Climbing far up the side of West Rock, I looked over the Woodbridge fields and toward West Peak, near Meriden. In the dim distance the Giant’s form was outlined against the horizon at Mount Carmel. This mountain assumes the form of a gigantic Egyptian mummy. The hands are folded across the breast, and the head and feet are stretched in stiff dignity—so to remain through the ages. Among the wooded hills and vales below, the cloud-shadows chased each other to the distant mountains far beyond. That pile of granite upon the brow of West Rock, designated in history as Judge’s Cave, stood guard over the hills about me. Farther off, toward Westville, many a roof glistened and peered out among the newly leaved trees of the hillsides. One of them was that of Ik Marvel’s home, where perchance he had smoked the dream pipes of his _Bachelor’s Revery_. Smoke now curled above the chimney-tops, full of the drowsiness of May mornings. The song of thrushes and orioles amid the bushes burst joyously upon me, and during the interludes I heard the hum of bees and the distant murmurings of streams. Butterflies sailed by, flashing their brilliant colors in the sunlight, and the air was laden with the delicate fragrance of early woodlands. It was a day marked by hope and promise. Who can forget those fields of spring where forget-me-nots and violets bloom? During the afternoon of this glorious day, I journeyed to Mount Carmel beyond Lake Whitney. The old canal from Northampton to New Haven formerly passed along this valley, and although the channel is partly filled in, the towpath still remains, and is well-trodden. I followed it from the end of the car-line, until I reached an elevated ledge of rock to the right. This little hill, clothed with white cedars and junipers, lies beneath the stern brow of the Giant, whose face is plainly outlined against the sky far above the village.