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 masses 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 passed 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 passed 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 passed. 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 grass and flowers."