At three P. M. we start from “Hamilton’s stoop,” as usual. Williams, with his wife, in his neat little wagon; myself and lady in the gig, and the rest in a huge, lumbering two-horse conveyance, with a range of seats, and clattering, when in motion, like a hail-storm. Up the broad village street (to wit, turnpike) we merrily go—by the Episcopal Church, surrounded with its mountain-ash trees (amidst which even now stands our respected “Dominie,” gazing at them with the affection of a parent—for he planted them there with his own hands)—through the outskirts of the village—past the fence of pine-roots, wreathed in every imaginable shape, like twining serpents—and in a short time we are toiling up the steep winding pitch, called “Jones’ Hill.” The sunshine is sweet, although somewhat warm, and there is now and then the downy touch of a breeze upon our foreheads. We glance at the stretch of wood and meadow, backed by a low, blue line of hills, which meets us at the summit, and then bowl down the slope into the hollow. “Kinne’s Hill” next taxes the endurance of our steeds; but we reach the top, and look around us. How beautiful is the scene! What streaming black shadows are cast by every object; what a soft gloss is on yon emerald meadow, and how far the pointed shade of that solitary hay-barrack is cast upon its rich surface. How the light gleams upon the fences—catches upon the acclivities—bathes the tips of the scattered chimneys, and stripes half the bosoms of the distant hills. How it touches in here, and streaks out there, and settles in a broad space of deep yellow in another place; for, be it known, that at four o’clock of a summer afternoon (just the hour that we are upon “Kinne’s,”) commences the time for witnessing the effects of the now slanting sunshine. But I must not stay here forever admiring views and effects, particularly as my horse, “Old George,” is dancing up and down as if his hoofs were encased in hot iron. So I ease the reins, and down we dash toward the Mongaup, which we soon see flowing, sweet and cool, in the shadow cast by the opposite hill. Beautiful stream, I hail thee! How often have I “churned” thy pure, soft current in pursuit of the golden-spotted trout; and in the mellow autumn sunshine, when the rich haze of the “Indian Summer” shimmered in thy forests, how long and patiently have I beat thy thickets, and stood upon thy run-ways to “draw lead” upon the deer. However, this is no time for the pathetic; so I keep a cautious rein upon “George,” as I pass through the covered bridge spanning the stream, and then let him out past the white-porticoed tavern upon the right. Up and down hill we then all move and rattle, until gaining the summit of a long ascent, we see “Jordan’s Inn,” and a little beyond, the broad, bright waters of our destined goal, White Lake. Severally alighting at the door of the tavern, our steeds are commended to the tender mercies of the landlord; and we all,