See America First by Orville O. Hiestand (page 3)

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