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.
