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.
