"O that flagon! that wicked flagon! what shall I say to Dame Winkle?"[2] Footnote 2: It should read "What excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?" Here it was that "from an opening between the trees" Rip "could overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on in its silent but majestic course." Here it is that we look down through the foliage upon "Sleepy Hollow," at least I was told so by the communicative landlord; certainly the opening does reveal a deep wood-clad valley, which looks charming, though somnolent enough to merit the title of "Sleepy Hollow;" nevertheless, Knickerbocker's "Sleepy Hollow" is certainly not here; it lies away down yonder "in the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, not far from the village of Tarrytown, in a little valley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world." Some of us walked up the steep inclines to ease the horses, until we reached "The Mountain-House Hotel," a great place capable of holding five hundred people; but the season is over, and there are not more than thirty here now; the other hotels on the mountains are already closed. I will only say of this hostelry that it is kept in a very primitive style, and is certainly fifty years behind the age. The view from the front, on the very edge of the cliff, looks over a semicircle of country extending for sixty miles in every direction, with the Hudson River winding like a silver streak through the very heart of it. This prospect, they tell me, is one of the most wonderful to be found in this wonderful country, but owing to haze and mist it is rarely to be seen as we saw it. We wandered through the woods and down by the lakes for miles, but we heard not a sound of bird or beast; the dead silence is almost appalling; not even the noisy little katydids get so far up the mountains. These woods would be perfect if one could only say of them as Longfellow says of some of the American woods in autumn: "The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside aweary. Through the trees The golden robin moves. The purple finch, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud From cottage roofs the warbling bluebird sings."