Certain it is that along the obscure trail above which winds its way between the brow of the precipice and the forest, many rocks may be found with initials carved upon them, the idle handiwork of adventurers who visited the mountain in days long gone by. Most of these rocks are usable as seats whereon to rest and contemplate the expansive panorama to the south. For this path along the brow of old Overlook is like the gallery of some vast theatre. In the distance below may be seen the village of Woodstock, and beyond, the great Ashokan Reservoir with all its little bays and capes in clear view. From this lofty vantage point its whole conformation is as clear as on a map. If from the crown of this impartial giant you look afar at Woodstock and then at the vast reservoir which spreads over the green, undulating valley; and then if you think of another little village, partly obliterated and partly pushed aside by that inland sea; why then, it is not hard to get the point of view of some poor little old man, who was turned out of house and home. For the old mountain seems to make everything plain. Serene, towering and apart from all the passions and enterprises and bickerings of men, it makes one see the great city of New York as a kind of invading bully. But most of the hardy tourists who left their memorials upon these everlasting rocks never saw the reservoir, for only the spacious valley was there when they gazed afar from the mountain. Some of these carvings antedate the old hotel, most of them antedate the reservoir. The authors of some of them might have been killed in the Civil War. What has become of all those people who gazed from Overlook Mountain a half century, some near a full century ago? Where are Minnie and George who in 1861 cut their names thus in union with a crude graven heart between? Tottering grandparents now, perhaps. What has become of Carl who loved Alice, as he confided in abiding scratches to a boulder? And who was Alice? What has become of C. L. and of Esther B.? And who was it that made his fatigue immortal by scratching _I’m tired_ on a bordering rock? Let us hope he is rested by now. Who was Annie Garis who in 1857 paused here? And who was B. J. who appears thus unrevealed beside her? Who carved the death’s head and when? Does Martha Bentley 1867 still live? Perhaps that dim, lonely trail intersected by challenging crevices and buried here and there in dim foliage, _is_ haunted by the shades of sturdy tourists who rested here in the far past. From what point did they ascend in those days? And whence came they? From near or far? Perhaps the faint sounds which Miranda heard on dark nights were made by Esther B., or perchance by Minnie, come back out of the region of shadows to revisit the ancient resting place of herself and her George. Perhaps the weary shade of him who was so tired returned at times to rest upon the favorite rock. Perhaps the spook of Annie Garis came back in search of B. J.