of
the dignity of labor that the artist so admirably portrays in
all his work. You see not only these particular toilers but all
the laborers of earth, who by the sweat of their brows make the
earth yield her increase.

"His figures seem to be uncouth and of the earth; they are
children of Nature who have been so long in contact with the
elements and soil they seem to partake of the sternness of the
landscape quite as much as the sturdy oaks tried by the storms
and stress of unnumbered days of exposure. His Shepherdess is
also worth considering and represents his aim in art." These are
his words: "I would wish that the beings I represent should have
the air of being consecrated to their position, and that it
should be impossible to imagine that the idea could occur to
them of their being other than that which they are--the
beautiful is the suitable."

What poems of grace and beauty the works of Corot are! How well
he knew the trees, for he lived among them and loved them. No
other artist has so marvelously portrayed the very soul of trees
in their swaying, singing, dew-tipped branches. They are vast
harps through which wandering breezes murmur aeolian melodies,
"morning and evening anthems" to the Creator. His paintings have
a freshness and fragrance of the dawn; a mystery seems to hang
over them. The very spirit of the morn broods over that classic
landscape of his "Dante and Vergil." In the opening words of
Dame's Inferno he gives us the vivid setting of this wonderful
scene:

"Midway upon the journey of life he found himself within a
forest dark, for the straight forward pathway had been lost. He
wandered all night and in the morning found himself near the
foot of a mountain. He began the ascent but was met by a
panther, light and exceedingly swift. He was about to return,
but the time was the beginning of morning. A lion with uplifted
head, and a hungry she-wolf next he spied and rushed down toward
the lowlands where he beheld Vergil, who has come to guide him
to his beloved Beatrice."

One should pause to view the "Master Smith." One here sees in
very form the character Longfellow so clearly describes in his
"Village Blacksmith." It is to the eye what the melody of the
poem is to the ear, purest harmony that ever sings the dignity
of labor.

One should also pause to admire the "Sphinx" by Elihu Vedder,
"The Misses Boit" by Sargent, Winslow Homer's "Fog Warning,"
John W. Alexander's "Isabella and the Pot of Basil." This last
picture we love not only as a work of art but because it is the
subject of one of Keat's poems, "Isabel."

Isabella was a beautiful Florentine maiden who lived with her
two brothers. "They planned to marry her to some high noble and
his olive trees." A certain servant, Lorenzo, loved her, and
they had him taken to a forest beyond the Arno and murdered.
Isabella had a dream in which Lorenzo appeared to her and told
of his murder and how to find his grave. In the morning she
found the grave and took the skull and kissed it. "Then in a
silken scarf she wrapped it up, and for its tomb did choose a
garden-pot wherein she laid it by, and covered it with mold, and
o'er set Sweet Basil, which her tears kept wet." Her brothers
discovered why she sat so constant by her pot of Basil and fled
from the city. Isabella pined and died with these pitiful words
upon her lips: "O cruelty, to steal my Basil-pot away from me."

Space forbids us to tell of the many beautiful works of art or
the inspiration to be had by contemplating them, but a trip to
Boston is not complete unless we take away lasting memories of
the famous masterpieces to be seen here.

While visiting the university buildings of Harvard we saw the
photographs of men who had sacrificed their lives during the
World War. Our thoughts wandered far away and we seemed to see a
road that led through Verdun to the front. Its beginning was an
avenue of stately buckeye trees in their autumn livery of faded
green and gold. Back and forth along this road went Red Cross
ambulances on their ceaseless journeys of mercy. The sky that
should have been blue and fair was filled with gray smoke. The
air that in times of peace throbbed with the notes of the lark
now trembled with the report of heavy guns and crashing shells.
Great sheets of camouflage stretched along the road to screen
the view.

One day while making an advance in the Argonne forest, taking
the place of a captain who had been killed, Lieut. Harry Hanley
of Boston fell upon the field of battle. His hip had been
fractured and he was removed to Glorieux hospital, where E. H.
No. 15 was located. It was here that we learned to know and love
him. His hopeful, helpful spirit shone above the dark gloom of
the time like a beacon light. How often, when we wistfully
sought to help those patient sufferers, while we were so weak
our faltering steps failed us ofttimes, did we hear the calm
voice of Lieutenant Hanley filling us with hope and inspiring us
with new courage.

Across the room lay a German suffering from abdominal wounds.
His pitiful moans caught the attention of Lieutenant Hanley and
he said: "I hate to see that German suffer so. How I do hope
this shall be the end of all wars." Such was the spirit of this
noble man.

Well do we remember the day when the regimental band of the 26th
division played for the wounded boys at Glorieux. It was a mild
October day. As they struck up some old familiar airs the face
of Lieutenant Hanley of the 101st Infantry, Company A, of that
division, grew radiant as he said: "How I love to hear those old
melodies." Then for a time he seemed to forget his hard lot and
wandered again in fair New England fields that grew tender and
beautiful in sunset light. A robin caroled softly from a crimson
maple, the meadow brook sang a rippling accompaniment as in
fancy once more he walked with loved ones in the homeland.

We do not know whether or not all these things passed through
his mind, but we do know that among his thoughts was the fond
sister, working and praying in Boston, and a brother fitting
himself for the air-service, and a lovely mother walking and
praying in her lonely home. The burden of their prayer is ever
'the same; morning and night it rises to Him for the safe return
of a dear brother and son. As that absent one turned through the
leaves of the New Testament, wherein he found such comforting
messages in those weary days and long, anxious nights of
suffering, he too sent up a prayer for the loved ones back home.

The day of his departure, how shall we ever forget it? As we
moved about among the cots of Ward E, the cheerful voice of
Lieutenant Hanley came to us as he clasped our hands for the
last time, while he said "I shall never forget you." As the
litter bearers were passing through the door he put up his hand
as a last farewell, saying he would write us on reaching home.
But many months passed before we received the tear-stained
letter from a broken-hearted mother, telling us he had wandered
to fairer fields.

Where broad between its banks stretches the Meuse, mirroring the
bloom in the west and the evening star, where the cornflowers
look up with heaven's own blue and the poppies cover the fields
like a crimson sea, where the skylark unseen is still soaring
and singing, and the nightingale from the snowy hawthorn spray
warbles divinely at even. French mothers who have lost all their
sons in the war shall come with their tribute of blossoms to
those vast cities of the dead. Here while the flowers fall
unnoticed from their trembling hands and with tears streaming
down their careworn faces and with prayers of gratitude upon
their lips, they shall bless the memory of those noble American
boys who poured out the rich, red blood of youth who lie in a
land they crossed the ocean to save.

Among the priceless treasures we have at home is a picture of
Lieutenant Hanley standing among a bower of roses. This was sent
to his mother just before he left the United States. How like
those roses was he--the most perfect flower of all. The dew of
youth, the rosy bloom of manhood, the purity of those fragrant
petals in his soul, all speak to us from that portrait. It seems
as if:

     A happy smile flits 'cross his face,
     The dream of fair Elysian fields,
     A vision of the old home place
     To darkened memories swiftly yields.

     God had turned the trenches to roses again
     When they bore him home across the wave
     He was true to self, to God, and man
     And was leaving a land he died to save.

     How quiet on that August morn
     The tolling bell gave forth its sound.
     In star-draped casket, slowly borne,
     A treasure not of earth was found.

     Like dew upon a flower sleeping
     Or fairest hue of sunset skies
     A jewel in the master's keeping
     A radiant pearl of greatest price.

     Like amber-tinted clouds of May
     By many vagrant breezes driven;
     That frail form swiftly passed away
     To melt and fade in dawn's fair heaven.

     Death is but the mist of early morn
     Seen rising o'er the placid river,
     An open gateway into heaven
     Where the pure with God shall dwelt forever.


CHAPTER X

LEXINGTON AND CONCORD

Coming into Lexington from the south one passes Follen church,
where Emerson preached. Farther along on the right is the house
of John Harrington, last survivor of the battle; then, near the
corner of Maple street, the great elm planted by his father.

About a quarter of a mile further, on the left, is the Munroe
Tavern, headquarters and hospital of Earl Percy, now the
property of the Lexington Historical Society. The granite cannon
by the High School marks the site of one of the field-pieces
placed by Earl Percy to cover the retreat of the British troops.
In the town hall is the admirable painting of the Battle of
Lexington, by Sandham; also in the town offices statues of
Hancock and Adams.

The Hayes memorial fountain, with an ideal statue of the Minute
Man, by Henry H. Kitson, sculptor, faces the line of approach of
the British from the easterly end of the common. Behind it a
granite pulpit marks the site of the old church past which
Pitcairn led his men; a boulder to the left locates the position
of the Old Belfry from which the alarm was sounded on its bell,
April 19, 1775. A boulder on the common to the right from the
fountain, together with the old monument, under which the eight
men killed during the battle are buried, marks the line of the
Minute Men. The Jonathan Harrington house, on the corner of
Bedford street, was the scene of a touching incident of the
battle. Across Bedford street is the Masonic Temple. The main
part of this building was erected in 1822 for the Lexington
Academy, and in this building the first normal school in America
was opened on July 3, 1839, with three pupils enrolled.

It is good to be here in this section of country not alone for
its historical associations, with which it is so rich, but for
the association of great minds, from which emanated those
flowers of song "that shall bloom in fragrance and beauty in the
gardens of the human heart forever." We note in journeying here
that the scenery is superb, yet we love the land more for the
noble souls who lived and labored here that humanity might rise
to higher things.

One does not wonder that Massachusetts can boast of so many
illustrious names, for "its lovely landscape and stern climate
seem to have been made for the development of genius," and no
other period of history could have afforded more telling
inspiration than that in which they lived. Their songs had in
them the purity of its crystal springs, the beauty of its autumn
landscapes, the strength of its rock-strewn hills.

How quiet was all the landscape on that Sabbath afternoon as we
stood on the North bridge, where once stood the embattled farmer
gazing up the elm-lined vista at the alert figure of the Minute
Man. As one writer has said, it seemed difficult to associate
this charming spot with strife, and try as we would it ever
remained what its name implies, "Concord."

How peaceful the dark, slow-moving stream glided by the town,
with scarce a murmur to break the serene stillness! How gently
the Old Manse looked from its leafy elms! The noise of
automobiles passing along the highway, the rippling laughter of
our little guide, or the gurgling melody of a red-winged
blackbird scarce disturbed its peaceful slumbers. On the golden
stillness of the hot mid-summer afternoon the almost
imperceptible current seemed more sluggish still. The graceful
foliage of willow, elm and alder, joined in friendly groups by
wild grape vines, leaned over the dark water "as if still
listening for the golden thoughts of Hawthorne, Chinning,
Emerson and Thoreau." It was their spirits that seemed to rule
over the brooding landscape rather than that of the Minute Man,
clothing each rock and tree with a luster the remembrance of
which shall illuminate many a somber-colored day of life.

Yet here was the first battle of the Revolution. The only flag
we saw was the vivid red of cardinal flowers, the blue of the
chicory, and the white of the elder. We heard no gun save that
of the bittern, which savored more of love than war. The calm
skies knew no harsher sound than the explosive boom of the night-
 hawk. The only drum was that of the bullfrog, calling raw
recruits from among the lily-pads. The dark waters harbored no
submarine save a great turtle who slipped from a log and
submerged, sending a mass of ripples around a much-frightened
blue heron. The woods echoed to the bold bugle of the Carolina
wren. But there, on April 19, 1775, "murmured the first faint
tide of war" that continued until, as the stone on the right
tells us, "it gave peace to the United States."

Gage sent troops to proceed to Concord to destroy the military
stores collected there, but they, like Adams and Hancock in
Lexington, had vanished. They were as much surprised as the
farmer who planted his peas near a woodchuck den; when he went
out to look at them all he had was the smell. For the British,
too, only the smell of the powder remained. After they had left
a small force to guard the bridge, the troops set fire to the
court house. They then cut down the liberty pole, spiked several
cannon, threw several barrels of flour into the river, and
proceeded to hunt for the arms and ammunition that were not
there. The burning flames from the court house kindled the wrath
of the little force of Minute Men, who had seen the ominous
clouds of smoke on that April day. Soon four hundred men were on
their way to Concord. Two hundred regulars, on arriving, seized
the bridge. Here they received and returned the British fire and
were only overcome by numbers. Major Buttrick forced them back
into the village.

As we gazed across again at the Old Manse we thought of the
wonderful essays that had been written here. In the rear of the
old house is a delightful study. It was here that Emerson wrote
"Nature." Here, too, Hawthorne wrote "Mosses from an Old Manse."
We thought of the brave clergyman who, from the north window,
commanding a broad view of the river, stood watching the first
conflict of a long and deadly struggle between the mother
country and her child.

Realizing the danger they were in, the British troops began
their retreat of eighteen miles. They had eaten little or
nothing for fourteen hours. Ages ago freedom loving Nature had
conspired to aid the Americans by shaping the field of battle.
Huge boulders had been left by the glacier, the potent rays of
the April sun made dense masses of verdure in willows, which
thus became an ally of the pine. Stone fences and haystacks
became ready-made fortifications, and every rising spot was
filled with irate hostile yeoman who harried them with aim true
and deadly. They soon began to run and leave their wounded
behind, and in place of a retreat their disorderly flight must
have had the appearance of a Marathon race, the rattle of
musketry acting or serving as signals for each to do his best on
the home stretch.

They were almost exhausted when they fell into a little hollow
square made by Percy's men to receive them. Here the weary,
frightened Redcoats took refuge as in a sanctuary, and
immediately threw themselves upon the ground to rest. Many of
them had either lost or thrown away their muskets. Pitcairn had
lost both his horse and the elegant pistols with which. the
first shot of the war for independence had been fired. They may
now be seen in the town library of Lexington. When the British
soldiers reached Arlington, several miles from Boston, they had
an obstinate fight with the Yanks. The road swarmed with Minute
Men and they could not keep order--but at sunset, when they
entered Charlestown under the welcome shelter of the fleet, it
was upon the full run. Considered as a race, the British stood
far in the lead. Two hundred and seventy-three British were lost
and but ninety-three Americans.

As we still lingered on the banks of the sleeping river we
recalled these lines from Emerson: "My home stands in lowland
with limited outlook, and on the outskirts of the village. But I
go with my friend to the shore of our little river, and with one
stroke of the paddle I leave the village politics and
personalities behind and pass into a delicate realm of sunset
and moonlight." Alert and watchful still stood the figure near
the bridge, and as we turned away from this quiet spot "his
attitude of eternal vigilance still seemed prophetic." He became
at once the noble spirit of a brave Anglo-Saxon, standing for
Freedom and Right; the spirit that gained our independence; that
of 1867 that freed the slave; and that of 1917 that sent the
sons of America across the ocean. This glorious Freeman should
be placed on some lofty mountain peak in the pure, free air of
heaven, where all might read the lesson of Freedom and Human
Rights. This is one of America's shrines of which she may be
duly proud. Could the European tourist carry back no other
memory, it would be well to cross the Atlantic to see this
sight. Leaving the guardian at the bridge standing there, we
made our way to Sleepy Hollow.

We are not particularly fond of cemeteries, but the knowledge
that finally one has to go there himself makes a visit not
wholly purposeless. We strolled past. the quiet homes to the
more quiet plot of ground, "hallowed by many congenial and great
souls." Here on a lofty elevation of ground stood the headstones
of Louise May Alcott, Thoreau and Charming, with that of
Hawthorne enclosed by a fence and withdrawn a short distance.

"What a constellation of stars, whose radiance shall shine on
undimmed through countless centuries!"

Here is what Thoreau wrote concerning monuments: "When the stone
is a light one and stands upright, pointing to the sky, it does
not repress the spirits of the traveler to meditate by it; but
these men did seem a little heathenish to us; and so are all
large monuments over men's bodies from the Pyramids down."

A monument should at least be "starry-pointing," to indicate
whither the spirit has gone, and not prostrate like the body it
has deserted. There have been some nations who could do nothing
but construct tombs, and these are the only traces they have
left. They are the heathen. But why these stones so upright and
emphatic like exclamation points? What was there so remarkable
that lived? Why should the monument be so much more enduring
than the fame which it is designed to commemorate--a stone to a
bone? "Here lies ___" Why do they not sometimes write, "There
rises?" Is it a monument to the body only that is intended?
"Having ended the term of his natural life." Would it not be
truer to say, "Having ended the term of his unnatural life?" The
rarest quality in an epitaph is truth. If any character is given
it should be as severely true as the decision of judges, and not
the partial testimony of friends. Friends and contemporaries
should supply only the name and date, and leave it to posterity
to write the epitaph.

     OPPOSITE THE OLD SHORE ROAD

     The Old World bended low beneath a load
     Of bigotry and superstitions dark,
     When Liberty, amid the tottering thrones
     Of despots born, with gladness filled the homes
     Of men, e'en the Eternal City bade
     Her gates imperial open wide; and, like
     A cloud the darkness lifted from the land.
     Then Freedom's gentle, buoyant spirit, like
     The Magi's wand, extended far across
     The sea, and thereupon the gloomy flood
     Was parted wide asunder, and revealed
     A glorious paradise for Freedom's sons.
     Columbia, beneath thy banner's stars,
     The mind of man in rare luxuriance blooms,
     Unfolding one by one the attributes
     Of deity. In vision we foresee
     The perfect man. In form the image of
     His Maker, God. In toleration filled
     With charity for all. In Reason's Ways
     Profound. In thought, he mounts the throne of power
     And sways the world. He tries frolic Nature's grasp
     To lure her secrets still untold till we,
     Amazed at his bold course, recoil abashed.

     --Willis Boughton.


CHAPTER XI

THE OLD SHORE ROAD AND THE PILGRIM SPIRIT

     The breaking waves dashed high
     On a stern and rock bound coast,
     And the woods against the stormy sky
     Their giant branches tossed.


"Thus sang Felicia Hemans in the early years of the last
century, and anyone who has sailed in by White Horse beach and
'Hither Manomet' when one of those fierce gales that winter
brings to this section of the coast sends great billows
thundering up against the cliff and churns all the sea into
froth and foam, will readily see how truthful this singer has
portrayed the scene he has beheld. True, you will not find
granite ledges, which follow the coast almost continuously
farther north, as at Scituate, Nahant, Rockport, and farther on;
but it is rock-bound, nevertheless, with great heaps of
boulders, thickly sown, of various shapes and sizes, with a
sombre gray color that makes them appear inexpressibly stern
even on a bland summer day."

The most picturesque of all the highways leading from Boston to
Plymouth is the South Shore road, passing through Milton,
Quincy, Hingham, Scituate, Cohasset, Marshfield, and Duxbury,
for one of the chief delights of this route is the frequent
glimpses of the sea, whose jagged, rocky coast Nature has
softened until we only feel that it is rock bound. When the day
is clear how the sunshine dusts the water with purplish bloom,
mellowing its hard, cold tint of greenish blue. Here one seems
to feel the spirit, the mystery of the ocean, and a voice at
once grand and irresistible calls from those walls of siren-
haunted rocks until he is among them, listening to the music of
the waves as they come rolling against their rugged sides. Then
one never tires of gazing at the beautiful homes so charmingly
embowered amidst their grand old trees and spacious grounds
adorned with many flowers, in brilliant masses of various
colors. Thus no time is lost by the ardent admirer of the
beauties of land and sea, and the ever-varied and changing
scenes allow just that variety which the most prosaic person
cannot help enjoying.

