See America First Part 12

Poughkeepsie is said to be derived from the Mohican, "Apo-keep- sinck," meaning "a safe and pleasant harbor." How appropriate it is, for with the lordly Hudson at its feet, the sparkling Fallkill creek containing numerous falls and cascades flowing through the eastern and northern parts, the wonderful bridge across the Hudson, and its numerous educational facilities, this half-way city between New York and Albany has been to many weary travelers a "safe and pleasant harbor."

"F. B. Morse, inventor of the telegraph, lived at Locust Grove, two miles below the city, and in the process of his experiments built wires into Poughkeepsie two years before they were extended to New York City."

Just north of the city the wonderful cantilever bridge, six thousand seven hundred and thirty-eight feet in length and two hundred and twelve feet in height, spans the Hudson. It is the highest bridge in the world built over navigable waters. As we gazed at the marvelous structure a train crossed the long bridge with m.u.f.fled roar and disappeared in the heavily tree-clad hillsides. Just above the city there is a bend in the river and a fine prospect may be had. The foreground for the most part consists of cultivated fields, and hills well wooded with trees of great variety and graceful outline, growing higher as they recede from it, until they range and rise in grand sublimity in the Catskill mountains. Before and below the point where the bridge spans the river, the dim outlines of vessels melt into hazy indistinctness in the gathering twilight.

One of the sights of the city is the circular panoramic view of the Hudson river valley, obtained from the top of College Hill park. The winding automobile roadway on North Clinton street, leading to the summit, is about two hundred feet above the Poughkeepsie bridge. Fancy yourself, if you can, on the summit of this hill, gay with bright colored flowers, fine maples and elms; whose base slopes down to the sparkling Hudson. Beyond you, terrace like, rises hill upon hill, stretching away unbroken for many miles, covered thickly with verdant meadows and oat fields and bounded by long lines of stone fences. The varying shades of the undulations grow gradually dimmer until they mingle with the Catskills on the far horizon.

Between the bases of the hills winds the leisurely, majestic current of the river, clothed in those deep sunny hues that seem like some lovely dream in place of a reality. To the southeast the same green hills, with the same deep hues and mysterious veils, lead your enraptured sight to where the distant peaks of the Adirondacks with their hazy indistinctness seem like the far- off sh.o.r.es of another world. Before and below you lies the city with her sea of spires and dark smokestacks and the steamers coming up the river, "filling the air with their dark breath or the mournful sound of their voices."

After beholding so beautiful a scene as this, one loves to remember Poughkeepsie, not for its beauty alone, but for the beneficence of a great man--Matthew Va.s.sar. Mr. Va.s.sar wanted to do something worthy with his money and at first thought of erecting a great monument commemorating the discovery of the Hudson river. "It was to be a monument of unsurpa.s.sing beauty; one that should cause the people to marvel at its magnificence."

But the people of Poughkeepsie were not enthusiastic over his project, whereupon Mr. Va.s.sar decided to use his money for something far more worthy. Here is located Va.s.sar college, occupying about eight hundred acres, and is the first inst.i.tution in the world devoted exclusively to the higher education of women. It solved in a practical way the question that had been discussed in many lands for ages: "Could women be granted equal intellectual privileges with men without shattering the social life?" Therefore, Matthew Va.s.sar, because he was blessed with vast wealth, has taught the world the all- important fact that "ignorance is the curse of G.o.d and knowledge the wings whereby we fly to heaven," a statement as applicable to women as to men.

Had the countries of Europe spent their money for a cause as worthy as this in place of building such expensive monuments in memory of tyrannical rulers of the Hohenzollern type, the world might never have witnessed the indescribable horrors of a world war. What matters it if Russia and Italy contain such marvelous cathedrals as long as ignorance holds sway among the peasant?

Mr. Va.s.sar shall long live in the memory of a grateful people, and he erected a monument so vast and magnificent that only Eternity will rightly gauge its proportions, for he built not for a dead past, but a bright and glorious future.

