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.