We shall always remember this road as a sort of traveler's
paradise. It is an almost ideal shore road, indeed one of the
finest that New England can boast, and one really regrets it is
not longer. How many times we have gone over it since that first
journey! "Memory and imagination are true yoke-fellows, and
between them they are always preparing some new and greater
pleasure as we allow them the opportunity."

Many have been the times since those memorable days spent on the
old Shore Road; that memory of them gave for a moment a pleasure
more real than any we had experienced while strolling at will
along that scenic highway. Sometimes seemingly imaginary
delights are far from being imaginary. We can see the lovely
stretches of beach this moment and hear the breakers booming
among the granite boulders--yes, and the grating of the pebbles
that are being ground to shifting sand to form the beach.

Then, too, who can ever forget the exhilarating effect of a dip
in those waves? The great unfailing attraction of the place,
then as now, is the ocean, forever an emblem of unrest,
changeable in its unchangeableness. To our minds the ocean seems
alive. We could sooner believe in sirens and water-nymphs than
in many existences that are commonly spoken of as much more
certain "matters of fact." We could believe in them, we say, but
do not.

Our communings are not with any monster of the unfathomable
deeps of the ocean, but with the spirit of the ocean itself. It
grows somber and sullen under a leaden sky, and its voice has in
it something of that inexpressible sadness heard in the raging
wind among the pines. Then on a calm day in mid-summer how
placid and serene its water appears, wearing on its bosom that
exquisite blue bloom, like the haze that clothes distant
mountains. It scintillates and sparkles like rare jewels in the
sunlight, and ever its dancing waves with silvery crests
proclaim it a thing of life and motion. You might say that it is
dead, yet after all, how many know what life really is? In
certain moods, especially when strolling by the sea, you will
feel measurably sure of being alive yourself; and the longer you
tarry by it the less liable you will be to entertain doubts
about the matter.

On the afternoon of our first journey along this Shore Road the
sky was overcast with low-hung clouds that foreboded rain.
Towhees were calling noisily from wayside thickets; catbirds
sang their self-conscious airs or mewed in derision as we
passed; chickadees were calling their names and occasionally
uttered their pensive minor strains; and far away in a dim-
lighted hemlock grove we heard a new bird song that seemed in
exquisite accord with our own thoughts.

Again and again the notes came from the forest. How delicious
the music was! A perfect song of peace and spiritual tone that
told us at once the singer was a thrush--but what thrush? We had
heard the song of the hermit among the Berkshire Hills and could
never confuse his wonderful hymn with that of another species;
yet here was a song possessing the same character of sacredness.
It was a restful lullaby like ,the mingled benediction of wood
and sea on the tired spirits of weary travelers. It had in it
nothing of "pride or passion," but contained the same serene
harmony that vagrant breezes draw from the myriad-stringed
pines; something of the melodies breathed from the ocean. It
proved to be the evening hymn of the veery.

The song of the nightingale, with its trills and phrases, would
make harmony seemingly crude if compared to either the hermit or
veery thrush, nor would the skylark, famous in poetry and song,
bear off the prize were the two birds to be heard alternately.
The English blackbird has a very sweet song, which made the
weary, homesick heart of the soldier in France rejoice, when he
announced that spring was near. Yet if the European traveler
complains that our songsters are not brilliant, let him visit
our land when the brown thrasher, the bobolink or mocking bird
are singing, and he will hear melodies as full of joy and
exuberance as any he may have remembered in his native land.

We have been straying a bit from the Shore Road but, as we said,
the scenery along it is varied, so will your thoughts be as you
move enraptured from place to place.

One almost forgets to eat while so much of beauty lies all about
him; but, once reminded that it is meal time, what a ravenous
appetite he seems to have! It almost provokes a smile now as we
think of the many places along the various roads that are
connected in our minds with the question of something to eat.
Many of the places (might say nearly all of them) were places
where we had dined the year before. Remembering how voracious
and indiscriminating our appetites were, we cannot help
wondering that we are here to tell the story; for how many new
fruits we sampled because we wanted to learn their flavor!

This feeling is no doubt shared by all who recall similar
excursions, when the open air and exercise whetted their
appetites to an unusual degree. We Americans are objects of much
comment in restaurants and hotels of foreign countries, and no
doubt many of the waiters think that we have been blessed with
more than a spark of life, else it would have been smothered
long ago by the constant fuel which we furnish for it. But on a
summer trip, where one all but lives out-of-doors, breathes
deeply the resin-scented air and has little to worry about,
there is not so much of a mystery connected with his ability to
keep on the go.

We do not know whether it was the beautiful red color of some
choke cherries that hung their bunches temptingly near or
whether it was extreme hunger, or fear lest some hungrier soul
should get to the bushes first, that caused one member of our
party to recklessly cram his mouth with what he thought would be
most excellent fruit. But alas! things are not what they seem.
He began to pucker his mouth and cough in the most violent
manner. "Choke cherries, choke cherries," he repeated between
broken coughs; these cherries were evidently named by one who
knew the right word for them. This fruit is extremely attractive
just before ripening, with its handsome clusters of red
cherries; a real feast to the eye but not to the palate, until
they change to dark red or almost black. "Some things are to be
admired and not judged by the New Testament standard, very
literally interpreted, 'By their fruits ye shall know them.' We
used other tests here and valued this small tree for its beauty,
though its cherries were as bitter as wormwood."

It isn't often one is privileged to dine at the Sign of the
Lavender Kettle in Sandwich, but this is what we did in
Massachusetts. The place was neat and scrupulously clean, and
the dessert consisted of delicious raspberries, which went far
to dispel our partner's belief that, as some theologians teach,
creation is indeed under a curse. But we are making too much of
the food question, and will say nothing of the honey, fresh
buns, country butter, etc., but shall make haste to inquire
concerning our night's lodging, for Plymouth is celebrating the
Tercentenary this year, and we were informed that it is
extremely difficult to find hotel accommodations.

While making inquiries concerning a suitable place to stay, we
were approached by a motherly but very officious old lady, clad
in black, who, after telling us that she was going to entertain
some notable person at her home as a guest when he came to view
the pageant, advised us to proceed to the Mayflower Inn, where
we were sure of being accommodated for the night. She described
this hotel as a beautiful and luxurious inn, situated on the
slight elevation of Manomet Point a few miles below the town. We
decided to spend the night at Plymouth and passed the road which
led to the inn. We found that the nearer hotels were all filled,
so we had to turn back and in a cold, dreary rain return to the
road we had passed.

As we proceeded on our way we saw a fishing vessel putting out
to sea. How many scenes that vessel recalled! We thought how
many families had been engaged in this precarious livelihood,
where their perilous calling was prosecuted at the risk of life
itself. The solitude and awesomeness of a stormy night at sea
along this rough and rugged coast is heightened by the wild
tempests which brood over the waters, strewing the shore with
wrecks at all seasons of the year. The news of the frequent loss
of husbands or sons, the roar of the waves, and the atmospheric
effects which in such situations present so many strange
illusions to the eye, must have been calculated to work upon the
terrors of those who remained at home; and melancholy fancies
must have flitted across their memories as they watched at
midnight, listening to the melancholy moaning of wind and wave.

No wonder phantoms and death warnings were familiar to the
ancient Celtic fishermen, for those terrible disasters that were
constantly occurring could not help but increase the gloom which
acts so strongly upon those who are accustomed to contemplate
the sea under all its aspects.

"In the long winter nights, when the fishermen's wives whose
husbands are out at sea are scared from their uneasy sleep by
the rising of the tempest, they listen breathlessly for certain
sounds to which they attach a fatal meaning. If they hear a low,
monotonous noise of waters falling drop by drop at the foot of
their bed, and discover that it has been caused by unnatural
means and that the floor is dry, it is the unerring token of
shipwreck. The sea has made them widows! This fearful
superstition, I believe, is confined to the isle of Artz, where
a still more striking phenomenon is said to take place.
Sometimes, in the twilight, they say, large white women may be
seen moving slowly from the neighboring islands over the sea,
and seating themselves upon its borders. There they remain
throughout the night, digging in the sands with their naked
feet, and stripping off between their fingers the leaves of the
rosemary flowers culled upon the beach. Those women, according
to the tradition, are natives of the islands, who, marrying
strangers, and dying in their sins, have returned to their
beloved birthplace to beg the prayers of their friends."

Another superstition was recalled. "At the seaside village of
St. Gildas, the fishermen who lead evil lives are often
disturbed at midnight by three knocks at their door from an
invisible hand. They immediately get up and, impelled by some
supernatural power whose behests they cannot resist and dare not
question, go down to the beach, where they find long black
boats, apparently empty, yet sunk so deeply in the water as to
be nearly level with it. The moment they enter, a large white
sail streams out from the top of the mast, and the bark is
carried out to sea with irresistible rapidity, never to be seen
by mortal eyes again. The belief is that these boats are
freighted with condemned souls, and that the fishermen are
doomed to pilot them over the waste of waters until the day of
judgment. The legend, like many others, is of Celtic origin."
(footnote: Alexander Bell.)

One can readily see how the imaginative minds of those Celtic
fishermen could people their desolate coasts with spectres and
phantoms, and indeed we did not need to draw much on our own
imagination to see strange figures gliding along the shore in
the gloom on a night like this.

Soon, however, the lights from the numerous windows and veranda
sent their invitations through the mist-filled air and we
entered the hospitable building, and drew our chairs before the
glowing fireplace with a feeling of comfort not readily
imagined. On leaving the fireside to take a look at the ocean,
behold what a transformation! Instead of scudding clouds, a
clear blue sky filled with sparkling stars and a full moon, that
made a path of gold which led far away over the water. It was
such a night as one sees along the shores of the Mediterranean,
lacking only the balmy air, the fragrance of orange blossoms,
and the broad leafed date palm reflecting the glorious light.
True, the air was chilly, but the sudden transition from a dull,
melancholy scene to one so cheerful had a fascination for us,
like the lulling melody of flutes when their sweetness hushes
into silence the loud clamor of an orchestra.

>From the spacious brick piazza, we had a lovely view out over
the rolling Manomet Hills. The blue on the distant bluffs grew
silvery in the moonlight and the orchestra filled the place with
delightful music, so in accord with the murmuring waves, that we
thought as did Hogg, the poet:

     Of all the arts beneath the heaven
     That man has found or God has given,
     None draws the soul so sweet away,
     As music's melting, mystic lay.


After the orchestra ceased playing, a young man stepped to the
piano and gave a beautiful rendition of Beethoven's Moonlight
Sonata; recalling our sojourn in the city of Bonn and the
pilgrimage to the home of this wonderful genius. How like this
must have been that night on which the famous master was stirred
with emotion.

"One moonlight evening, while out walking with a friend, through
one of the dark, narrow streets of his native city, as they were
passing a humble dwelling, the sweet tones of a piano floated
out on the evening air, that throbbed with the sweet notes of
the nightingale.

"Hush!" said Beethoven, "what sound is that? It is from my
Sonata in F. Hark! How well it is played!"

There was a sudden break in the finale, when a sobbing voice
exclaimed:

"I cannot play it any more. It is so beautiful; it is beyond my
power to do it justice. O, what would I not give to go to the
Concert at Cologne!"

This appeal, coming out into the stillness of the night, was too
much for the kind-hearted musician. He resolved to gratify her
desire. As he gently opened the door, he said to his friend: "I
will play for her. Here is feeling, genius, understanding! I
will play for her and she will understand it."

It was only the humble home of a shoemaker and his blind sister.

"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music and was tempted
to enter. I am a musician. I also overheard something of what
you said. You wish to hear--that is--shall I play for you?"

The young girl blushed while the young man apologized for the
wretched condition of the piano, which was out of tune, and said
they had no music.

"No music!" exclaimed Beethoven.

Then he discovered for the first time that the young lady was
blind. With profuse apologies, for seeming to have spoken so
abruptly, he desired to know how she had learned to play so well
by ear. When he heard that she had gained it by walking before
the open window while others practiced, he was so touched that
he sat down and played to the most interested audience that he
had ever entertained. Enraptured they listened.

"Who are you?" exclaimed the young man.

"Listen," said Beethoven, and as the sublime strains of the
"Sonata in F" filled the air their joy was unbounded. Seldom is
it given to man to have such appreciation. The flame of the
candle wavered, flickered, and went out. His friend opened the
shutters and let in a flood of moonlight. Under the influence of
the spell, the great composer began to improvise. Such a hold
did his own music create upon him that he hastened to his room
and worked till after the dawn of morning, reducing the great
composition to writing. It was his masterpiece, "The Moonlight
Sonata." Thus he found that it is indeed "more blessed to give
than to receive," and the gift returned to bless the giver many
times."

No wonder the musician played this fitting selection, for the
silvery light made all the sky radiant and its crystal, star-
gemmed depths seemed to shine with a light of their own,
transforming its radiant sapphire gleam, shedding it over the
glowing water and shore, tipping with silver the shrubbery at
its edge which in the dim distance formed a scene that was
enchanting. The softly sighing leaves mingled their notes with
the rippling waves and:

     "Peacefully the quiet stars
     Came out one after one;
     The holy twilight fell upon the sea,
     The summer day was done."


Dawn came with a burst of glory, and the oncoming light of the
soft, deep blue and the alluring purple. bloom that spread o'er
the ocean was Nature's compensation for those who rose early.
Before the stars had all gone to their hiding place and while
the light of a few large planets was growing dim, fading into
the clay, we were making our way down to the shore through dewy
grass, azaleas, and various shrubs, where the swamp sparrows,
robins, and catbirds were greeting the new day from their bushy
coverts with their songs of gladness.

How many songsters took part in this matitudinal concert, we are
unable to state, but there were a great number. The volume of
sweet notes would sometimes swell to a full-toned orchestra, and
then for a brief time it would die away like the flow and ebb of
the tides of a sea of melody. The robins were undoubtedly the
most gifted of all the vocalists, and their old familiar songs
heard along the seashore seemed to have an added sweetness;
their notes being as strong and pure as those of a silver flute,
making the seaside echoes ring. We have heard many robins sing,
but never have been so impressed with the excellent quality of
their songs as on that early morning, when they flung out their
medley of notes upon the balmy air. No one could doubt that here
were true artists, singing for the pleasure of it.

All along the shore lay huge boulders telling of a more ancient
pilgrimage to these parts; of a great moving mass of ice in the
gray dawn of time, that crept slowly over the land, leaving a
"stern and rock bound coast." Perhaps Plymouth Rock itself may
have been one of the number that, like these huge gray boulders
on which we stood, arrived thousands of years ago.

We returned to the hotel and after breakfast, proceeded on our
way to the old historic town of Plymouth. "The road that leads
thither is daily thronged with innumerable wheels; on a summer
day the traveler may count motors by the thousand." Yet if you
pause here awhile you may soon find within a few rods of the
fine highway primitive woodland that will give you an impression
of what it must have been three hundred years ago. Here you will
see heavy forest growths consisting of oaks, for the most part,
with maple and elm, and here and there a tangle of green brier
and barberry, interspersed with several varieties of blueberry
and huckleberry bushes.

You will perhaps recall that Eric the Red, that fearless Viking,
is reported to have landed on the coast several centuries before
the English heard of the bold promontory of "Hither Manomet." It
is well worth your time to saunter along some of the old trails
to be found in this region that lead from the main highway of
today into the "wilderness of old-time romance, where you will
find them not only marked by the pioneer, but that earlier race
who worked out these paths, no one knows how many centuries
ago."

We now and then meet with people who profess to care little for
a path when walking through a forest solitude. They do not
choose to travel a beaten path, even though it was made
centuries ago. They are welcome to this freak. "Our own genius
for adventure is less highly developed and we love to wander
along some beaten path, no matter how often it has been traveled
before; and if really awake, we may daily greet new beauties and
think new thoughts, and return to the old highway with a new
lease on life, which, after all, is the main consideration,
whether traveling on old or new trails."

Then the force of those old associations, how they gild the most
ordinary objects! The trail you may be traveling may wander here
and there, beset by tangles of briers or marshy ground or loses
itself in a wilderness of barberry bushes, yet how much more
wonderful to travel it, for its soil has been pressed by pilgrim
feet. Some path may chance to lead you where a few old lilac
bushes, a mound or perhaps a gray and moss-grown house, still
stands where some hardy pioneer builded.

You will probably come across parties of boys who have spent
hours in the broiling sun, picking blueberries or huckleberries
in the woods or old stony pastures. Here grow a number of
varieties, which make the woods beautiful and fragrant. They
belong to the heath family and help to feed the world. If you
would know the value of these berries, try and purchase some
from the boys who are gathering them.

How delightful the thrill that we experienced on that lovely
morning of July as we were nearing the shrine of the nation. It
would have mattered little even though we had not tarried on our
journey here, where memories of days of the past came thronging
around us, nor little did it matter now that we saw no signs of
earlier times as we first approached the town, for in this
residence, manufacturing and thriving business center, fluttered
hundreds of flags, giving to the place a meaning at once grand
and significant; and we seemed to catch the fervent faith, the
glad hope that must have swelled in the breasts of our
forefathers three centuries ago.

All during the morning our thoughts wandered far away from the
days of the Pilgrims, for there came thronging memories of those
absent and distant friends with whom we could never talk again,
but in whose memory we once had a place, and who will always
live in ours. These dear friends have now gone to fairer shores
and they are dwelling on the banks of the "river Beautiful,
where grows the Tree of Life."

We came to visit the relatives of these departed friends, who
have proven in those terrible days of the Meuse-Argonne that
there is more in life than its grim reality; who have taught us
that not only on the bloody field of battle but while they
calmly awaited the last command from the Master of All to make
that journey to fairer camping grounds, they were soldiers not
only serving their country under General Pershing, but loyal and
faithful servants of their country's God.

The first hours of the day were spent at the home of Mrs. Emma
Howland, whose son, Chester A. Howland, after receiving gunshot
wounds in the Argonne forest, was taken to the Evacuation
Hospital, Number 15, where we were privileged to care for him.
In vain we searched for words to tell of the faith, courage, and
self-sacrifice of a dear son, of this mother, whose photograph
he so joyfully showed us on the first morning of our meeting, as
he exclaimed:

"Here is a picture of the dearest mother in all the world."

How well we remembered that morning when the cheery rays of
sunlight, the first of many days, stole through the windows and
fell in golden bands and lay on the pure white brow,
illuminating those manly features. A light divine filled his
clear, blue eyes, as he said:

"I do not know how badly I am wounded, but then it will be all
right."

Then we thought of the once lovely region around Verdun, where
the homes were shot full of holes. In many places only heaps of
blackened stone remained. The beautiful meadows of the Meuse had
been torn full of pits, some small, others large and deep enough
to bury a truck; and trenches, barbed wire entanglements and
shattered trees were scattered all about. The American
cannonading roared along the Argonne front, and the German
artillery answered, until the air trembled with an overload of
sound. Then as the clear, fine voice of this noble lad filled
those halls of pain and death with a rippling melody of cheer,
we looked again and a vision came.

