CHAPTER VII_See America First

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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.