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 masses of the Eifel, and then the various ranges of the Appalachians.