In fancy we saw once more the French peasants toiling in their
fields of grain; over the once desolate region the skylarks were
soaring and singing above emerald meadows, covered with the blue
of the corn-flower and crimson of poppies; the pines were
peacefully murmuring their age-old songs of freedom and content,
unmindful of the conquer-lust of the Hohenzollerns; the evening
sky was no longer profaned by the lurid illumination of star
shells as they looped across the ghastly field; in what were
once shell holes filled with poisonous water the frogs were
piping; in the lovely gardens overlooking the Meuse the mavis
and merle were singing; and in the violet dusk no hissing shells
screamed their songs of death and destruction, and no crashing
of forests were heard from far-thrown shells, but the heavy box-
scented breeze bore the heavenly psalm of the nightingale.

Across the road from the ward moving silently about the avenues
of that vast "city of the dead," French mothers were scattering
flowers on graves of their loved ones; and then it was
understood why Chester Howland sang while the thundering cannon
shook the wards. Soon for him there would be no weary marches,
no days of terror and nights of pain. Ah, precious gold-star
mother, rightly have you said it seems that he is just "away."
The home he once brightened and filled with the beauty of his
presence shall know him no more; but think to what radiant
fields he has gone, for which you early taught him to prepare!
There no cruel war will ever come to take him from your hearth-
side.

     I cannot say, and I will not say
     That he is dead--he is just away!
     With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand
     He has wandered into an unknown land,
     And left us dreaming how very fair
     It needs must be, since he lingers there,
     And you--O you, who the wildest yearn
     For the old-time step and the glad return
     Think of him faring on, as dear
     In the love of There as the love of Here;
     And loyal still, as he gave the blows
     Of his warrior-strength to his country's foes.
     Mild and gentle, as he was brave,
     When the sweetest love of his life he gave
     To simple things; where the violets grew
     Blue as the eyes they were likened to,
     The touches of his hands have strayed
     As reverently as his lips have prayed;
     While the little brown thrush that harshly chirped
     Was dear to him as the mocking bird;
     And he pitied as much as a man in pain
     A writhing honey-bee wet with rain.
     Think of him still as the same, I say
     He is not dead--he is just away.

--Riley.


The first Pilgrim trail is now Leyden street, which leads from
the edge of the water to the fort on Burial Hill. But we first
made our way to a real wooded park whose grounds were covered
with oak trees, clethra, alder, spice bushes, and green-brier,
which we fancied still grew as they did in the days of the
Pilgrims. We saw numbers of Indian tepees in this park, which
added to its touch of original wildness. We learned that they
belonged to the Winnebagoes of Maine, who came down to Plymouth
to take part in the pageant. The park was full of blueberry and
huckleberry bushes, and companies of the Indian boys and girls
were gathering the berries which were just beginning to ripen,
giving us a good idea of what the place must have been like
before the coming of the white man.

>From this place we followed a path along the shores of a stretch
of water known as "Billington sea." It is a lovely lake, that
had been blocked off from the ocean by a great terminal moraine
until "Town Brook set it free." There is a legend current here,
that a man who brought little credit but much trouble to the
Pilgrims by his acts of wantonness, was said to have reported
the discovery of a new sea; therefore "Billington's sea." His
sons seemed to be chips of the old block and caused the
colonists no end of worry and trouble by their recklessness. One
of them wandered away and became lost, causing great concern
among the Pilgrims. He is said to have climbed up into a high
tree from which he located his home and also discovered this
body of water.

But no matter who the discoverer may have been, it was enough
for us to know that we were treading Billington's path along the
shore near the water's edge, linking the New Plymouth with that
of three hundred years ago.

Here in this seeming wilderness, wandering upon those old trails
that in many places are all but obliterated, or vanishing
altogether, for a short way among their tangles of undergrowth,
you may still glimpse the wooded region of three centuries ago,
through the perspective of the ideas and ideals of the present
day. "Here we still look back in loving remembrance to that
magical little vessel that fought her way across a cruel wintry
sea," bearing those brave souls, whose faith and courage have
left us in possession of lessons that are priceless.

Anyone who has been in England when the hedgerows are in bloom
can readily imagine how the homesick hearts of the pilgrims,
after that first terrible winter, fraught with sickness and
death, longed for these lovely flowers. The time of the
Mayflower's blossoming has long been past, but in fancy our
thoughts go back to that early spring when the first bluebird
winged his way to Burial Hill, calling up memories of the
English robin, which this harbinger of spring resembles. It was
the Pilgrims who called him the blue robin.

We love to think, too, of the joyful discovery that one of the
Pilgrims must have had, when he stooped to pluck that first
flower of spring whose aromatic fragrance was wafted to him by
the balmy south wind. Perhaps it was John Alders who first
discovered this lovely flower while the bluebird warbled his
message of love and spring from a budding alder. No doubt he
carried it in triumph to Priscilla as a token of friendship.

Looking out over the land or the lovely bay that spread before
them, the Pilgrims, in spite of their toil and hardships, found
heart to send word to their friends in England that it was a
"fayere lande and bountiful." "So in the darkest times there
came days of brightness when all nature seemed to rejoice, and
the woods and fields were filled with gladness." When the time
came for the sailing of the Mayflower, not a person of all that
little band was willing to go back to the land they had left.
Longfellow has given us a picture of the departure in his
"Courtship of Miles Standish."

     O strong hearts and true! Not one went back in the May
     Flower!
     No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to this
     ploughing!
     Long in silence they watched the receding sail of the
     vessel,
     Much endeared to them all, as something living and
     human;
     Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in a
     vision prophetic
     Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of Plymouth
     Said, "Let us pray!" and they prayed,
     And thanked the Lord and took courage.


But let us return to the first trail of the Pilgrims that leads
to Burial Hill. "Here above the enterprise of the modern town
rises this hill, bearing the very presence of its founders,"
where you forget for a time the lure of the woods and sea as you
reverently pause to read the inscriptions on the mossy
headstones. The oldest marked grave is that of Governor
Bradford. It is an obelisk a little more than eight feet in
height. On the north side is a Hebrew sentence said to signify,
Jehovah is our help. Under this stone rests the ashes of William
Bradford, a zealous Puritan and sincere Christian; Governor of
Plymouth Colony from April, 1621, to 1657 (the year he died,
aged 69), except five years which he declined. "Qua patres
difficillime adepti sunt, nolite turpiter relinquare." Which
means, What our fathers with so much difficulty secured, do not
basely relinquish."

Then we see the monument of his son, an Indian fighter. The
epitaph reads like this:

Here lies the body of ye honorable Major Wm. Bradford, who
expired Feb. ye 20th 1703-4, aged 79 years.

     He lived long but still was doing good
     And in this country's service lost much blood;
     After a life well spent he's now at rest,
     His very name and memory is blest.


Another monument you will see is that of John Howland. The
inscription is this: Here ended the Pilgrimage of John Howland
who died February 23, 1672-23 aged 80 years. He married
Elizabeth, daughter of John Tilly, who came with him in the
Mayflower, Dec. 1620. From them are descended numerous
posterity.

"He was a goodly man, and an ancient professor in the ways of
Christ. He was one of the first comers into this land and was
the last man that was left of those that came over in the ship
called the May Flower that lived in Plymouth."--Plymouth
Records.

Here in the town you may see the Howland house still standing
firm upon its foundations, although built in 1667. It has a
large Dutch chimney of red brick. The roof is sharp pitched.
Here too still stands the Harlow house, which was built in the
Old Manse style in 1671. The oak timbers were said to have been
taken from the frame of the first Pilgrim fort and common house
which stood on a hill back of the town. How like their
characters were the works of those early Pilgrims, relics of
those bygone days when character-building and home-making were
considered essentials.

Then we thought of that other grave that was recently made in
the new cemetery; where the body of Chester Howland reposes. He
was only one of the many loyal sons of the 26th Division who
braved the cruel ocean in 1917 carrying the principles handed
down from their Pilgrim forefathers to lands beyond the waves.
They seized the golden sword of knighthood--an old inheritance
from their worthy sires--and with what valor they wielded it,
the rows of white crosses in a foreign land attest. Its hilt for
them was set with rarest gems. "A mother's love or sweetheart's
fond goodbye." A grateful nation saw fit to bring their remains
back to their native land. They merit beautiful monuments, but
memory of their noble deeds of valor and sacrifice will be all
the monument they need, and by the light of Freedom's blazing
torch the world shall read their epitaph written by the hand of
Time.

     How fine again it is to stand
     Where they in Freedom's soil are laid,
     And from their ashes may be made
     The May Flowers of their native land.

     At many hearths the fires burn dim,
     The vacant chairs are closer drawn
     Where weary hearts draw nearer them
     And softly whisper, "they are gone."

     The low-hung clouds in pity sent,
     Their floral tributes from the skies,
     And sobbing winds their voices lent
     To stifled sobs and bitter sighs.

     In spotless beauty their myriads lay,
     Upon Freedom's flag like frozen tears
     Or petals of the flowers of May,
     In perfumed softness on their bier.

     Oh, may they not have died in vain,
     Those gallant youths of Freedom's land,
     They sought not any earthly gain
     And perished that the right might stand.


The death of the following is depicted in "Dr. Le Baron and his
Daughters." "In memory of seventy-two seamen who perished in
Plymouth harbor on the 26 and 27 days of December, 1778, on
board the private armed Brig. Gen. Arnold, of twenty guns, James
Magee of Boston, Commander, sixty of whom were buried on this
spot."

     "Oh falsely flattering were yon billows smooth
     When forth elated sailed in evil hour
     That vessel whose disastrous fate, when told,
     Filled every breast with sorrow and each eye with
     piteos tear."

One of the seamen is said to have been the lover of Miss Hannah
Howland, which probably explains why she has this epitaph on her
monument: "To the memory of Miss Hannah Howland, who died of a
languishment January ye 25th, 1780."

The grave of the Elder Faunce, to whom we are indebted for the
history of Plymouth Rock and for its preservation, is here.
There are numerous other inscriptions quaint yet significant.
Here you will find the oldest Masonic stone in the country.
There is a design at the top, a skeleton whose right elbow rests
upon a tomb, the right hand grasping a scythe. Upon the tomb is
an hour glass, and on this are crossbones. At the left of the
skeleton is a flaming urn; at the base of which is a rose tree
bearing buds and flowers. Near the tomb is a skull leaning
against a dead shrub.

"Here lies buried the body of Mr. Nath Jackson who died July ye
14th, 1743, in ye 79th year of his age."

With the Baltimore oriole piping his cheery recitative in the
top of an elm; chickadees uttering their minor strains, and
mourning doves soothing our ears with their meditative cooing,
we left the sacred spot, to visit Plymouth Rock. We loved to
listen to the purling undertones of Town Brook and wondered what
its liquid music might not tell, if we could interpret its
story. Shakespeare was right when he said we could find sermons
in stones, and here if we read aright is a sermon that made the
Old World monarchs tremble. And still to us it tells of that
mighty force that brought it here in the dim past--to be the
corner stone of our republic. Its ringing text is still sounding
from shore to shore.

"Tradition has kept the memory of the rock on which the Pilgrims
first set foot, and which lay on the foot of the hill. It has
become an historic spot, to which the name Forefathers' Rock has
been given. No other in America possesses such hallowed
associations or has so often been celebrated in song and story."

"Here," said De Toqueville, "is a stone which the feet of a few
outcasts pressed for an instant, and the stone became famous. It
is treasured by a nation. Its very dust is shared as a relic.
And what has become of the gateways of a thousand palaces? Who
cares for them?"

Tradition also says that Mary Chilton and John Allen were the
first to leap upon this rock, as we read in the lines to Mary
Chilton--

     "The first on Plymouth Rock to leap!
     Among the timid flock she stood,
     Rare figure, near the May Flower's prow,
     With heart of Christian fortitude,
     And light heroic on her brow."


But whoever was the first to step upon this stone, that act we
now cherish as the first one toward the founding of a nation,
and as typical of the heroism and daring of its founders. "And
such it will stand for all time as one of the grand stepping-
stones of history."

We wander once more along Town Brook listening to its soothing
voice as the evening shadows begin to gather upon it. The sun,
like an orb of fire, is sinking in a vast sea of gold through
which a few fleecy clouds of a delicate rose color are slowly
drifting. The shadowy forms of the night-hawk are plainly seen
as they sweep the heavens for their evening meal of insects. We
catch their eerie cries that fall from the rosy depths of the
waning sunset to the darkening glades around us, and we hear the
breeze softly sighing as it caresses the myriad leaves of the
forest. The water of the brook grows dim in the deepening
shadows. It is the sweetest hour of the day, and as this song of
peace floats out over the twilight woods it calls to holy
thoughts. It is as if one heard the Angelus of a distant
village.

On returning to Plymouth Rock hotel we were impressed with the
crowded streets, for from far and near people had gathered to
witness the Tercentenary of the Landing of the Pilgrims. In the
gray half light of the evening we saw a majestic elm whose
gigantic size told of an earlier time. It may not be so, yet we
loved to think that the white settlers' cabins rose around it by
the seashore. Perhaps the earliest of the Pilgrim fathers heard
the first prayers on American soil uttered from beneath its now
aged boughs. It probably saw the surrounding forest disappear
and with it, the Indian villages, and now looks down on the
thriving historic town of the white man. The youths of several
generations have frolicked beneath its beneficent branches.
Armies have marched by it. The soldiers of Plymouth may have
passed it on their way to the harbor where they stepped on
Plymouth Rock before embarking on that perilous journey in 1917;
and here it is still standing a silent orator of golden deeds in
a land of noble trees. In it one sees far more than so many feet
of lumber to calculate. Its gleaming crest in autumn speaks
eloquently of priceless deeds of valor and that distant time of
the golden dawn of Freedom.

Right proper it was that a nation saw fit to meet here, to do
honor to the memory of those free and nobleminded souls who
braved the dangers of the mighty Atlantic. Long, severe winters
were endured when they had but a scanty amount of food and faced
unknown dangers from hostile Indian foes. Uncomplainingly did
they endure all of these, rather than submit to tyranny and
oppression. Heroic characters they were, with their strong
principles and high ideals, to found a great nation. What an
epic story of splendid achievement, heroic deeds, and noble
sacrifice those Pilgrim Fathers have chronicled upon the
illustrious pages of our country's history!

The time is July in place of December, the month in which the
Pilgrims arrived. In many respects the place of that first
landing has been greatly altered. The waterfront contains rough
wharves and is lined with storehouses and factories. Plymouth
Rock itself will rest beneath a beautiful granite canopy and
seems an incredible distance from the sea, and one wonders how
they managed to bridge such a distance to get to shore. Yet if
you rely somewhat upon your imagination, you may visualize the
place in all its rugged impressiveness, much the same as when
the Pilgrims beheld it. Nature seems quickly to obliterate the
footprints of man, especially along the sea, and you may wander
along Plymouth beach in the weird twilight and listen to the
sullen boom of the breakers on the cliff, and see and hear as
did they.

The sea has beaten for centuries against the great boulders, yet
the stones have been but slightly changed. The coast is still
"rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun," and the great granite
boulders gleam white in the level rays of the descending sun,
looking like great emeralds as the silvery crests of the
breakers fall upon them.

The evening sky was thickly overcast with clouds as we made our
way down to the shore. The wind blew the dark cloud masses out
to sea, and as we watched the surf curried by the rocks into
foam and heard the wind moaning and wailing among the tossing
branches of the trees on shore, we seemed to catch the spirit of
that time as if "it had been that Friday night, three centuries
before, when the shallop of the Pilgrims came by this very place
lashed by the tempestuous sea, their mast broken in three pieces
and their sail lost in the dusky welter of the angry surf."

The sky became darker, and more menacing appeared the waves as
the time drew near for the pageant to begin. A kind of weird
twilight reigned o'er land and sea. No light was visible save
that from the beacon-tower, which sent a fitful gleam o'er the
angry waves; all else was dark, primal, spectral, as was that
eventful night which these present-day pilgrims were now
gathered to commemorate. The gale dashed salt spray and
raindrops spitefully into our faces, yet it dampened neither our
spirits nor those of the performers.

A large stadium capable of accommodating forty thousand people
had been erected near the seashore behind a field of action or
immense stage four hundred feet wide and with a depth of four
hundred and fifty feet. This stage had to be illuminated from a
distance of over one hundred and fifty feet, requiring for the
pageant over three hundred kilowatts power, enough electrical
energy to operate thirteen thousand ordinary house lights, and
by far the largest installation for this purpose that has been
used in this country.

Suddenly, from a canopied rock, was heard a rich, powerful voice
speaking to the American people of the changes and vicissitudes
that the rock has witnessed since "far primordial ages." Fit
prologue it was from the "corner-stone of the Republic."

Out of the shadowy night from where is heard the mysterious
voice of the rock thirty Indians, bearing ten canoes on their
shoulders, move silently toward the shore. Suddenly one of the
Indians perceives a strange object to the left on the harbor.
Terror seizes them all, and they vanish like larger among lesser
shadows. Nine more Indians appear bearing three boats but,
seeing the phantom, fear fell upon them and they dropped to the
shore, covering themselves with their canoes. From the right
appears a Norse galley, the armor-clad warriors and their leader
Thorwald making a fine picture as they disembark, carrying their
shields, spears, and battle axes. As the men draw near they see
the three canoes, and Thorwald forms three groups from his
company, who approach rapidly toward them. The approach so
frightens the Indians under two of the canoes that they rise up
and attempt to flee; whereupon the warriors after some fierce
fighting, kill them with their javelins.

The third boat is removed and reveals three Indians too
terrified to move. One escapes and one is captured; another,
feigning death, creeps slowly and painfully to the left, where
his every gesture reveals the agonies of a mortally wounded
warrior. The canoes are taken and borne aloft, on the shoulders
of the majestic Vikings, trophies of a foreign land and
victorious conflict.

No sooner do they pass on board the ship than a watcher in the
prow warns the rest of impending danger; for, swiftly and warily
approaching; the infuriated red men seem to be planning revenge
in a surprise attack. Like a wall of flashing steel the shields
go up around the deck while the gangplank is quickly drawn in.
Suddenly a shower of arrows fly toward the wall of shields,
hitting them with a thud but seemingly doing no harm. Presently
they flee in haste, thinking perhaps these are gods who cannot
be harmed. Slowly the shields are lowered and Thorwald is shown
to be in great distress. One sees he is in a death swoon, yet,
he raises an arm and points toward the Gurnet, then reels and
falls into the arms of his stalwart men. Once more that steel
wall goes up, and the mysterious strangers with their curious
ship move out on the sea, bearing their leader's body held high
on locked shields.

Next appear three men having an English flag with the words
"Martin Pring-Patuxet--1603."

Here on the shore, with a band of men dressed in the costumes of
those early days, appears a right merry group of men listening
to one of their number who is playing on a gittern. As if
enamored of the melody the Indians gather around the musician.
One, who by his gesticulations, tells in actions more plainly
than words that he wishes to dance, offers this modern Orpheus a
peace-pipe. Others present various gifts until the English youth
steps out among them. They form a circle about him and try to
keep time to the music.

Suddenly a member who drops out receives a beating. Fiercer and
swifter becomes the dance until in the height of the wildest
part a number of dogs spring forward on their leashes, so
frightening the savages that they flee in terror. The player
seems to be amused yet startled at the incident and goes toward
the Indians laughing. Behind a French flag the lights reveal
three sailors. On the flag we see written: "Sieur De Champlain--
July 19, 1605."

