Chapter 8 BERKSHIRE HILLS

I know where wild things lurk and linger

In groves as gray and grand as Time;

I know where God has written poems

Too strong for words or rhyme.

-Maurice Thompson.

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

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

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

THE LURE OF THE MOHAWK TRAIL

Along the Mohawk trail, standing gold and white

Where the crystal rivers flash and gleam;

The fragrant birch trees greet the sight,

And gently droop to kiss the steam.

And the lure of the pine on the Mohawk trail,

Is tuned to the spirits' restful mood,

It murmurs and calls on the passing gale,

For all to enjoy its solitude.

Still, the birch and pine all silver and gray,

Call from the Berkshires and seem to say:

"Leave your lowland worries behind

The petty cares that hinder and blind;

Come hither and find a quieter spot

Where troubles and cares and sorrow are not.

Come out where the heavens just drip with gold

And the Divine Artist's paintings ne'er grow old.

-O. O. H.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wordsworth was familiar with these ferns, for he writes:

Often, trifling with a privilege

Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now,

And now the other, to point out, perchance

To pluck some flower or water weed, too fair,

Either to be divided from the place

On which it grew, or to be left alone

To its own beauty. Many such there are,

Fair ferns and flowers and chiefly that tall fern,

So stately, of the Queen Osmunda named:

Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode

On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side

Of Grecian brook or Lady of the Mere,

Sole sitting by the shores of old romance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,

With such accursed instruments as these

Thou drownest Nature's kindly voices,

And jarrest the Celestial Harmonies?

Were half the power that fills the world with terror,

Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,

Given to redeem the human mind from error,

There were no need of arsenals and forts.

Down the dark future, through long generations,

The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;

And like a bell with solemn sweet vibrations,

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace."

Peace no longer from its brazen portals

The blast of war's great organ shakes the skies!

But beautiful as songs of the immortals

The holy melodies of love arise.

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

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

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

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

A silvery brook comes stealing

From shadow of its trees

Where slender herbs of forest stoop

Before the entering breeze.

-Bryant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The holy time is quiet as a nun

Breathless with adoration."

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

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

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

"Come, let us go, each pulse is precious,

Come, ere the day has lost its dawn;

And you shall quaff life's finest essence

From primal flagons drawn!

Just for a day to slip off the tether

Of hot-house wants, and dare to be

A child of Nature, strong and simple,

Out in the woods with me."

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

"Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet,

With charm of earliest birds."

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

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

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

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