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.