As the lights shift, two Indians appear bearing a great number
of codfish which are being examined by Champlain and his men.
The Indians show the hooks and lines with which they catch these
fish. Noting some growing corn, Champlain tries to learn about
the strange plant. The Indians by signs show him that corn may
be raised and used as food. He barters for food and fish. Having
acquired a great variety of provender they move toward the shore
as the lights fade.

Next appear three men dressed in the Dutch mariner's uniform of
the time. The flag they carry bears the inscription: "Admiral
Blok--1614."

A crowd of Dutchmen appear to be enjoying the evening. They are
watching a band of Indians who are dancing. One cannot tell
which they are enjoying most, the long-stemmed pipes they are
smoking or the weird dances of the redmen, whom they loudly
applaud.

Following this scene is the tableau of Captain John Smith in the
spring of 1614. Behind this group are seen three English sailors
holding a flag upon which is written "John Smith--Accomack--
1614."

Down by the water where streaks of foam top the dark waves and
the forms of two men loom dark and spectral, a boat is riding at
anchor. While the boulders beat the surf into white foam and the
branches of the elms wail and toss in the night wind, Smith and
four of his men are trading with the Indians; others of his men
are on guard against any treachery, while two of the men are
placing the skins which they have bought into hogsheads. There
are thirty or forty Indians when the bartering is at its height,
and Smith is seen making a bargain with an Indian for a bale of
beaver.

One of Smith's men, who notices a very fine skin an Indian is
wearing, lifts it to show it to Smith. The Indian resents this
act, and there seems to be resentment and fear among all the red
men. The Englishmen stiffen to attention, but Smith, who feared
neither man nor devil, goes among the Indians carrying a copper
kettle and a gorgeous blanket. He held out his blanket
persuasively and added several strings of beads. Then he draped
the blanket on himself. The Indian at last reluctantly yields
and takes off the skin, a beautiful black fox. The lights closed
in around a group of Indians decked in their new robes.

Our attention is turned toward the shore once more where three
English sailors hold a flag bearing the words: "Thomas Hunt--
Patuxet--1615." Hunt enters stealthily at the right, and his
attention is concentrated upon a spot where his trained eye has
caught, a glimpse of something of greater interest than bird or
fish. He is evidently scouting. Then appear at his signal a band
of men moving in single file, who hide behind the bushes. Hunt
too, as if hearing something, hides himself. Silently a shadowy
procession moves from Town Brook, carrying pelts and fishing
apparatus. A canoe is borne on the shoulders of two of them.
They put the canoe down and all gather in a group to prepare for
the day's fishing.

All unconscious of danger, they lay their weapons aside. Hunt
rises and signals to his men, who quickly fall upon the Indians
as they try to flee. Several stagger across the field fatally
wounded, while most of the men are captured and bound. After
they gag the Indians they force them toward the water's edge
where a boat is waiting. As the group disappears, or is seen as
a band of faint shadows, the despairing figure of Tisquantum,
bound and struggling, is brought into relief.

There is darkness for a brief time then, as the lights come
slowly on, they reveal an absolutely empty space where before
were seen activity and plenty. The music for this scene,
composed by Henry F. Gilbert, was of a character at once weird,
awe-inspiring, almost magical, portraying by tone as plainly as
by words the scene of desolation, sickness and death. It seemed
as if there were an increasing sense of indefinite fear--a deep
impression of solemnity and gravity, as if we were conscious of
contact with the eternities.

A change as unusual as it was unwholesome came upon the ocean.
"As the lights touched the water a purple glow that was to it
like the ashen hue that beclouds the face of the dying. A filmy
green spread over the land and there seemed to arise a miasmatic
vapor like the breath of a brooding pestilence, which clung
clammily to the earth and dulled all life." Every one felt the
presence of trouble impending; one grave question breathed forth
from the haunting music and, unspoken, trembled on every lip;
one overmastering idea blended with and overpowered all others.
"The land and sea were both sick, stagnant, and foul, and there
seemed to arise from their unfathomable depths, drawn by the
weird power of the music, horrid shapes that glared steadily
into the strange twilight they had arisen to."

"Such a morbific, unwholesome condition" cast upon land and sea,
and music that seemed to breathe forth such despair and
desolation, could not but deeply move the audience.

One breathes more freely when the light falls upon a group of
ten Englishmen, who appear in single file at the right. Thomas
Dermer seems engaged in a very spirited conversation with
Samoset, an Indian, while Tisquantum, another Indian, follows
and seems absorbed in his own thoughts. While Dermer is engaged
in conversation, a group of sailors pass near the water's edge,
where they drop their burdens. They gaze out on the water as if
looking for a boat. Tisquantum goes past Dermer and Samoset and
stands looking off across the harbor, deep in gloomy thought.

>From out there, as darkness closes about the lonely figure on
the shore, there is borne to our ears by the night wind the
distant sound of voices chanting early sixteenth century music.
The music continues while the various characters appear, and
finally grows fainter until it can no longer be heard. A young
boy appears on the left as if on his way to his morning labor.
He is driving a horse that is hitched to a crude plow. There
enters from the right a group of seven men and five women, who
wear the costumes of religious pilgrims. They have the staff,
the script, and the water bottle. Two of the number have been to
Rome, for they wear the palm; two others show that they have
been to Compostella, for they wear the shell; while two others
have the bottle and bell, proving that they have been to
Canterbury.

The next scene represented the Fleet Prison on the night of
April 5, 1593. Two heaps of straw are seen, on which a man in
Puritan garb is seated, writing rapidly. By the other heap sits
a man on a stool, who is correcting some written pages. Both men
wear chains. A woman stands by the second man with some papers.
She seems to be waiting for the other sheets which the man is
writing. As he passes the last to her she hides them all in the
bosom of her dress.

The next scene represents the Opposition, 7603. The lights are
suddenly turned, on revealing a flurry of children and young
people across the field, from left to right, and the sound of
gay music from the point toward which the children are running.
The field fills rapidly with some hundreds of people--men, women
and children, of all types and kinds. From the right to the
triumphant march, King James enters in royal progress.

Space forbids us to relate the various scenes portrayed upon
this wonderfully well-illuminated field. No one who witnessed
this wonderful production can ever forget the solemn
impressiveness of its closing scenes. A voice is heard coming
from the rock, "As one candle may light a thousand, so the
lights here kindled have shone to many, yea! in some sort, to
our whole nation."

As Bradford gazes out in the distance, the lights now
penetrating more deeply reveal in turn, George Washington and
Abraham Lincoln. The clear voice of Washington repeats these
significant words: "The basis of our political system is the
right of the people to make and to alter their constitution of
the government." Then the deep, calm voice of Lincoln is heard
to say: "Government of the people, for the people, and by the
people, shall not perish from the earth."

As Lincoln finishes speaking, two men in modern dress come
toward the rock, looking seaward.

The first speaker:

     "This was the port of entry of our Freedom.
     Men brought it in a box of alabaster
     And broke the box and spilled it to the West,
     Here on the granite wharf prepared for them.

Second speaker:

     "And so we have it."

Firstspeaker:

     "Have it to achieve;
     We have it as they had it in their day,
     A little in the grasp--more to achieve."

Then we hear these significant words:

     "I wonder what the Pilgrims if they came
     Would say to us, as Freemen? Is our freedom
     Their freedom as they left it to our keeping,
     Or would they know their own in modern guise?


Across the back of the field to the grand triumphal strains of
martial music pass the flags of the allies, so lighted that they
show brilliantly. Nearer move the French and British flags, and
then all wave and beckon. There follows a hush. Suddenly from
far out on the Mayflower a bugle calls in the darkness and light
begins to glow on the vessel, but very faintly.

Then again the voice from the Rock is heard: "The path of the
Mayflower must be forever free." Forty-eight young women bear
the state flags. The pageant ground is now ablaze with lights,
and as the wonderful chorus that has carried you on its mighty
tide of harmony dies away; the field darkens until there is only
light on the Mayflower.

Again the voice from the Rock fills the place with deep sonorous
tones, like celestial music, as we listen to these fitting
words: "With malice toward none and charity for all it is for us
to resolve that this nation under God shall have a new birth of
freedom."

What is there in Europe, or the whole world, in the way of
pageants that can compare with this? When we consider its
import, viewed in the full, bright light of the rising sun of
Liberty; wafted by the delicate electric threads of this busy
commercial world which are silently conveying with a certain
majesty of movement its significance, we may well say that this
celebrated one of the most eventful deeds of man since time
began.

"As we go back to that shadowy and evanescent period when
history and culture of ancient Chaldea unroll before us, with
the overpowering greatness of Assyria followed by the swift rise
and fall of Babylon, let us try and extract some truths in
regard to the growth of Civilization. Even though nations rise
and fall, and races come and go, has not human development been
ever upward and onward?"

Let us then look forward to the dawning of a better day. Let us
cherish those high ideals of liberty our fore-fathers so dearly
bought. Let us put on the strong armor of the Word of God which
was to them a shield and a buckler and move forward with firm,
steadfast hope toward a brighter dawn of Freedom, that shall
exceed that of the present as the light which gleamed from the
Mayflower exceeded in brilliancy that of the Old World.

Watching the lights slowly fade on the Mayflower we thought how
the Pilgrims had stood on the icy deck of the vessel, with the
winds blowing through the masts overhead and the waves roaring
about the black hull beneath, while they sang hymns of praise
for deliverance from the dangers of the sea.

     And the heavy night hung dark
     The hills and waters o'er,
     When a band of exiles moored their bark
     On the wild New England shore.

     Not as the conqueror comes,
     They, the true hearted came;
     Not with the roll of the stirring drams,
     Or the trumpet that sings of fame.

     Not as the flying come,
     In silence and in fear,
     They shook the depths of the desert gloom
     With their hymns of lofty cheer.

     Amidst the storm they sang,
     And the stars heard and the sea;
     And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
     To the anthem of the free.

--Felicia Henaans.



CHAPTER XII

LAKE CHAMPLAIN

     How richly glows the water's breast,
     Before us tinged with evening's hues,
     When facing thus the crimson west,
     The boat her silent course pursues,
     And see how dark the backward stream,
     A little moment past so smiling!
     And still perhaps some faithless gleam,
     Some other loiterer beguiling.

     Such views the youthful bard allure,
     But heedless of the following gloom,
     He dreams their colors shall endure
     Till peace go with him to the tomb.
     And let him nurse his fond deceit;
     And what if he must die in sorrow
     Who would not cherish dreams so sweet;
     Though grief and pain may come tomorrow.

--Wordsworth.


The ancients believed that the alchemists could create rose
blooms out of their ashes. We are prone to believe it for, at
the close of a fair New England day we have seen the Master
Alchemist, the sun, beneath his spacious workshop of July skies,
transmuting the gray mists and vapors into sunset's glow; and
lo! we had the blooming roses there. He melted his many
ingredients with the falling dew and distilled from them the
gold with which he burnished the western sky, making it glow
like a glassy sea. Seizing upon some more potent fluid, he threw
it among the fleecy clouds, kindling them all along the horizon
until they shone like a vast lake of flame; then taking his
magic wand, he waved it over the glowing mass and crimson
changed to rosy pink, pink to glowing purple; forming those
royal gates through which the magician passed behind the distant
foothills of the Adirondacks.

During such a pageant of splendor as this o'er head, did we
first behold the placid waters of Lake Champlain.

Far away beyond the Vermont shore rose the Green mountains
behind their misty veils of purplish-blue. High above the lower
undulations loomed the forest crowned ridges, gloriously colored
and radiant, forming a mysterious yet fitting background for the
exquisite picture before us. The nearer hills from their tops
and extending far down their sides were covered with evergreens;
below them a purple belt of deciduous trees and bright green
meadows made a vivid contrast; while the nearer valley was
filled with clumps of trees, fields of grain and crimson clover.

Before us lay the tranquil lake flecked with islands, which
looked like floating gardens of green on a purple mirror. Near
us a wooden bridge led across a shallow cove passing between
myriads of pickerel weed whose light purple spathes formed a
striking mass of color. Beneath it long, slender patches of
silvery blue rushes made magic hedges, so symmetrical as to seem
clipped by the hand of art. So ethereal in their loveliness were
they, we could account for their presence in no other way than
being woven by the genii of the lake out of the purple bloom
that surrounded it.

It was a royal path fit for any of the nobility of earth to
journey upon. The air was so clear and transparent and the
surface of the lake so calm that a boat with some fishermen
appeared to be drifting in mid-air among a "veiled shower of
shadowy roses." The flight of a kingfisher was revealed in the
lake below as distinctly as in the sky above. A great blue-
heron, making one think of a French soldier at attention, was
silently awaiting a green-coated Boche to make his appearance
over the top of his lily-pad dugout. The stillness was so
pronounced it seemed as if all Nature held her breath while
super-powers of both lake and mountain wrought their miracles.

It must have been such a scene as this which Tennyson portrayed
in his "Lotus-Eaters:"

     There is sweet music here that softer falls
     Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
     Or night-dews on still waters between walls
     Of shadowy granite in a gleaming pass;
     Music that gentler on the spirit lies
     Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes,
     Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful
     skies
     Here are cool mosses deep,
     And through the moss the ivies creep,
     And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
     And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.


Another heaven arched below us in which the Green mountains
joined their bases with still others that seemed like fairy
creations floating upon the water. An ideal remoteness and
perfection were thrown o'er the landscape by the crystalline
atmosphere. Mountains, fields, woods and lake all made "ethereal
pictures" in the mild evening light. Above in the blue dome,
Nature hung her finely woven drapery of rose-colored clouds,
whose glory was repeated by the unfathomable lake, seemingly as
deep as the blue dome it reflected. Its hues were not those of
earth, but were borrowed from heaven with which the poem of
evening was written on the twilight sky, for the delight of all
mankind.

Such scenes as this naturally call for comparisons, but having
seen but one that will in any measure compare with it, we shall
try to recall an evening on the Mediterranean.

The afternoon had been spent on the island of St. Marguerite, a
short distance off the coast of Nice. Here we visited the old
tower where Marshal Bazaine got over the stone wall, the cell in
which the prisoner of the Iron Mask resided, and the old Spanish
well dating from the eleventh century. How delicious it was--the
rest, the quiet, the box-scented breeze, the sheen of the sunset
on the dark blue waves! The very atmosphere breathed of romance.
The sinking sun was gilding the distant peaks of the Alps,
causing them to grow radiant with rosy splendor, as we pushed
out from the island in our sail-boat. The place was remarkably
still. Only the nightingale broke into song among the fragrant
bushes by the frowning prison. All else was silent, save the
silvery plash of the oars that broke the surface of the water in
measured and rythmical strokes.

Rising from the edge of the glorious Bay of the Angels at Nice,
domes, palaces and casino, all steeped in those deep, delicious
hues, appeared like some vast work of art. As we drew nearer the
whole scene opened to us in all its marvelous beauty. We floated
slowly o'er the deep blue water which so perfectly mirrored a
few pearly clouds that we seemed to be drifting above rather
than beneath them. Then the little boats with their orange-
colored sails made the place more romantic still. Just in front
of us lay the dome-shaped casino, whose windows glowed like rare
jewels; all along the shore magnificent hotels of white stone
with red tile roofs looked from among their royal palms; while
numberless villas, rising one above another with their orange
trees, vines and flowers, made a picture of rare beauty. Higher
still the rich green, brown and gray of the mountains rose,
until they blended with the serene and airy hues of the snow-
clad Alps.

Fair as this scene was, it yet lacked that irresistible and
magic charm that we beheld in Lake Champlain. It was the most
divinely placid and clear sheet of water we ever beheld; one of
Nature's famous works of art, that perchance come to one only
once in a lifetime. As we gazed in admiration and wonder at
those ethereal hues that seem unrealized in Nature, we said,
"Here is beauty enough, not for one evening, but for all future
evenings of our lifetime." It was a vast mirror that carried in
its bosom heaven itself, reflecting the Master Artist's most
rare designs.

A boat came round a point of land with three fishermen in it.
One of the occupants was heard to exclaim "I am fifty cents to
the good, old man Grump, for remember, on each black bass caught
we had a nickel up. Whoopee! Say, d'ye see that darned big bass
I would have got if the line would of held him? Oh, man! My
heart stopped throbbing and I felt it in my throat and had ter
swaller it fore I could breathe again. Such luck as that would
of made a preacher go wrong."

His companions began talking now, telling how if something or
other hadn't interfered they would have made their record catch;
which has been the tale of woe of all hunters and fishers from
Esau's time on down.

"Been a most ungodly hot day. My old hide is blistered all
over."

"Serves you right, old dill pickle. If you had got your just
dues for robbing me of that pike I'll be switched you'd be burnt
to a cinder."

Such was the general trend of the conversation. As the boat
disappeared round a jutting point of land, one of the number was
heard to exclaim:

"Gee, but I got a peachy bunch of black bass. Golly, we'll have
to hurry or it'll be dark fore we git to camp."

Thus they drifted over the waters far out to where the huge
purple rocks made soft outlines with wild, mysterious
impressiveness. They may have been expert fishermen, but it is
to be feared not real anglers; although they took a fine string
of black bass, they caught but few of the glorious reflections
and little of the unearthly beauty of the lake. Heaven had come
down to earth for them and "beauty pervaded the atmosphere like
a Presence." Think of fishing amid scenes like this! One wonders
if there will be fishing in Paradise.

What glorious vistas those waters opened up to all, stretching
away to those purple haunting distances, where may be had a
fleeting glimpse of things which are eternal and the perceiving
ear may catch strains of long remembered melodies ("those songs
without words") which only the finest souls may know. Yet here
were three men who, in their modern Ago, were returning from
their search of the golden fleece. Jason, Hercules and Theseus
could have experienced no greater joy in object won, than these
three "heroes" of the lake returning in the resin-scented
twilight with their long-sought prize of bass! A nickel up on
each black bass and not one red cent on the placid lake and the
radiant sky! Columbus, when he viewed from afar the fronded
palms of the Indies, could not have been more enraptured than
the one with fifty cents to the good.

Looking out over the lake and then at the wonderful grouping of
the elms, birches, vines and sedge along the shore that stood
hushed and expectant, as the glory slowly faded from the sky, we
said, "had this place a voice, how full of hope and calm
serenity it would be!"

Near us a boat grated softly on the pebbly bottom of a cove and
swung in. From the deep purple shadow of the wooded shore, out
over the lake a thin white veil was slowly creeping as if the
purple bloom had faded to silvery whiteness. It seemed not
unlike the breath of the sleeping water, and the spirit of the
silent lake.

Suddenly a melody that seemed as serene as the mountains and as
pure as the lake broke the silence; far up on a wooded ridge a
thrush was chanting his evening hymn to the Creator. It was as
if the soul of the quiet lake spoke to us; the spirit that
haunts high mountains, clear lakes, shadowy forests, and all
that is pure and beautiful in life; its hopes, longings and
faith were voiced in that mellow "angelus" of the forest.

We would love to see the twilight linger, but all things must
end, and we pursued our way down the winding shore road, already
gray with the coming night. Before we said good-night the mister
said, "I wonder what eternity will be like?" His comrade spoke
with a clearness of speech, declaring a truth that no one could
doubt: "Eternity is here and now, and this is our first glimpse
into paradise."

Long after retiring the words of George Herbert came and went
through memory:

     "Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright
     The bridal of the earth and sky,
     The dews shall weep thy fall tonight;
     For thou must die.

     Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
     Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;
     Thy root is ever in the grave
     And thou must die.

     Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses;
     A box where sweets compacted lie;
     My music shows you have your closes
     And all must die.

     Only a great and virtuous soul,
     Like seasoned timber, never gives;
     But, though the whole world turns to coal
     Then chiefly lives."


CHAPTER XIII

THE ADIRONDACKS

Whoever passes through the Green mountains and arrives at
Burlington in the evening of a fair day will he rewarded by one
of the most beautiful views of natural scenery the world has to
offer. The outlook from the hilltop here is enchanting. Looking
westward you see the beautiful expanse of Lake Champlain, dotted
with numerous islands that stretch away to the purple wall of
the Adirondacks, whose summits are outlined by a bright golden
light which slowly ascends and diffuses along the horizon as if
striving to linger around the loveliness below. The sun
disappears, leaving an ocean of flame where he passes, and the
fleecy clouds which swim in the ether look down at their images
in the lake. Here you behold the Green mountains, showing
majestically against the sky. They are clothed in soft blue
veils, as lovely as any that Italian mountains can boast. The
highest peaks of the range, Mount Mansfield and Camel's Hump,
thrust their outlines like purple silhouettes against their
glowing background.

William Dean Howells, standing with a friend on the shore of the
Bay of Naples, remarked that he considered one scene in the
world more beautiful than that upon which they were gazing--Lake
Champlain and the Adirondacks, as seen from Burlington.

Morning came bright and clear; a cool breeze waved the clinging
foliage of birch and elm, rippling the lake near the shore and
tossing the waves far out on its bosom, which gleamed white
along their crests. This was the real Lake Champlain, for it is
a very turbulent mass of water and rarely presents a picture of
such calm and quiet beauty as we beheld on the preceding
evening. Numerous islands, "each fair enough to have keen the
Garden of Eden," seen through the level rays of the morning sun,
formed a glorious veil of color. Dark green arbor vitae trees
grew near their edges; nearer still the elm and willows flung
down their lighter masses of foliage to the water, and birch
gleamed silvery white against their shadowy background.

"After the French had built Fort Saint Anne on Isle la Motte a
party of men went out in search of game. They crossed the lake
in a southwesterly direction and were surprised by a band of
Mohawk Indians, who took some of the white men prisoners, and
killed Captain de Traversy and Sieur de Chasy." The place where
they were killed has since been known as Chasy's landing. We
crossed a long causeway, which led to the landing, where we took
the ferry across to Chasy. The first auto on the boat was from
Massachusetts, followed by "another Nash" from New Hampshire;
then Ohio filled the middle space of the boat, and was followed
by a horse and buggy; as neither bore a license, we could not
tell the state from which they came. The distance to Chasy was
about one mile, and we were soon on our way to Plattsburg.

Fields of ripening wheat, oats, alfalfa and buckwheat, all
divided by stone fences into squares and triangles, began to
appear. Meadows in which Holstein cattle were grazing dotted the
low ranges of foothills that spread away until lost in blue
distance.

Between the Adirondack mountains in New York state and the Green
mountains of Vermont on the shore of Lake Champlain, in the
heart of Champlain valley, lies the historic town of Plattsburg.
It is noted in recent years as the home of the "Plattsburg
Idea," the movement for universal military training inaugurated
by Major General Leonard Wood, through the establishment at
Plattsburg in the summer of 1915 of the first summer camp of
military instruction for the regular army. It was noon when we
arrived here, and we found that quite a few had adopted the
idea, for a long line of hungry khaki-clad men were awaiting
their turn at the mess hall.

The first battle of Lake Champlain occurred near here as early
as 1609, when Samuel de Champlain, with two other white men, led
the Algonquins and Hurons in an attack upon their enemies, the
Mohawks. A British and American naval engagement, October 11,
1776, resulted in victory for the British. September 11, 1814,
the last naval battle between English speaking peoples was
fought here, known as the Battle of Plattsburg Bay.

Eight miles south of Plattsburg is located the Alaskan silver
fox farm, which is the largest in the United States. This farm
comprises forty acres and contains one hundred silver foxes. It
is open to visitors from July to September.

The road leading to this farm passes through one of most
picturesque of all the Adirondack regions. As we made our way
across the beautiful Ausable valley we beheld an enchanting
scene spread out around us. Green meadows sloped up to wooded
heights and fields of grain like golden lakes flashed in the
sunlight. The hills became more rugged as we wound our way among
them. Farmers were loading hay in the meadows, through which
streams glistened as they slipped over their sinuous stone-
strewn bottoms. Groups of cattle stood knee-deep in the meadow
brooks, or rested beneath the shade of elms and willows. In the
center of the picture, disclosing its bends and reaches, Ausable
river flowed on its way to Lake Champlain. In places its waters
were almost hidden by grape vines that clambered and twisted
around bush and tree, forming "Laocoon groups" in which they
were hopelessly intertwined.

Far beyond the valley sharp summits and irregular ridges printed
their bold outlines on the sky. Nearer were farms, groves, and
hills, with now and then a placid lake which caught the color of
the sky and mirrored it back to us. But our eyes were fastened
upon the grand summits and pinnacles that rose dreamy and silent
through the summer haze, beckoning us on to those enchanted
realms we were soon to behold. Old White Face reared his
colossal pyramid above the woods and waved his dull white banner
from afar. Soon we entered higher hills, where giant maples
threw their cooling shadows across the road and a faint breeze
made the balsam boughs breathe and sigh. The road became more
sinuous and the hills more grand and imposing. Over the notched
summits of the clustered peaks the outlines of thunder heads,
luminous and edged with gold, appeared through the blue haze.

At length a broad summit rising against another one still
taller, broke suddenly above the foliage where the amber colored
falls of Ausable river saluted us. We were in the midst of one
of the finest pieces of natural scenery in the eastern United
States. We were only fifteen miles from Lake Champlain, but what
a change! Here in Ausable chasm we beheld one of the many
natural wonders of the Adirondack region. The Ausable river at
this point flows through a tortuous channel two miles in length.
A rustic walk with many bridges and stairways has been built
along the chasm, passing all the wild beauty spots in the gorge.
The silvery babble of water passing over rocks, mingled with the
gurgling liquid notes of the woodthrush.

The sides of the canyon in places were vast streets of ferns,
moss and vines, which resembled cataracts of varying shades of
green or great pieces of hanging tapestry inwrought with rare
designs of woodland flowers. We could stay in so romantic a spot
many days, for in a short time we had seen paintings; read
poems, heard the silvery tongues of running brooks, and ringing
texts from the sermons in stone. We only tarried long enough to
pass up the gorge and view Rainbow falls, which drop seventy
feet to the rock below. To the opposite bank from this we made
our way and were amply repaid by a commanding view of the
tumbling waters. The rays of the sun falling upon this sheet of
water produced an exquisite effect. Here from the thick-growing
shrubbery as we watched the amber waters concentrate for their
fall, and break into silken streamers of irised spray, we knew
they had been appropriately named "Rainbow Falls."

We recalled many a cascade among the Alps, where from remote
heights the small avalanches of snowy water form comet-like
streamers of rarest beauty. We saw again the shimmering rainbow
mist of others more remote, whose murmurs died away in the
gloomy depth of some Italian forest.

Soon we were gazing at distant peaks that had such a savage
aspect as to again call forth comparisons. Balsam fir, pine,
hemlock, maple, birch, and beech were the principal forest
trees. Lakes gleamed like silver mirrors in the lap of wild
rugged hills that stretched far away. We saw huge rocks that had
fallen from above as if shattered in the original upheaval of
the range, presenting sharp, forcible outlines and rugged facets
of shadow so striking in comparison with the flowing outlines of
the Catskills or Blue Ridge. The road wound back and forth as it
climbed the stony wilderness and soon unfolded to our view a
picture of utter desolation. We had just emerged from a stretch
of road lined as far as the eye could see on either side with
ash, hemlock, birch, beech, and balsam fir. Here we rested among
cool shadows, where beautifully fronded ferns rose all about.
Weary pedestrians had fallen asleep beneath their cooling
shadows and groups of boy scouts pitched their tents along this
highway.

Our eyes fell upon a sign that read like this: "A careless
smoker caused the fire that destroyed thousands of acres of
these forests. You love the forests. Help keep them green by
being careful about your fires." Looking forward we beheld a
vast and awful scene of desolation. Miles and miles on either
side of the road stretched that sea of blackened stumps and
charred logs where once the evergreens rose heavenward with all
their wealth of whispering leaves. Blackened stubs rose all
around as if they were huge exclamation points or pointing
fingers of accusation at the carelessness and thoughtlessness of
one individual.

Carelessness! How that word rang in our ears as we journeyed
through this lonely region, with all its grandeur and beauty
gone! Here we realized the kindly and beneficent influence of
streams and trees upon mountain scenery. True, mountains may be
grand without forests, but it is the grandeur of death we behold
in the vast untrodden fields of the show-clad Alps. Forests and
streams give life, fragrance, and beauty to those rough forms as
a pure soul adds beauty to the countenance of man. Only heated
waves of air rose from the fiery rocks and road around us, whose
shimmering lines made a fit perspective to such a scene. No
mossy rock where one could sit and listen to the singing birds;
no ancient trees through which the fragrant west wind could sing
its songs of rest and contentment; no purifying river where it
was once so pleasant for man to linger before going back to the
heat and smoke of the city; all because of one man's
carelessness. How much of sorrow and crime is in that word; what
failures, what wrecks of humanity stranded along the steep
precipice of that mountain.

Who would even want to climb those blackened summits? The
elevation would only make the view more terrible. The thousands
of travellers who pass this way were all affected by these
unsightly monuments to one man's carelessness, proving that "Man
liveth not to himself alone."

As we emerged from that scene of heat and desolation, a prayer
trembled upon every lip and its only theme was, "Lord, help us
to be careful."

What an awful spectacle that vast stretch of burning forest must
have presented! We shall quote from Headley, who witnessed such
a scene in these mountains: "One night the whole mountain was
wrapped in a fiery mantle, a mighty bosom of fire from which
rose waving columns and lofty turrets of flame. Trees a hundred
feet high and five and six and eight feet in circumference, were
on fire from the root to the top. Vast pyramids of flame, now
surging in eddies of air that caught them, now bending as if
about to yield the struggle, then lifting superior to the foe
and dying, martyr-like, in the vast furnace. Shorn of their
glory, their flashing, trembling forms stood crisping and
writhing in the blaze till, weary of their long suffering, they
threw themselves with a sudden and hurried sweep on the funeral
pile around. From the noble pine to the bending sprout, the
trees were aflame, while the crackling underbrush seemed a fiery
network cast over the prostrate forms of the monarchs of the
forest. When the fire caught a dry stump, it ran up the huge
trunk like a serpent, and coiling around the withered branches,
shot out its fiery tongue as if in mad joy over the raging
element below; while ever and anon came a crash that
reverberated far away in the gorges--the crash of falling trees,
at the overthrow of which there went up a cloud of sparks and
cinders and ashes. Sweeping along its terrible path, the tramp
of that conflagration filled the air with an uproar like the
bursting of billows on a rocky shore."

Across a narrow valley gigantic boulders seemed to have
accumulated and formed masses that appeared to be slowly
creeping downward. Farther away we beheld the serrated mountains
breaking into the wildest confusion of pinnacles, which rose
above the forest and relieved their masses of vivid green tints
like ruined castles along the Rhine, clothing them with an
atmosphere of age. Far up as the eye could reach, the broken
rocks were piled in huge chaos. "Here as your eye sweeps over
these fragments of a former earthquake, your imagination recalls
that remote period when the mountains were split like lightning-
riven oaks, and the great peaks swayed like trees in a blast and
the roar of a thousand storms rolled away from the yawning gulf,
into which precipices and forests went down with a deafening
crash as of a falling world."

The rugged sides of mountains often gave us views on almost as
grand a scale as that of the Alps. Only there, height above
height, rise those rocky ramparts where snowy cascades leap
hundreds of feet, then leap again where those chaotic and
fantastic rocks and immeasurable sweep of terraced hills stretch
away like another world. You will ever remember the Gorge du
Loup with its seven-arched viaduct and stream of vivid green and
the white foam that pours between its piers. On the road which
leads from Nice to the town of Grasse, where are located the
famous perfumeries, you will pass orange orchards, flower farms,
and charming meadows with patches of wild broom lying iii vast
sheets of gold. The dark gray rocks are filled with pits and
holes, and when viewed from a distance resemble the homes of the
cliff dwellers. The views here are frowning and awesome.

As you near the Gorge du Loup you will see Gourdon perched far,
far up on its rocky throne, whose gray, weatherbeaten buildings
give to this wild scenery an infinite charm. You are sure that
you never can reach this far-distant town, but are agreeably
surprised when you gaze at the vastness of the gray, sterile
mountain sides you have left. Far below you the terraced
vineyards rise in emerald waves against their silvery background
of century-old olives.

Yet we have experienced almost as strong emotions of vagueness,
terror, sublimity, strength, and beauty while gazing upon the
vast panorama of groups and clusters of chaotic peaks that
stretch away in almost endless variety of form in confused and
disorderly arrangement. Here almost interminable forests are
only interrupted with beautiful lakes that now and then peep
from their hiding places in vast expanse of forest-crowned
wilderness. But here is beauty as well as grandeur. "Those three-
 months European travelers who hurry through our lowlands by
steam and perhaps take a night boat up the Hudson, Lake
Champlain, or St. Lawrence and presume to belittle our natural
scenery, are not the most reliable persons in the world."

Let them go to the summit of Mount Marcy on a clear day and look
out over the magnificent panorama spread out before them, and
they will not say we have no natural scenery worth viewing in
the Atlantic States from Canada to New Orleans, except Niagara
and Burlington. Here in every direction countless summits pierce
the sky, and the unnumbered miles of forests that clothe with
green garments the ridges and slopes of this vast wilderness,
who can ever forget them? How wonderful are these wild and
rugged scenes, still fresh from the hand of God! Call us idle
triflers if you will, but we shall ever try to read the messages
from these stone pages from the book of God, where all day long
the breezes whisper messages fuller of meaning than any lines
from the hand of man.

But to return to the view from the mountain peak, glorious,
indeed, is the scene spread out below you from Mount Marcy. How
unlike the Alps is the prospect you obtain from its summit.
True, you will see no snow-capped peaks and shining glaciers,
but what a chaos of gray and green mountains extend as far as
the eye can reach.

One writer gives this vivid description of the scene that meets
the enraptured gaze of the traveler here: "It looked as if the
Almighty had once set this vast earth rolling like the sea; and
then, in the midst of its maddest flow, bid all the gigantic
billows stop and congeal in their places, and there they stood,
just as He froze them grand and gloomy. There was the long
swell, and there the cresting, bursting billow--and there, too,
the deep, black, cavernous gulf." Those in our country who think
only the Alps and Apennines can inspire awe and veneration
should force their way through thick fir, dwarf evergreen and
deep moss to the top of Mount Marcy, where it pushes its rocky
forehead high into the heavens. Here in these beautiful wild
regions you will find lakes over whose waters you may glide in a
canoe, whose forest-clad shores seem never to have been marred
by the axe of civilization. Here as the sun sinks to repose amid
these purple mountains, and the last rays of light on their
waters seem like sheets of fluid gold, and the lonely cry of the
loon breaks the solitude, you too will feel that you do not need
to go to Europe for natural mountain beauty when such glorious
scenes lie spread out before you.

We shall never forget our first impression of Lake Colder,
perfectly embosomed among the gigantic mountains which rise it
all their wild and savage grandeur around it. What absolute
freedom and absence of conventional forms are found here by him
who loves Nature as God made it.

Toward Canada stretches the vast expanse of Lake Champlain with
its numerous islands, while along the eastern horizon the
distant Green mountains lift their granite summits, at whose
bases the charming city of Burlington lies dreamily silent
beneath its smoky veil. Far away to the north and west repose
many lakes. Some lie dark and silent beneath the shadows of
their guarding mountains, others reflect the shy above in
silvery blue sheen as if to cheer this vast and lonely solitude.
How your thoughts reach out toward the Infinite as the wondrous
vision unrolls before you! This interminable mass of different
shades of green and gray presents one of the most beautiful
scenes your eye ever gazed upon.

No wonder Christ gave to the world his glorious lessons from a
mountain top; in which he urged the disciples to be worthy
examples to their fellow men. Up in these everlasting hills,
where He has manifested His wonderful power and left a symbol of
His omnipotence, we can draw nearer the Creator than elsewhere.
How puny, how insignificant seems man and all his works out here
in these unbounded solitudes! "I will lift up mine eyes to the
hills from whence cometh my help," chants the psalmist.
Wandering among these glorious hills that rise above the distant
horizon, or stretch away in endless majesty from you, as your
heart swells over the thrilling scene, you too shall feel the
presence of a great and mighty power, and realize in part what
the psalmist meant.

We passed through the town of Schroon Lake, situated along a
picturesque sheet of water bearing the same name, which lies to
the west of Kayaderrossera range. It has been compared by some
to Lake Como. On one side a bold mountain rears its green wall,
while the shores slope down to it as if eager to behold their
lovely forms in its crystal water. In places it is very narrow
and its windings seem more like a great river than a lake. It is
fed by Schroon river, along which are Schroon falls. Numerous
tents peeped from their guarding trees along its banks. How we
rejoiced in the refreshing shade of the forests and vistas,
revealing this "gleaming pearl set in emeralds," as some one has
appropriately called it. Its water is very pure and cold, and
fishermen will find ample compensation for all the time they
spend here, even though few fish are caught. Its crystal waters
are dotted with green islands.

The name Schroon was given this lake by the early French
settlers at Crown Point in honor of Madam Scarron, the widow of
a celebrated French dramatist and novelist, Paul Scarron. Along
the margin of this lake we saw a Sunday-school teacher who had
brought his class of boys for an outing. What lessons these
growing lads will imbibe from the beauty of Nature around them.
How can they help but think of the Creator when they dwell so
near the primal source of life. The crystal waters of the lake
will teach them purity, the leaves of the trees will rustle
messages of self-denial, and the majestic mountains will speak
to them of endurance and courage, a religion which dwells in
Nature until they, "like Moses, will see in the bushes the
radiant Deity and know they are treading on holy ground."

Wonderfully rich in lakes is this charming mountain region. No
other country is blessed with greater numbers of lovely lakes
than North America. Lake Placid, Echo, Loon, and a host of
others were encircled by green hills with sturdy evergreens,
graceful elms and scattered tents that framed them pleasantly.

Here amidst such sylvan beauty, where the air is rife with the
fragrance of birch and balsam, as you gaze at the Adirondacks
that lift their startling cliffs into the air, or farther along
the horizon stand bathed in a radiant glow, while a gold tangle
of sunset glitters among the white birch trees or casts a soft
sheen like the tints on a mourning dove's neck--pray tell me,
have you ever seen anything fairer than your own placid lakes?

On such evenings as these your thoughts will become as serene as
the lake and ripple now and then with a thousand vague, sweet
visions like its placid surface when dimpled by the leap of a
trout.

