The picturesque banks of the river Connecticut are dotted with
charming little villages, that break here and there upon the sight
like feathers of light, dancing among the willow leaves; there is such
a dazzling irregularity of house and hill--so much fairy-like
confusion of vista, landscape, and settlement. Now we pass a tiny
white and vine-clad cottage, that looks as if it had been set down
yesterday; now we sweep majestically by an ambitious young town, with
its two, three, or half-a-dozen church-spires, sending back the lines
of narrow light into the water; anon we glide past a forest of
majestic old trees, that seem to press their topmost buds against the
fleecy clouds floating in the blue sky; and through these forests we
catch glimpses of the oriole, dashing through the boughs like a flake
of fire.--_Yankee Stories, by Howard Paul_.