THE CATSKILLS

We spent a never-to-be-forgotten evening near the base of Mount Treluper at the Howland House. How cool and quiet the place was, with only the rippling melody of a mountain stream to disturb it!

We walked along the highway that led through the most charming scenery of this lovely region and glimpsed pictures just as beautiful as many places of Europe that have an international reputation.

As we strolled along the babbling stream that flowed over its rock-strewn bottom, we thought of Bryant's words:

"The river sends forth glad sounds and tripping o'er its bed Of pebbly sands or leaping down the rocks, Seems with continuous laughter to rejoice In its own being."

How these songful streams beguile you to the woodland and through tangles of tall ferns and gra.s.ses, until they emerge in some meadow where they loiter among the tall sedges and iris or "lose themselves in a tangle of alder to emerge again in sweet surprise, then as if remembering an important errand, they bound away like a school boy who has loitered along the road all morning until he hears the last bell ring."

We have heard of Artists' brook in the Saco valley in New England, but here every stream is clothed in exquisite tangles of foliage and light. The pleasant reaches and graceful curves through charming glens that are part in shadow and part in light, what artist ever caught their subtile charm? Over the rough boulders draped with moss and lichens we catch the mellow gleam of light as it filters through the fluttering birch leaves or falls upon the lovely gray bolls of aged beech trees. Then they flow more slowly over some level stretch or stop to cool themselves in the shadows of some graceful elms that rear their green fountains of verdure above them. What joy it brings to you as you sit musing by their sides, listening to their songs.

They all are excellent musicians, but we fear they are very poor mathematicians, for how little they seem to know about straight lines. But all are expert landscape gardeners, making graceful loops and curves as they go meandering on their songful way. How like a mountain road they are, "sinuous as a swallow's flight."

Often we have followed them as the sycamores and willows do, drawn by an irresistible charm and found new and rare delight in every turn. In places they rest in shady pools or pour their wealth of sparkling waters over ledges of rocks or seek deep coverts where tall ferns wave and the birch "dreams golden dreams where no sunlight comes."

In regions as lovely as the highlands of New York, you are reminded many times of that sweet singer who dwelt at Sunnyside, and wrought the legends of these hills into the most exquisite forms of beauty.

Out over the hills we beheld one of Nature's poems of twilight.

The vapors seemed to be gathering over the high ridges, but the western sky was almost clear. It was evident that Nature was preparing for a magnificent farewell today. Soon the west was overrun with a golden flush that began to reveal a pink as delicate as peach bloom and the vapors began to glow with ineffable splendor.

As we watched the fantastic cloud-wreathed summits whose colors were altogether indescribable, we noted the intensity of coloring 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 ma.s.ses 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 gra.s.s 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 pa.s.sed. 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 ma.s.ses 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed. 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 gra.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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.

About six miles from Phoenicia lies the village of Shandaken.

Its alt.i.tude is one thousand and sixty-four feet. The village.

takes its name from an early Indian settlement and valley, meaning in the Indian language, "Rushing Waters." It is here that the Bushkill and Esopus join, giving a reason for the name.

The Shandaken tunnel is to be located here. This tunnel, contracted for by the city of New York, will cost twelve millions of dollars. It will connect the Schoharie river and the Gilboa reservoir with the Esopus and Ashokan reservoir."

We next entered a very picturesque country. True, the mountains did not rise so high, as mountains go, and did not affect one as do the sublimity and grandeur of the snow-clad Alps, yet the warm light falling here and there in streaks and bars on beautiful fern gardens that nodded and swayed in the cool forest depths, where springs gushed forth in crystal clearness, "brought that tone that all mountains have." We pa.s.sed through Arkville, a village of six hundred people.

Our curiosity was aroused concerning the name. On making inquiry we learned that one fall there had been a freshet which carried vast numbers of pumpkins down the east branch of the Delaware.