Morning here brings scenes almost as fair. Singing brooks flash
like silver across green valleys, the rays of the sun fall upon
the yellow and white birch boles that look mellow and rich as
"pillars of amber and gleaming pearl." The rocky ledges are
covered with lichens, ferns and mosses; myriads of campanula
look blue-eyed towards a bluer sky; and out over the lake white-
bellied swallows write poems of grace and beauty on the air. The
frescoes of dawn touch the tips of the eastern ranges whose
stern gray summits break into rosy flame.

We climbed to the summit of a towering mountain and a glorious
prospect met our view. Looking out over the billows of verdure
that seemed to be rolling down the mountains, we saw Lake
Placid, with its green islands, like a lovely painting in the
quiet morning light. Far as the eye can reach the forest-crowned
mountains stretched, now surging into summits, now sinking into
valleys, holding in their embrace the lovely Saranac lakes that
gleamed like the flashing of distant shields. Far beyond to the
south like a glittering mirror lay Tupper's lake, while farther
away the pointed pinnacles of the Adirondacks thrust themselves
boldly into the sky. Looking northward we beheld a lovely
cultivated region with meadows and grain fields. We also caught
sight of several towns, and glimpses of dark forests between the
billowy folds of other ranges, that melted into the sky. Like a
narrow band of light, Lake Champlain was just visible, while the
faint summits of the Green mountains with their misty veils
seemed like far, thin shadows.



CHAPTER XIV

LONG LAKE, LAKE GEORGE, AND SARATOGA

Long Lake is one of the most charming of any found in the
Adirondacks. Its islands are lovely beyond words to describe. No
artist, not even Turner, has ever caught the magic sheen that
clothes it, nor portrayed the rosy clouds the crimson west has
painted, that seem to hang motionless above it. Neither has
anyone caught those ethereal blues or royal purples that the
soft semi-light of evening makes upon its bosom where the darker
mountains seem to be floating.

But this lake requires not the aid of morning or evening to make
it fair. When the rays of the sun sprinkle the trees along its
sides like golden rain, or while stirred with darkening ripples
beneath a clouded sky, it is clothed in grandest beauty.

But if it were indeed possible for any lake to be fairer than
this, surely Lake George is that one. No wonder artists flock to
its shores, for what picturesque combinations of cove and cliff
they find there! Then, too, what lovely reaches, what mountain
views, what rich and varied combinations of forest with
retreating slopes bathed in the tender purple of distance!

The valleys were covered with a silvery, shimmering atmosphere,
on which we traced the outlines of meadows, forests, and lakes,
like the first sketching of an artist picture that ere long,
under our good genius the automobile, would grow into reality.
The road that wound among forest crowned hills was one of the
most pleasant we remember. The air was filled with silvery haze,
which made distance mysterious; and grain fields and the nearer
hills, touched with the rarest delicacy of tone and softly
blended color, were dreamy and full of suggestion of Indian
summer. Through the trees we beheld a fine sheet of water and
presently emerged upon a grand view of the lake. It has fine
boat landings, even though set in rugged hills, which in places
tower above it, while over its surface are countless scattered
isles of romantic beauty. It has a wild, primeval character,
which no association of man upon its banks can quite dispel. One
almost fancies he sees the rising smoke from the teepees of the
fierce Mohawks or hears their ringing warwhoops amid the wild
scenery.

This lake is thirty-two miles in length and has been the scene
of many thrilling historic events. West of the railroad station,
near Lake George village, are the ruins of ancient forts, and
there also stands the monument erected in 1903 to commemorate
the battle of Lake George, in which General Johnson, with his
army of twenty-two hundred, defeated the French, under Baron
Diesken. The lake offers excellent fishing. Trout, salmon,
pickerel and perch abound in great numbers. Bolton road, known
as "Millionaires' Row," begins at the village of Lake George and
continues along the west shore as far as Bolton landing.
Beautiful views of the surrounding country may be had along this
route.

At sunset, as we made our way along the shore, the wonderful
beauty of the scene became more evident. Out over the lake,
studded with numerous isles, a rosy glow began to gather, the
high hills along its shores were rosy purple, "some were a
mingling of stiff spruce and pine in shadow," while others wore
a lighter green and the lush grass near this shore was golden
green when struck by the rays of the declining sun. The swift
lights and shades stole over the distant peaks like color on
velvet.

In the waning light that tinged the west with lucent gold the
lake made a wonderful picture. It wore on its blue a silver
sheen, in which we beheld a few cloud paintings; and along the
shore it mirrored the graceful birch and elm. At length the
clouds in the zenith blushed into rose; mingled colors of
sapphire, emerald, topaz, and amethyst glinted on the lake. Over
this lovely expanse an eagle sailed in majestic flight, turning
his head from side to side as if enamored of the fair scene
beneath him. Later we beheld only a vast expanse of imperial
purple with its dark mountains and green islands.

Soon a few stars appeared in the sky, where the dark points and
ridges rose against it like airy battlements. In the east the
moon looked down on the lake and made a path of gold on its
placid surface. In the distance a boat, a fairy shallop, glided
noiselessly out across the radiant water until we lost it among
the deep shadows of an island. Scarce a ripple on the surface of
the lake or a fluttering leaf disturbed the peaceful scene. As
we made our way to the automobile which carried us back to the
village of Lake George we said, "What moonlight scene or sunset
hues have we ever beheld on the Tyrol that could rival this?"

"Saratoga lies in an angle formed by a long valley whose beauty,
aside from its historical associations, is fair enough to stop
whole armies of tourists as they come and go through this lovely
region. The old Indian War Trail was indeed the pathway of
armies, and the beautiful Hudson and Mohawk rivers here bore on
their waters many swift canoes filled with Algonquins and
French. The English marched and fought here from Hudson's time
and that of Samuel Champlain until the close of the
revolutionary period. This fair land, with its green, velvety
meadows, peaceful, fruitful valleys, and broad, majestic streams
has indeed been rightly named 'the dark and bloody ground.'

"The Five Nations built lodges on the shores of the lake near
Saratoga, and here it was that the French and Indians came down
from Quebec and Montreal to meet them. In 1690 the French and
Indians bivouacked at these springs as they descended to the
cruel massacre of Schenectady. The French, urged by Frontenac,
came down the valley in 1693 and destroyed the village of the
Mohawks and started on their return with the prisoners they had
taken. Here one thousand hostile warriors threw up intrenchments
on the exact place where the gay streets of Saratoga now stand.
They retreated in a storm after the English sustained three
furious assaults.

In 1743 there occurred a terrible massacre at Old Saratoga. All
of the houses in the village were burned to the ground and only
one or two of the inhabitants escaped to tell the tale. For
seven years the French and Indian war raged through the valley,
proving its importance as a northern gateway. The rattle of
arms, the tread of soldiers, the hurrying of street boys were
heard in town from morning till night. Indians in war-paint and
feathers joined each side, burning with the hate of over a
hundred years. Garrets were ransacked for great-grandfather's
swords, rusted with the blood of King Philip's war. French
officers in gold lace, trappers in doeskin, priests in their
black robes, soldiers in the white uniform of the French king,
gathered on the banks of the St. Lawrence. English grenadiers in
red coats, Scotch Highlanders in plaids and colonial troops in
homespun rallied from all the frontiers; and again this great
gateway knew the horrors of a long, devastating, and bloody war.

"In 1767 Sir William Johnson, who had suffered for years from a
wound received in his hip in the war with the Indians, was told
of the Great Medicine Waters. The Indians seemed to know of
their location many years previous to this, for they were the
ones who told Johnson about their great healing qualities. He
was carried on stretchers to this mysterious spring. The waters
proved so beneficial that he was able to return over the
'carrying place' on foot. The waters he drank were said to have
been taken from High Rock spring of Saratoga Springs."

The city contains many spacious, imposing hotels and fine tree-
bordered streets, which at once suggest that Saratoga was the
one time "Queen of Spas." But if the people no longer come here
in such great numbers, Nature still reigns over the place, and
it possesses that quiet and repose which make it an ideal place
in which to spend a vacation. Here are wonderful old elms whose
branches intermingle to form a canopy over the streets. So
gracefully do their drooping sprays of green descend that we
could think of nothing with which to compare them save emerald
fountains. These old trees are more stately, more graceful than
those at Versailles. Beautiful villas, public halls and handsome
churches are scattered about the city. Viewed from the
surrounding hills, the buildings seem to nestle in a leafy
wilderness. The annual horseraces held here still draw large
crowds, but as a summer resort Saratoga, like Trenton Falls, has
seen its day.

It is not Old Saratoga that contains the most interest for the
traveler, but the region around Schuylerville. Here the green
carpet covers all the hills, whose smooth, velvety appearance
adds greatly to the beauty of the country.

The day of our arrival at Saratoga was extremely sultry, and
heavy masses of clouds darkened the sky. Soon bursting peals of
thunder told us that the warrior clouds were bringing their
heavy artillery into action. This storm passed around us,
however, and we hastened to the site of the beautiful monument
commemorating the decisive victory of the Revolution. It stands
on the site of Burgoyne's fortified camp, overlooking the place
of his surrender. The height of this monument is one hundred and
fifty-four feet, its base is forty feet square, and it contains
one hundred and eighty-four steps, which lead up to the last
windows, which command an enchanting view of from ten to thirty
miles in all directions.

The country all around is full of very picturesque, scenic
surprises, and the lordly Hudson winding among its hills of
vernal loveliness is not the least of them. Your attention is
quickly recalled from the dead past, whether you like it or not,
to the living present. From this place you will see and hear
things which no historian can ever record; paragraphs of the
life history of the palpitant beauty and pulsing song of
existence. The true lover of Nature will find no greater delight
than to linger here to drink in the beauty of the place as his
eyes rove over the vast expanse of gently undulating hills that
melt away in the blue haze. The river flowing through masses of
verdue, the towering trees that climb the surrounding heights
and skirt the pastoral landscapes, afford constant evidence of
the natural wealth and beauty of this historic region.

Standing here, gazing out over the beautiful scene, we recalled
our visit to the famous battlegrounds of Waterloo.

It was on a lovely June day that we left the Belgium capital,
turning again and again to look at the wonderful Palace of
Justice which dominates this city, as the capitol does at
Washington.

The country around the field of Waterloo is very level, hardly
relieved by an undulation, and dotted at intervals with a few
trees that heighten the loneliness of the scene rather than
relieve it. Here we became aware that we were gazing at one of
the finest sites that man has ever known for the purpose of
mutual destruction. We readily saw that this level region gave
ample room for both infantry and cavalry, where the many
thousands of human beings were brought together in deadly
collision. It was apparently designed by Nature to feed the
hungry toilers of earth, but "was consecrated by man for a
solemn spectacle of deliberate slaughter."

How often this fertile country was made the battleground of
surrounding nations! Here it was we felt that indomitable spirit
that rose above every oppression forced upon its people,
stopping the hordes of invading armies.

We ascended the hill that flanked the right wing of the position
of the English where the fight was hottest. From this eminence
we looked down on vast cultivated fields with acres of waving
barley and verdant meadows in which fine Holstein cattle were
grazing. This hill is composed of soil dug from Mount St. Jean
to cover the bones of the slain of both armies. This conical
tumulus contains upon its summit, set in a spacious and lofty
pedestal, a huge bronze lion cast from the cannon taken in
battle.

As we stood on its top the scene unrolled before us like a
wonderful panoramic painting, and we gazed out on this "great
chessboard, where the last hard game of Napoleon's and
Wellington's protracted match was played."

Here where all Nature seemed to breathe of peace and joy it
seemed difficult to believe that at that very season, one
hundred and four years ago, on this spot was fought one of the
memorable battles of the world. Here, after participating in the
activities of a world war, how like a dream it seemed to be
gazing down upon this fertile plain. The larks were soaring in
the blue above, uttering the same sweet notes that charmed the
poet, Shelley, while we gazed out upon the fair scene toward La
Belle Alliance and La Haye Sainte. Nearer our eyes rested upon
the place that formed the key to the English position, where
they successfully resisted, throughout the day of the eighteenth
of June, the hottest assaults of the enemy. Then we beheld the
high road to Namur which passed through the center of the lovely
picture "as if inviting us to look upon the road Napoleon took
to make his escape when in the agony of his heart he exclaimed
'Sauve qui peut!' and fled from the field."

Near La Belle Alliance is a monument to the memory of the German
legion. Corning down from the tumulus we made our way past
fields of barley and paused to pluck a few cornflowers and
poppies, and over all the blue sky like an angel of peace the
skylark was still flooding the blue dome with melodies which for
us can never die.

But we have been straying somewhat from Saratoga. The view we
had from the monument reminded us a little of that to be
obtained from the plateau of the citadel of Namur where we
beheld the Sambre, the Meuse, and the forest of Ardennes. The
valley of the Meuse through which we passed on our way to Liege,
though wild, varied and secluded, full of unexpected turns and
scenic surprises, has no more charm than Saratoga.

We were greatly impressed with the tablet presented in memory of
the women of 1776 by the Daughters of the American Revolution.
It represents one woman busy with spinning while another is
making bullets at a fireplace. These noble and brave women
deserve much credit for helping to win our independence, for
while their husbands and sons fought they gathered in the crops,
melted into bullets their treasured pewter ware, learned to
shoot, bar their homes against Indians and conceal themselves
from preying bands of Indians and Tories.

Before leaving the monument at Schuylerville we discovered that
the birds had chosen the monument as a place for their nests. On
General Gates' shoulder was a robin's nest, while another chose
the center of an officer's hat for her domicile. Looking into
the mouth of the twenty-four pounder presented by J. Watts de
Peyster to the monument association, we discovered a blue bird's
nest containing four eggs. This gun was at one time a part of
the armament of a British vessel. The vessel becoming disabled,
the gun was then mounted on wheels and placed on a bluff at
Ticonderoga, where it was captured by the Americans. Right glad
we were that the place knows no harsher sound than the soft,
melodious warble of the bluebird and cherry carol of the robin.
We thought how glorious the time when all monuments may be not
merely grim reminders of war, but give shelter to the "color-
bearer of the Spring Brigade."

Most admirable plans had been made by the British for a very
brilliant campaign, but their success depended, like so many
other things, in the ability of the British to work them.

Burgoyne, three thousand miles away, received his orders while
in England. Howe did not receive his until the 16th of August,
when he was entering Chesapeake Bay. "Burgoyne was already being
defeated at Bennington while Howe was reading his dispatch and
learning for the first time that he was expected to cooperate
with Burgoyne."

King George said, "any means of discouraging the Americans will
meet with my approval." So the scalping knife and tomahawk were
associated with English arms.

Burgoyne had seven thousand picked troops, three thousand of
whom were Germans in the pay of the British Army. This army was
divided into three corps; Frazer, Riedesel and Phillips were
their officers. "The excellent discipline, spirit and equipment
of his army led Burgoyne to do and dare anything."
Overconfidence in war as elsewhere usually proves disastrous.
Burgoyne is reported to have said, "The enemy will probably
fight at Ticonderoga. Of course I will beat them, then we will
have a nice little promenade of eight days down to Albany." But
the trip toward Albany turned out to be anything but a promenade
and the British soldiers failed to see the nice part of it.

General Schuyler, on hearing that Burgoyne was on the march,
seized all the firearms he could and hurried to his camp.
Schuyler was superseded by General Gates. We learn that he was
not on the line when the great fighting occurred, but that he
was a very conspicuous character in "the final wind up." He
reminds one of those ministers who are intensely interested in
the welfare of the souls of those of their members who happen to
have an exceptionally fine strawberry patch.

But let us turn our attention for a brief time to some of
Saratoga's deserving heroes. It was at Bennington that John
Stark pointed toward the redoubt of the enemy and exclaimed,
"There, my lads, are the Hessians! Tonight our flag floats over
yonder hill or Molly Stark is a widow." With New England
yeomanry rudely equipped with pouches, powder horns and armed
with old brown firelocks he stormed the trenches of the best
trained soldiers of Europe and won a glorious victory. At
Oriskany, Herkimer, in an unlooked-for battle, won undying fame,
although most of his gallant little band were slaughtered.
Schuyler sent Arnold with Larned's brigade to retrieve
Herkimer's disaster, which he did in an admirable manner.
Gansevoort held the fort against St. Leger, but his situation
was growing desperate, when one day without apparent cause the
enemy fled in haste, leaving camps, baggage and artillery. This
inglorious flight was brought about by a half-wined fellow, who
wandered into the enemy's camp and on being asked how many men
were coming, pointed to the leaves on the trees, thus
frightening the Indians and British into a hasty retreat.

It is singular that the fiercest fighting of Saratoga occurred
on a farm hearing the significant name of Freeman. The ground
around the old well was covered with bodies of dead soldiers
after the battle. The British held persistently the position at
the farm they gained in a line to the east on the bank of the
river, where they built three redoubts on three hills.

"The fortified camp of the Americans lay about one and one-half
miles below, in a parallel line, from the British. Here within
bugle call from each other, for two weeks the hostile forces sat
upon the hill of Saratoga; frowning defiance at each other as
boys who are afraid to start a fight but persist in making faces
from back doors, or like cocks who stand immovable and try to
stare each other out of countenance, yet ready to open the
conflict with a moment's notice."

On October the 7th the British moved from their entrenchments in
battle array. Gates took up the gauntlet thus thrown down to him
and exclaimed: "Order out Morgan to begin the game."

It must have been a thrilling scene that fair October morning,
for autumn had wrought her oriental magic and far and near the
lovely forests were arrayed in chromatic harmony. The maples
were ablaze for miles, and so vivid seemed the flame of sumac
berries one almost expected to see smoke ascending on the
tranquil morning air. The scarlet banner of the woodbine
fluttered from many a tree like a bloody omen, the ash was clad
in purple robes, the elm and linden trees were like yellow
flames among the bright red fires of gum and dogwood. The purple
haze over all gave to the scene an air of mystery.

The stillness was intense. Only the chink of the bobolinks bound
for the plains of the Orinoco or the chonk, chonking of ground
squirrels broke the silence. This stillness must have been more
awful than any noise of battle could possibly be. Amid such
lovely and peaceful surroundings as this, Morgan dashed to the
fray and scattered Burgoyne's advance guard, then rushed on the
trained forces of Fraser and swept them from their position to
the left, which they had taken in advance.

"Fraser rallied his men and was forming a second line when he
fell, mortally wounded. The sharp whistle of Morgan once more
called his men into action, while Poor and Larned attacked the
center and right. The battle swayed back and forth through the
great ravine. Another charge from Morgan and the British
retreated to their entrenchments.

"At this moment the indignant Arnold, stung to madness by the
slights put upon him by Gates, dashed across the field. He
gathered the regulars under his leadership by enthusiasm,
bravery, and vehemence. He broke through the lines of
entrenchments at Freeman's farm. Repulsed for a moment, he
assailed the left and charged the strong redoubt of Breyman,
which flanked the British camp at the place now called
Burgoyne's Hill. The patriotic army, fired with new hope and
courage, crowded fearlessly up to the very mouths of the
belching guns of the redoubt and won the final victory of the
day; then, exhausted by the deadly fight, before they took
possession of the British camp, sullenly dropped down for a
rest.

"Silently and sullenly the defeated army withdrew from the works
of Freeman's farm and huddled closely together under the three
redoubts by the river. Here the women trembled over the drying
form of Fraser. In the cellar of the old Marshall House Madame
Riedesel, with her three little girls, found refuge from the
American bullets during the week preceding Burgoyne's surrender.
Here Surgeon Jones had his remaining leg shot away while the
other was being amputated. Eleven cannon balls passed through
the house. The splintered beams and other relics well preserved
are still shown. With slight alterations the house remains as at
the time of the surrender.

