It was in the heart of winter when he made his way in secrecy through snow and ice to a place not far from where Blackstone lived. Here he began to plant and build, and others came to join him. Williams was shown great kindness by the Indians, and he bought the land of natives, thereby soon gaining great influence over them. CHAPTER VII BERKSHIRE HILLS I know where wild things lurk and linger In groves as gray and grand as Time; I know where God has written poems Too strong for words or rhyme. --Maurice Thompson. To one who has lived in a level country how full of joyful experience is a winding mountain road! None of our journeys will be remembered with keener delight than the days spent in sauntering along the Mohawk trail. What incomparable trout streams, what vast primeval forests, how charming the peaceful valleys, what trails leading to the tops of wooded hills or fern-clad cool retreats of the forest! What a life the Indians must have had here, moving from place to place enjoying new homes and new scenery! Here the fierce child of Nature lived amidst the grandest temples of God's building, where the song of the hermit thrush as old as these fragrant aisles, still rings like a newly-strung lute; while the wind among the myriad keyed pines thrums a whispering accompaniment and the yellow and white birch fill the place with incense. Many mourn because they have no money to purchase a noble work of art, or pay a visit to the Vatican or the Louvre. But here in their own beloved America God has an open gallery, filled with pictures fairer than the grandest dream of any landscape artist, which wear no trace of age and no fire can destroy. Here no curtains need be drawn, as over the masterpieces of Raphael and Rubens to preserve their tints for future generations. They grow more mellow and tender as countless years roll by. All of these you may have, to hang on the walls of memory where no Napoleon can come to take them to a Louvre. THE LURE OF THE MOHAWK TRAIL Along the Mohawk trail, standing gold and white Where the crystal rivers flash and gleam; The fragrant birch trees greet the sight, And gently droop to kiss the steam. And the lure of the pine on the Mohawk trail, Is tuned to the spirits' restful mood, It murmurs and calls on the passing gale, For all to enjoy its solitude. Still, the birch and pine all silver and gray, Call from the Berkshires and seem to say: "Leave your lowland worries behind The petty cares that hinder and blind; Come hither and find a quieter spot Where troubles and cares and sorrow are not. Come out where the heavens just drip with gold And the Divine Artist's paintings ne'er grow old. --O. O. H.