The house of Colonel Noah Dimmick was untouched by the water, and his home was given the name of Noah's Ark, "from which the name of Arkville was suggested. The summer residence of George C. Gould, Jay Gould and Anthony J. Drexel, Jr., are located near here. Francis J. Murphy, the noted landscape painter, owns an ideal estate in the woods adjoining the village. The studio of Alexander H. Wyant, who was considered one of America's best landscape artists, is still to be seen amid its picturesque surroundings." No wonder the place was chosen by the artists, for they never would lack for sketches of the most picturesque and sublime character. The work of Indians may be seen on the inner walls of high caves, known as the Indian Rocks, rudely carved with strange hieroglyphics.

This forenoon we feel as if we were treading hallowed ground, for all through this beautiful region are trails that were used by America's most beloved naturalist, John Burroughs. What a wealth of woodland lore, fresh as these dew gemmed meadows, pure as these crystal flowing streams, serene and high as these beautiful hills, he has left us. How much of our enjoyment in birds and flowers we owe to this gentle lover of the true and beautiful in Nature. How many lives he has helped, by showing them wherein lies the real gold of these hills. On reading his pages, redolent with the spirit of the out-of-doors, one is conscious of a feeling of grandeur and solemnity as when listening to a sonata by Beethoven.

The beautiful village of Roxbury is the birthplace of this gentle Nature lover and enthusiast. Here too, Jay Gould, the great railroad magnate, was born. Both grew up in the same town, amid the same sublime mountain scenery. These boys both lived on the farm, and attended the same school, but how different the product! Both found the work for which they were fitted. Here the mountains are comparatively graceful and gentle in contour.

Their loveliness is unsurpa.s.sed. No wonder Mr. Burroughs was contented to dwell here, no matter how far he traveled. Even on his last day he was found with his face turned toward his native hills, which afforded him such a wealth of beauty and natural scenery and such a free and glorious life. "Mr. and Mrs. Finley J. Shepard (Helen Gould) spend two or three months each year at 'Kirkside,' their modest summer home on the west side of Main street, near Gould Memorial church just north of village center."

About three miles from Roxbury is a small village called Grand Gorge. One and one-half miles from the village Irish and Bald mountains tower three thousand feet, and crowd river, railroad and highway into a narrow pa.s.s. The Gilboa reservoir is located three miles northeast of the village, and the Shandaken tunnel three miles east. The purpose of both the reservoir and tunnel is to augment the great Ashokan supply. The view of the Catskills through Grand Gorge is most beautiful. Here you lookout over a vast mountainous landscape; the foliage of the maples sheers regularly down, covering the mountain sides with their leafy terraces. Far away stretches the landscape, checked red with patches of grain or velvety meadows, marked faintly with stone fences, giving it the appearance of a vast domain all dreamy beneath its luminous veil.

One of the finest touring centers in the Catskills region is Stamford, a town with a population of one thousand, situated at the foot of Mount Utsayantha. On this mountain which is three thousand three hundred feet above the sea, is an observation tower, from which an un.o.bstructed view of all the Catskills opens up before you. Truly, Nature has been lavish in her bestowal of rare gifts of scenic beauty at this place.

Standing there and looking out over the magnificent panorama before us, we thought how often the eyes of that gentle lover of Nature gazed in admiration out over the rolling hills or rested lovingly upon some rare flower or strange bird until he gained their secrets.

You will see many wonderful orchards in New York state and much of the land is given over to the raising of fruit, for which it seems admirably adapted. You will also notice other less inviting regions, where the old homesteads have gone into decay.

In several places we saw many vacant homes around which crowded whole armies of weeds, while scraggly, mossgrown apple trees still managed to send forth a few green branches. It must have been a scene like this which Shakespeare saw, when he wrote:

"The whole land is full of weeds; her fairest flowers choked up, Her fruit trees all unpruned, her hedges ruined."

The crumbling moss-grown stones of the fences over which poison vines were clambering and the myriads of wild carrot, chicory, and ox-eye daisies added to the desolateness of the scene.