"The hospital stood with its overflowing of wounded and dead.
The great and princely army awaited in doubt and despair while
the commander hesitated and wavered in his plans. Should he risk
another engagement or retreat? He decided to retreat, and it
began as the Americans fired the guns for Fraser's funeral at
sunset. The blood-red sun sank behind the heights in which the
exultant and victorious American army lay. Heavy clouds
followed, and quickly after a drenching rain the army of the
British, abandoning their sick and wounded, began the retreat up
the river, Retracing their steps from Bemis Heights, the scene
of their disaster, they followed the river road to the Fishkill
and the Schuyler mansion, which they burned to the ground. It
was an illumination of their own defeat.

"Failing here to make an advancing stand against the Americans
they fell back, formed an entrenched camp and planted their
batteries along the heights of old Saratoga. In this camp they
still hoped to hold out until relief came up the Hudson from New
York. Here the pathos of the campaign culminated. The sick and
wounded took up refuge in cellars. Burgoyne was entrenched on
the hills with the river below, yet had no water to drink except
a cupful brought now and then by the British women. The gallant
Americans would not fire upon them. Burgoyne sent in the terms
of surrender near the site of the old Schuyler mansion so
recently burned. Here he laid down his arms and surrendered to
General Gates. Along the road just across the Fishkill the
disarmed prisoners were marched to the tune of 'Yankee Doodle,'
played first as a national air.

"When the last cannon was heard to die among to hills it was as
if the expiring note of British domination in America was
sounded. This victory decided the fate of that mighty empire. It
will stand unrivaled and alone, deriving lustre and perpetuity
in its singleness."

There was soon to he peace throughout the land and independence.
Again the golden grain would wave and the Hudson would be white
with the sails of ships from many seas.

We left Schuylerville under a gloomy sky that foreboded rain.
The clouds gathered thicker and thicker, and soon the rain was
descending in torrents. We took refuge in a kind of barn erected
for the purpose of sheltering horses during church services. We
did not know the denomination of the church that stood near this
shelter. We believed more strongly in a religion that is kind to
dumb animals and does not have them standing for hours in a
cruel storm while they shout "Glory to God." After the storm had
abated we started onward once more.


CHAPTER XV

NIAGARA

     "Flow on forever in thy glorious robe
     Of terror and of beauty; * * * God hath set
     His rainbow on thy forehead; and the cloud
     Mantles around thy feet."

--Mrs. Sigourney.


Niagara! What a wealth of memories come thronging to you as you
repeat the name! Some with visions of an emerald sea, filled
with the eternal roar and grandeur of many waters; others with
haunting melodies, quiet and tender as an Aeolian harp thrummed
by an unseen hand. What a poem of blended power and beauty was
here unfolded by Nature through countless centuries! Geological
grandeur such as one seldom sees elsewhere awaits you here;
splendor inconceivable is here wrought in ever varied and
powerful forms of beauty, giving rise to a sublimity of thought
and exuberance of feeling too powerful for words.

The awe felt in looking at this wild mass of raging water
humbles and overwhelms you; you feel the presence of a majesty
and grandeur in its onward sweep before unknown to you. When it
is dashed to gauzy, irised spray it seems as gentle as the
pearly mists of dawn, but its deep thunder-like detonations tell
of a mighty power. Beauty blended with the most awe-inspiring
sublimity is the order of passionate, impetuous Niagara.

The broad river takes the waters of the four lakes--Superior,
Huron, Michigan and Erie--to its turbulent bosom and bears them
about twenty-two miles from Lake Erie, where it becomes a raging
torrent and rushes in frenzied madness over the precipice
forming the incomparable falls. Then, before reaching Lake
Ontario, its water forgets its scourging and glides smoothly
again in its wider channel, presenting a picture of peace and
quietness in striking contrast to the surging tumult of the
noisy rapids above.

The country through which Niagara passes is comparatively level,
interspersed here and there with hills of "vernal loveliness."
Niagara seems to have only one all-absorbing interest. "Not many
features of the country through which it flows correspond in
that wildness and savage grandeur with which the falls are
clothed." The mahogany colored soil is devoted to vegetable and
fruit growing. In spring the well-cultivated trees, including
pear, plum, peach, and cherry, burst into a miracle of delicious
bloom, making patches of pink as vivid as a sunset sea or others
of pure white like snows new-fallen. Such scenes of pastoral
beauty enhance its wildness and surpassing grandeur.

The strange beauty of the ocean is comprehended long before one
reaches its shores. Mountain peaks are seen from afar, blending
imperceptibly with the horizon; at first only their faint
outlines are revealed as you gradually approach. You have,
perhaps, been looking for a rough country with great glacier-
sculptured walls or imposing rugged scenery on nearing the
falls. You do not suspect they are near and if you approach
Prospect Point in an automobile, you are in sight and sound of
them ere you are aware.

Here the vast panorama is presented to you. You are hardly
prepared for so much at once. One gentleman, on being asked what
effect the falls had upon his wife, replied: "She was struck
speechless." Whereupon the other gentleman said: "I shall bring
my wife tomorrow." Had Niagara this beneficent effect upon both
sexes who gaze upon it, one is almost certain that its number of
visitors instead of one million, would amount to many millions
annually, and "there would be more of heaven on earth, before it
is journeyed to."

Those who can see no beauty in Niagara (may the Lord pity such)
may still be rewarded by learning that this river is the
boundary between the United States and Canada and was therefore
the scene of many stirring conflicts between the Mother Country
and her young but plucky, wayward, willful child. Nearby, on the
Canadian side, are the battlefields of Chippewa, Lundy's Lane
and Queenstown Heights. On the steep bank of the river on the
top of a well-wooded height stands a graceful Doric shaft
erected by the British in memory of their commander, General
Brock, who fell on the battlefield of Queenstown Heights October
12, 1812. The monument has a lightning rod on it and on being
asked the reason for this a fellow traveler replied: "It is
because he has such striking features."

A trip to Niagara is not complete without a visit to the old
fort. How beautiful the tree bordered road leading from Niagara
along the river to its outlet at Lake Ontario! At first you
catch glimpses now and then through the tree and bush covered
banks of the river. The scenery along the river about half way
between Niagara and the lake consists of beautiful homes with
the orchards, vineyards and fields that stretch away over the
level valley.

As you approach Fort Niagara you will see the post's cemetery.
On the river between the cemetery and the fort is a lighthouse
and near it, under the walls of the old fort, a government life-
saving station. Entering the government ground the road winds
through a beautiful grove in which are located the officers'
homes. The barracks are adjacent to these and the road skirts
the parade grounds just beyond.

At right angles with the river and lake is located Fort Niagara.
This old fort is entered under an arched driveway, which may be
closed by two massive doors. Its walls are fourteen feet high
and four feet thick, built of stones that have been laid without
mortar. It has been remarkably well preserved. It was built by
the French approximately on the site occupied by LaSalle and
Denouville. It was taken by the British in 1789 and held by them
as a base of warfare against the American frontier during the
war of the Revolution. It was then occupied by the Americans.

You will be impressed with the old Lombardy poplars that were
planted by the French along the lake. Here they have stood,
buffeted by the winds of more than two centuries until they
resemble grim, sturdy warriors who have known many conflicts.
They stand near the water's edge, defiant still, like brave
soldiers unable to move farther, who have faced about to meet
the enemy. With their few scattered limbs still pointing upward,
they seem almost as old as the fort itself. Nature was kind and
had clothed their few aged limbs with bright green leaves, which
will retain their tints almost as long as any deciduous trees.

But why recall these tales of bygone days when the British and
the Americans were engaged in these terrible struggles? Let us
go back to the falls where a voice at once grand and awesome
speaks of a day so old we have no record, save the geological
hieroglyphics; those vast manuscripts written on the tables of
rocks by the hand of Time.

On going to Niagara for the first time, one fears that his
impression will not be great, for has he not heard from
childhood, that name reiterated a thousand times until it has
lost much of its glamour? Then, too, has he not seen pictures of
Niagara in his geography and heard his older brothers tell about
it until its grandeur seems, from what he had at first pictured
in fancy, to lose much of its significance? "But like sunsets,
mountains, lakes and some people he may know, who are still
strikingly beautiful though common, he will find a significance
in the real Niagara like these."

You will perhaps be advised not to follow the beaten trail and
rush to Prospect Point, but save the best portion of the trip
for the last. Through the park to Goat Island bridge you go in
eager anticipation to learn whether your fancy had pictured with
accurateness the real scene. From this massive stone structure
you gaze up the river and behold the so-called American rapids.
Here the view awes one into silence. Even the "Isn't it lovely?"
and "oh, how wonderful!" types of people can scarcely say more
than "Niagara!" Strange, too, it is that one seldom hears the
word "scrumptious." Perhaps the people have chosen the adjective
we heard a German use, who on being asked how he enjoyed the
view from the bridge replied, "Bully."

America should be justly proud that one of her great natural
wonders has views like this. You gaze enraptured at the
swishing, swirling, lapping mass of water above you, that falls
from a series of terrace-like cascades. As it draws nearer, you
are impressed by the glorious display of the wild, raging waters
around you. How slowly you walk across the bridge, still noting
the turbulent mass of water rushing past with amazing velocity
and grand display of power.

Directly in front of the bridge you will see a vast flat rock
over whose polished surface the water comes tumbling in a great
fan-shaped mass, which is as grand as anything at Niagara. The
waters loom up at this point like some majestic living creature
who is marshaling his forces for the final plunge after they
have been scourged and seem impatient and glad to escape. To
gaze down at this place, one seems to be near some "vast and
awful Presence." The writhing, seething waters seem always
advancing, yet never arrive; hurrying to escape but never are
gone; halting against stones still ever are moving; seeming
changeless across the flood of years.

Your companions who have contracted that strange disease, not
"Hookworm," but "Americanitis," tell you it is exceedingly
beautiful here, but you must hurry on as your time is limited.
One wonders if a certain time was set for the sculpturing of
Niagara. Slowly you move on, turning away reluctantly from a
scene so fair; pausing again to look at the beautiful elms and
willows that grow so near the edge of the stream, their drooping
branches almost touching the wild swirling waters, as if trying
to get a fleeting glimpse of their own beauty.

On one of the small islands you catch a glint of metallic blue
and you see a kingfisher alight on the limb of a dead pine tree
that hangs over the water. He is gazing so intently at the swift
rushing waters below him that you almost fancy he is attracted
by the view. Suddenly he darts from his perch and, holds himself
poised in mid-air until he sights a fish. He drops like a
plummet and disappears. He quickly reappears and flies to a near-
 by rock with a fish, where he beats it to pieces and devours it.

You forget about going so slowly until some one admonishes you
that the rest of your party are treading the various paths of
Goat Island. You hurry now and are soon among your friends.

What a beauty spot is this group of islands and islets! It is
only half a mile long and contains but seventy acres. But where
in all this universe does one's fancy take such long aerial
flights or the mind become conscious of such grandeur and power?
You seem to wander in fairyland where the wild throng of many
voiced waters are telling aloud, "Nature's industry to create
beauty and usefulness." Lower and sweeter the voices, too, are
rising like musical incense to the Creator, pouring out their
passionate songs which tell of joy and enthusiasm in silvery
cataracts of melody, pitched in a higher key, yet not unlike
Niagara. You hear the cardinal's rich flute-like song of "What,
what cheer!" ringing from a wild grapevine. Again he seems to
say "Come, come here!" Whether it be an invitation to all
mankind or just a message to his coy mate you know he learned it
from the same teacher as Niagara, and their voices are alike
full of rarest melody. The leisurely golden chant of the wood
thrush, where the misty spray and cool shadows enfold you, seems
like a spirit voice speaking audibly to you, and the song-
sparrow sends his sweet wavering tribute to tell you he, too,
enjoys the shady nooks of Niagara.

Here if we could only interpret aright are still small voices
speaking of divine love and infinite beauty, just as audibly as
the more powerful voice of Niagara.

At the edge of Goat Island are numerous rocks where you may get
a remarkable view of the rapids; "and the forest invites the
lover of trees to linger long amid its dim-lighted aisles, where
he will find for his vivid imagination an ideal place for
reverie."

On inquiring why Goat Island is thus named you will perhaps be
told that it was once owned by a man who pastured several
animals on it; among them a goat, which perished during a severe
winter. Any one visiting the Falls during the winter, when a
cold wind sweeps across the island, can readily see how they
"got this man's goat."

The earliest description of the Falls is that by Father
Hennepin, a Franciscan monk, who with LaSalle visited it in 1678
and published this account of it: "Betwixt Lake Ontario and Erie
there is a vast and prodigious column of water which falls down
after a manner surprising and astonishing, inasmuch that the
universe does not afford a parallel. 'Tis true--Italy and
Switzerland boast of some such things; but we may well say that
they are sorry patterns when compared to this of which we speak.
At the foot of the horrible descent, we meet with the Niagara
river, which is not above a quarter of a league broad, but is
wonderfully deep in some places. It is so rapid above the
descent that it violently hurries down the wild beasts, while
endeavoring to pass it to feed on the other side, they not being
able to withstand the force of the current, which invariably
casts them headlong about six hundred feet high.

"This wonderful downfall is composed of two cross streams of
water, and two falls with an aisle sloping along the middle of
it. The waters which fall from this horrible precipice do foam
and boil after the most hideous manner imaginable, making an
outrageous noise more terrible than that of thunder." One can
easily see that the imaginative and excitable Frenchman is under
the spell of the great cataract.

But let us return to the island and follow the path that winds
among the trees until Stedman's Bluff is gained. Your reverie is
broken by the news that you are near this point. You go
hurriedly now and your speed is accelerated by hearing the noise
of the falls.

"Crowds of people fill the cool woodland paths; dark evergreens
and aged beech trees form a leafy screen on which the sunlight
falls, making a trembling, shifting mosaic as the branches open
and close in the passing breeze." The air is filled with melody
and redolent with the breath of the pine that is mingled with
various wild flowers. Here one is impressed with the awe he
feels while treading the dim aisles of some vast cathedral. Your
attention is diverted for a brief time by a species of flower
unknown to you. You pause long enough to recognize it, then
hurry on scarce noting the livid green of the waters going to
their fate, swiftly and with unbounded freedom, as if glad to
escape some pursuing demon of the watery underworld. One almost
feels sad as he watches the waters dash in utter helplessness
over the awful precipice.

Following the shore line from this point you come to a spiral
stairway that leads to the little wooden bridges that connect
the various rocks. Many visitors still go in front of that
superb sheet of water called, "The Bridal Veil." But owing to an
accident resulting in the death of three people, they no longer
permit visitors to enter the Cave of the Winds. A huge rock
whose estimated weight is many tons fell from above, crushing
the luckless victims. Even though you do not go behind the falls
this trip is full of fascinating interest. The Cave of the Winds
is situated between Luna and Goat Islands, at the foot of the
rock. At the present site of the Falls the edge of the cataract
is formed by a stratum of hard limestone reaching to a depth of
about eighty feet; and by the action of the spray the softer
shaly strata below have been hollowed out so as to form this
cave. It is about one hundred feet wide, one hundred and sixty
feet high, and about one hundred feet across.

You will perhaps go from here to a very commanding point known
as Porter's Bluff. Here, when the wind is favorable, you are
away from the drenching spray of the Falls. Here, too, the
American Falls are seen in all their grandeur. They shoot free
from the upper edge of the cliff, owing to the velocity they
have acquired in descending from the rapids above. As this vast
mass of water strikes the rocks below, loud, thunder-like
detonations are heard not unlike the reverberating tones of the
breakers of the ocean. There is a mellowness in the sound that
is soothing rather than a deafening roar as some seem to think.

At one point in the American Falls the water strikes a
projecting shelf of rock a short distance below the upper ledge
and is pulverized yet finer, making it gush out in silvery
plumes, which are worn to lustrous threads of marble whiteness.
They form long gauzy streamers as fine as sifted snow, giving to
it the name of "Bridal Veil." No bride ever wore a veil of such
delicate and exquisite texture unless it was some water sprite,
fit creature to be adorned with such gauzy and wind-woven
drapery. Only the fairy looms of Nature can produce lace-like
gossamer films of such intricate and varied designs.

>From this point the colors of the American Falls are superb. How
remarkably soft and fine they are! The pearl-grey, snow-white,
lavender and green masses seem to mingle together, blending
imperceptibly from one to the other, making a novel and
beautiful effect that surpasses the rarest dreams of the most
gifted decorative painter. The extreme beauty of delicate and
striking variety of coloring, like evening skies and sunset
seas, baffle any attempt at description. When the morning
sunbeams stream through the mist of the Falls their exquisite
tones of purple and gray and the marvelous fineness of the
American Falls come to one like a revelation.

One can never forget his morning visit to the American Falls
when the sunlight comes from the required angles, heightening
the beauty of the whole wild mass of waters, sifting in
ravishing splendor through the clouds of drifting spray. What an
artist Nature is! One has seen nothing in the delicate colored
wing of night moths, in the purple bloom of the ocean, the color
of autumn woods or clouds of fair Italian skies, that could
rival this "evanescent bow" in exquisite fineness. A huge mass
of lovely colors, like an arch of glory, rises from the boiling
spray near you, while a breeze causes the larger mass to waver
from color to color and mingle with the trees on the Canadian
shore. A secondary bow with softer colors is visible like a long
remembered dream you have had with which you associate some real
event of life.

What a sublime view we get from the Terrapin Rocks! "Here are
tremendous flat-shaped boulders left here ages ago, when those
vast geological forces were at work hewing out this gorge. Here
you gaze through ever rising columns of spray into the bright
green water. Here the velocity is amazing and in its deep bass
roar that, "night and day, weeks, months, years and centuries,
speaks in the same mighty voice," you gain the real might and
majesty of Niagara. Here you will have that trinity of grandeur,
power, and beauty indelibly impressed upon your memory. Here,
too, you gaze again in silence and admiration at the awful mass
of troubled water. The marvelous flood of livid green waters
rushes into the yawning abyss below, where it is broken into
fine spray that rises like steam from an immense cauldron. One
feels an irresistible fascination at this point but all good
things must end and you reluctantly turn away.

Now you find yourself observing the wild flowers, ferns, and
grasses with which the cliffs are clothed. All along these
inaccessible walls are "hanging gardens" whose masses of the
dainty fern make smaller Niagaras of brightest verdure. Virginia
creeper and various vines throw down long ropes of green, as if
to help their flower friends up the steep walls; thatching their
sides with softest beauty. The bluemint, butterfly weed and
harebell venture far out along the slightest ledges where only a
few, "who are willing to gain beauty as well as bread by the
sweat of their brows observe them."

People are after all more interesting than natural phenomena.
Here some will sit through the long summer hours discussing
morals, industry, women's suffrage, the immortality of the soul
or some item about the latest divorce scandal, while the
sublimity of Niagara lies all unnoticed before them. One feels
as if his senses were playing him false, and that he is back
again in some particular town, the memory of which is painfully
familiar, where from daylight till dawn and dawn till daylight
such timely topics are discussed from that loafer's haven, the
village store.

Goat Island is said to be covered with verdant forest, but it is
no longer verdant, for it shows the ravages of those who wish
some one to know they had visited Niagara. Important news, this,
that requires those beautiful registers of God's own building
for its recording. The large majestic beech trees, among whose
verdant branches the orioles and tanagers poured forth their
rich notes once whispered from all their wealth of emerald
leaves invitations to the weary to come and enjoy the sanctuary
of healing coolness and restful shade and shelter. Many were the
travelers who left the hot, dusty highways for the cool, dewy
carpet of velvety moss in the woodland solitude, where numerous
wild flowers and sweet-scented ferns filled all the air with
fragrance. The noble beech trees throw up their naked branches
as if pointing ghostly fingers of accusation to the carelessness
and indifference of those vandal days. Now these decaying
emblems stand scarred and desolate, "Monuments to fond hearts
and foolish heads."

"Here, as in by-gone days, no song of bird or wealth of plumage
gladdens its forlorn branches; no lovely flowers or shade-loving
moss and fern make patches of emerald and gold;" no weary
pedestrian turns aside from the hot, dusty path where the heated
air flows in tremendous rays unless to decipher some name on the
bark where Nature in pity is covering the scars with the lovely
woodbine.

Some people evidently spent more time in laboriously carving
their names than in viewing the wondrous beauty of the Falls.
When they perchance do gaze at them one can almost hear them
shooting, "Behold us, Niagara, we are here," or "Just as we
expected, only a big pile of water." Better it were to leave a
living tree like the palm that the loving hands of Queen
Victoria planted in the Hiles' estate at Cannes, France. Here
groups of weary American soldiers gazing up at its lovely
fronded foliage, then out over the deep blue Mediterranean,
beheld a sunset sky like a more vast sea of amethyst through
which a few orange colored clouds were idly drifting. They
forgot for a time the horrors of war and as they caught a view
of the far-flushing Alpine peaks that appeared like vast walls
of alternate shades of crimson and purple rising from a golden
sea of light they joined in the twilight prayer of the universe
to Him who made such wondrous beauty for the delight of man.

It was here that Victoria showed by her queenly life the right
to her title. Her memory still remains verdant in the hearts of
her countrymen whom she showed in a thousand acts of charity and
nobleness that "The crown does not make the queen."

Memories of delight steal o'er you as you recall again the many
noble trees at Mt. Vernon. Just north of the brick wall of the
flower garden are two magnificent tulip trees towering in their
stately grandeur far above their companions; filling their
branches with a wealth of creamy bell-shaped blossoms which like
innumerable swinging censers scatter delicious incense on the
passing breeze. The master of those beautiful and spacious
grounds has long since departed; but when we gaze upon those
magnificent trees planted by his hands we seem to catch the
spirit of the man whispered by all their green leaves, melodies
clearer and sweeter than any music we had heard before.

We have been straying from the Falls but as we said people are
more interesting.

At the edge of the Canadian channel are the Three Sister
Islands, so named because the three daughters of General Whitney
were the first white women to cross to the outer island long
before the bridges were built.

The river below the Falls is very narrow and the descent is very
steep, about three-quarters of a mile below the suspension
bridge. Here a sudden turn in the channel causes the waters to
impinge against the Canadian shore, where they have made a deep
indentation, and to rush back to the American side in a great
whirl or eddy, rendered more furious by the uneven bed of the
river, and the narrow space into which it contracts. "Here the
most terrific commotion of any of Niagara's tumultuous
demonstrations is seen. The frenzied waters form a seething
vortex, the terror of the most daring navigators." Here the
hissing, clashing, seething, upswirling mass of water where it
strikes the rocks is whirled in swift eddies as if drawn
downward by some awful river monster below. The waves produced
are like the billows of the ocean, and have the same quality of
loud booming tones, possessing the same wild exuberance of
motion. The passionate torrent swirls in wild ecstasy around the
rocks, springing aloft and tipping the waves with a silvery
radiance or clashing its emerald waters in plumes of spray. One
never tires gazing at the waters leaping and gliding like living
creatures as they dash themselves to pieces on the rocks, or
listening to the swash and gurgle of the rapid waters or the
keen clash of heavier waves.

In Niagara we have a wonder that typifies the rugged grandeur,
the restless, tireless energy of the Western World. In
contemplating it one almost invariably thinks of New York city,
that human Niagara, where the restless, crowding, surging waves
of humanity are dashed against the rough crags of adversity
where many are crushed and broken in body and spirit. Others are
drawn into the swift stream of competition and are plunged over
the precipice of financial gloom, where they seek solace in the
whirlpool rapids of society, till at last with blighted hopes
and ruined lives they go plunging into the abyss of despair, as
if glad to escape some pursuing demon of financial disaster or
more hideous monster of social vice. Only a few great and
magnanimous souls show in the rainbows of a kindly beneficence
that they have seen the beauty and grandeur of Niagara.

Between Whirlpool Rapids and the American Falls the water seems
to rest in a quiet reach, where it grows calm and composed
before it enters upon its boisterous journey at the rapids.

An electric car runs along the edge of the bluff, high above the
waters of the gorge, passing the cantilever bridge, completed
December, 1883, which carries a double line of rails. About one
hundred yards away is another steel arch railroad bridge.
"Before you reach these bridges you will see the outlet of the
great tunnel through which pours a miniature Niagara, the water
that has passed through the turbine wheels of the great
powerhouse up the river, and which has furnished power for
running factories and electric railways in Niagara Falls,
Buffalo, and other neighboring cities." When one sees how the
great cataract has been harnessed and made to develop thousands
of horse-power for driving the industries of man, he marvels
almost as much at man's ingenuity as at the Falls themselves.

The waters at the Falls plunge into an abyss about one thousand
feet wide, and during the next seven miles make a descent of
about one hundred and four feet through a deep ravine with
perpendicular banks rising to a height of from two hundred to
three hundred and fifty feet, the breadth of the river varying
from two hundred and fifty to four hundred yards. It is a
thrilling experience to view.

More glorious is Niagara in the garish light of a cloudless day,
slipping and rushing in wildest extravagance from the rapids
above. But at night the beauty is enchanting. There is a dim
veiled grandeur as in viewing mountains from a great distance.
While standing at Terrapin Point you are overwhelmed by the
spirit of the scene around you, which seems more grand and
awesome as the dusk of evening begins to throw a dark veil over
the landscape; the sense of hearing is made more receptive by
the lessening of the vision and you realize the awful sublimity
of Niagara. The islands, like dark phantoms, loom in the dim
shadows. Then in the east the moon rises mellowing and softening
the beautiful scene, while all about you is the eternal roar of
the waters. The vast spectral terribleness is quickly
transformed into a scene of indescribable loveliness.

The name "Niagara" was given to the falls by the Iroquois
Indians and means "The thunder of waters." How significant the
name, for with its hundred million tons of water every hour
pouring over the rocks, it sounds like the solemn roar of the
sea. Ever the varied voices about you tuned to the sighing of
the night and gently murmuring pine mingle and blend with the
sound of the falls.

How often will memory recall those glacier-sculptured walls! How
often you shall see in fancy as you once did in reality, the
wonderful opulence of colors! How often, too, you shall behold
those glorious curtains that seem to have fallen from the sky
and hang poised before you!

How many untold centuries have its thunders reverberated among
the rocks! How long have those restless waters flowed on in
frenzied madness without a moment's pause! Yet will Niagara
remain the same? The rate of recession is very uncertain. There
can be no doubt that within the last two hundred years the
aspect of the Falls has been greatly altered. Goat Island
extended, up to a comparatively recent period, for another half
mile northerly in a triangular prolongation; some parts have
receded much over one hundred feet since 1841, others have
remained more or less stationary. In June, 1850, Table Rock
disappeared. Geologists tell us that the recession of the
Canadian Falls by erosion is five feet in one year. Even judging
it to be one foot in a year, the falls at the commencement of
the Christian era were near Prospect Point; three thousand years
ago it was at the upper steel arch bridge. Niagara shall in due
time pass away. The eroding power that has made Niagara will
perhaps be its undoing.

Nations shall rise into being and write a record of their
glorious supremacy, then pass away, forgotten perhaps save by a
record of their deeds or history of their decline. Nature plans
not for one season, but for all time. The years as they came to
the painted Iroquois will come with never-ending delight to
generations yet to be. Our faith in Nature's grandeur and beauty
becomes stronger as each succeeding year slips away; the
kingfisher shall still watch from his perch on some pine bough
the finny inhabitants below him; the chimney swifts will still
fly through the spray of the falls for their bath; the flowers,
if not on Goat Island, will be just as fair as those that
blossomed long ago in their pristine loveliness; the stars when
day is done will gleam in the velvet sky as brightly as those of
far Judea. But what about Niagara? It may pass away, but not a
drop of its waters will be lost. The same powers that carved
Niagara are still at work creating new and more wondrous beauty
as the seasons pass.

One is here reminded that our sojourn is not much more a than
the wild water lapping against the rocks or the waves that beat
against the rocky ledges and are gone. Yet will they never
reappear? Even while we linger here the spray forms cloud fleets
to float across the azure sky of June; drifting like white-
sailed ships far out to sea. The resurrection of Niagara Waters!



          MY HOME

     "This is the place which I love the best,
     A little brown house, like a ground-bird's nest,
     Hid among grasses and vines and trees,
     Summer retreat of the birds and bees.

     The tenderest light that ever was seen
     Sifts through the vine-made window screen--
     Sifts and quivers and flits and falls,
     On home-made carpets and gray-hung walls.

     All through June the west wind free
     The breath of the clover brings to me.
     All through the languid July day
     I catch the scent of the newmown hay.

     The morning-glories and scarlet vine,
     Over the doorway twist and twine
     And every day, when the house is still,
     The humming-bird comes to the window-sill.

     In the cunningest chamber under the sun
     I sink to sleep when the day is done;
     And am waked at morn in my snow-white bed,
     By a singing-bird on the roof o'erhead.

     Better than treasures brought from Rome,
     Are the living pictures I see at home--
     My aged father, with frosted hair,
     And mother's face, like a painting rare.

     Far from the city's dust and heat,
     I get but sounds and odors sweet.
     Who can wonder I love to stay
     Week after week here, hidden away,
     In this sly nook that I love the best
     The little brown house like a ground-bird's nest.

--Ella Wheeler Wilcox.


THE END.



ITINERARY

We have included this itinerary so that others who are
contemplating a trip over the Old National Road to the East may
in some measure find it helpful in planning a journey.

Without undue haste we have gone over the route herein
designated, and have a world of delightful recollections of
those forever memorable excursions.

FIRST DAY--Richmond, Ind., via Greenville, O., through the fine
agricultural region of Darke County, passing through Xenia,
which deserves more than passing notice, for, on the outskirts
of the town William Dean Howells lived in a log cabin with his
father, Wm. D. Gallagher and Coates Kinney, two poets of note,
lived here; and here, too, is the birthplace of Whitelaw Reid.
If the traveler wishes to spend a day in Dayton he will find a
visit to the National Cash Register plant full of interest.

SECOND DAY--Dayton to Hillsborough, via Germantown and
Farmersville, across the great conservancy dam on Twin creek,
through Middletown and Lebanon, crossing the Miami valley, famed
for its richness of natural beauty and thrifty towns and cities.

THIRD DAY--Hillsborough to Portsmouth, Ohio, via the caves and
Bainbridge.

FOURTH DAY--Portsmouth to Columbus, over the Scioto trail,
passing through the beautiful hill country via Waverly,
Chillicothe and Circleville.

FIFTH DAY--Columbus to Wheeling, via Zanesville and Cambridge.
At Zanesville we crossed the bridge over the Muskingum river.
There are only one or two other examples of this type of bridge
in the world; one being in Germany. Stopped at the Windsor
hotel, which is recommended not only for its surrounding
scenery, but is of special interest to the tourist because of
its location on the banks of the Ohio river. A breakfast on the
terrace overlooking this beautiful river will be a never-to-be-
forgotten experience. We passed McCullough's Leap on the
national road at the crest of Fulton Hill, at Wheeling. A
monument marks the spot where the famous Indian fighter escaped
his pursuers by going over a precipice one hundred and fifty
feet in height.

SIXTH DAY--From Wheeling to Cumberland, Md., passing Washington,
Pa., which was the first city in the United States to be named
for its first president. Here is still standing the house of
Thomas Braddock, leader of the Whiskey Rebellion. At this place
the first community building in the United States was erected.
You will pass Braddock's grave, where a fine monument marks the
spot along the old national highway. It leads through the great
meadows of history, near where Ft. Necessity was built and which
marks the site of the first and only surrender Washington ever
made. Two centuries ago an Indian trail led through the
Allegheny mountains. Here may still be seen the place where
Washington crossed the road and tried to make his way to
Pittsburg, then called Ft. Duquesne. The mountain scenery here
is superb. Travelers will find a delightful place to rest in the
Ft. Cumberland Hotel.

SEVENTH DAY--Cumberland via Hagerstown across Massanutten
mountain to Luray Caverns, staying overnight at the Lawrence
Hotel.

EIGHTH DAY--Luray Caverns via Harpers Ferry to Frederick, Md.
Spent the night at the delightful Wayside Inn.

NINTH DAY--Frederick to Washington, D. C.

TENTH, ELEVENTH, TWELFTH DAYS--Washington and vicinity.

THIRTEENTH DAY--Washington to Wt. Vernon, and Alexandria. The
Metropolitan hotel while in Washington will be found a most
pleasant stopping place.

FOURTEENTH DAY--Washington to Gettysburg via Baltimore. While
here pay a visit to Ft. McHenry, Poe's tomb, and Druid Hill
Park, which is one of the most beautiful of America's fine
parks.

FIFTEENTH DAY--Gettysburg to Lancaster via Harrisburg. Travelers
should not miss the wonderful drive along the Susquehanna river
at Harrisburg, for few in the east are as beautiful. It might be
well at this juncture to sound a note of warning in regard to
the use of chains while crossing the mountains, as one cannot be
too careful in using every safeguard.

SIXTEENTH DAY--Lancaster to Valley Forge to Philadelphia.

SEVENTEENTH DAY--Philadelphia. Visit historical places and
lovely park.

EIGHTEENTH Day--Cross ferry over the Delaware at Philadelphia,
through New Jersey to Atlantic City.

NINETEENTH DAY--Atlantic City.

TWENTIETH DAY--Atlantic City to Belmar.

TWENTY-FIRST DAY--Belmar via Asbury Park, Newark and Metuchen to
New York City.

TWENTY-SECOND, TWENTY-THIRD, TWENTY-FOURTH AND TWENTY-FIFTH DAYS-
- New York City. Travelers will find a fine place to stop while
here in the Hotel Theresa.

TWENTY-SIXTH DAY--New York City via Tarrytown to Poughkeepsie.

TWENTY-SEVENTH DAY--Poughkeepsie to Greenfield, Mass., through
the Berkshire hills on the Mohawk trail.

TWENTY-EIGHTH DAY--Greenfield to Providence, Rhode Island, down
the Connecticut river valley, which affords scenery as fine as
any which New England has to offer. The fertile farm lands of
the valley give beauty by way of contrast. The traveler will be
interested in the fields of tobacco which are grown under
canvas. Some of these fields contain thirty acres and others we
were told were still larger.

A most delightful close to a perfect day is the hotel Weldon at
this lovely town. The motorist will find here a quiet, restful
charm that makes for the tired traveler a delightful halt and a
tranquil stopping place for more permanent guests.

"One rarely finds in a rural town a hotel which affords all the
essentials of a city hotel of the first class. The picturesque
entrance with greenery and Italian stone settles, the handsome
office and lounging hall of library effect, the broad passages
and solid woodwork of each floor, the spacious glass-roofed sun
parlor and outer porch, with plentiful vines and other verdure,
and which in summer time are opened widely to the lawn, the
lofty topmost floor recently built (for warm weather guests) of
a semi- Spanish effect by way of broad screen doors on open air
corridors, from airy suites overlooking the woody hill country--
these items are likely to impress the guests with pleasant
surprises."

Then, too, the Weldon is situated in the charming residential
section of the town, of no small natural beauty. But of all
pleasing memories of Greenfield, that of its beautiful tree-
bordered streets will remain the longest.

In passing through the old town of Windsor you will think of
John Fitch whose birthplace was here. John Mason, leader of the
Colonists during the Pequot War, also had his home in Windsor.
Here, too, is the fine old home of Oliver Ellsworth, now kept as
a museum by the Daughters of The American Republic.

You will pass through Pomfert, the town whose special point of
interest is Wolf Den, where Israel Putnam slew a sheep-killing
wolf single handed. The story was geographically described in
our school readers of two centuries ago.

At Willamantic is a monument to Nathan Hale, the martyr spy of
the Revolution, who had his home here, as did also General Lyon,
killed at Eastport in the Revolutionary War. Here, too, was the
home of Jonathan Trumbull, one of the financiers of the
Revolution, and Commodore Swift, U. S. N. This town is widely
known as the home of Willamantic thread.

TWENTY-NINTH DAY--Providence to Newport.

THIRTIETH DAY--Newport to Plymouth via Fall River, Cape Cod and
Provincetown, staying at the Plymouth Rock Hotel.

THIRTY-SECOND, THIRTY-THIRD AND THIRTY-FOURTH DAYS--Plymouth to
Boston via the Shore Road.

THIRTY-FIFTH DAY--Boston to Portsmouth, N. H. Here was signed
the treaty which closed the Russo-Japanese War.

THIRTY-SIXTH DAY--Portsmouth to Crawford's Notch, via Portland,
Maine.

THIRTY-SEVENTH DAY--Crawford's Notch through Green mountains to
Lake Champlain.

THIRTY-EIGHTH DAY--Lake Champlain through Adirondacks to Lake
George Village.

THIRTY-NINTH AND FORTIETH DAYS--Among mountains and lakes.

FORTY-FIRST DAY--Lake George to Albany.

FORTY-SECOND DAY--Albany through Catskills to Mt. Tremper, where
we spent a most delightful evening at the Howland House.

FORTY-THIRD DAY--Mt. Tremper to Utica.

FORTY-FOURTH DAY--Utica and Trenton Falls to Syracuse. Spent the
night at the Mizpah hotel. This hotel is unique in that it is
run in connection with a Baptist church. The building is a
beautiful specimen of Gothic architecture. The surplus money is
used for the various church expenses. You may listen to the
noted Belgian organist while resting in your own room. This
undertaking has proven to be a success in numerous ways.

FORTY-FIFTH DAY--Syracuse to Lake Chautauqua via Jamestown.

FORTY-SIXTH DAY--Jamestown to Niagara Falls via Indian
reservations.

FORTY-SEVENTH AND FORTY-EIGHTH DAYS--Niagara Falls, via Albion,
Pa., to Ashtabula, Ohio.

FORTY-NINTH DAY--Ashtabula to Richmond, Ind.

It is to be sincerely hoped that all the youth of our land may
some day visit the nation's shrines and there drink deep from
the fountains of truth and patriotism which our worthy
forefathers have established. To follow the old Pilgrim trail,
to climb Bunker Hill Monument, to reverently tread the halls of
Mt. Vernon, to muse by the monuments at Valley Forge,
Gettysburg, and Arlington; to be thrilled with the grandeur and
power of our great nation while in Washington: and to behold the
unsurpassed beauty of the countless places of natural grandeur
our country affords would help to solve many of the serious
problems confronting our nation today.





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