j86 



THE MUSEUM. 



pleased to welcome at our oftice Mr. 

 Chas. K. Reed of Worcester, Mass. 

 Doubtless most of our readers have 

 heard of him, as he is a believer in 

 printer's ink and has persistently used 

 the columns of the Museum and with 

 unusual success. His specialty is 

 taxidermy work in all its varied branch- 

 es, although he at all times carries a 

 very large stock of eggs, skins, shells, 

 curios, minerals and naturalists sup- 

 plies. 



Visions of the Past. 



I. 



Many years ago, long 'ere the white 

 man's aze had broken into the wilder- 

 ness, imagine looking from a hill, up- 

 on the scene of a valley, quiet and 

 picturesque in beauty. 



From this point the eye takes in at 

 a glance to the eastward and west- 

 ward the broad and gentle windings of 

 the beautifnl Mohawk River. A little 

 way below is seen another gleam of 

 water; it is where the Schoharie winds 

 its way between the hills from the 

 south and joins the Mohawk. 



Stretching on beyond to the north, 

 can be seen the blue line of the Adir- 

 ondacks; and far away in the northeast 

 the Green Mountains of Vermont. 



Tall and graceful elms rise conspic- 

 uous in the valley, while the oak, 

 rock-maple and the dark foliage of 

 the evergreen mark the elevation of 

 the surrounding hills. 



The majestic pine under which we 

 stand_ is sweetly fragrant; the wind 

 sighs musically through the trees; while 

 the ground is soft with fallen leaves, 

 mosses and feathery ferns giving 

 scarcely a sound to the wanderers 

 footsteps. 



There before you is the landscape 

 in all its tranquil beauty — the valley, 

 river and diftant hills — all bathed in 

 the autumnal glory of fading sunshine. 



This, where Nature spreads her 

 feast, is the home of the Mohawks. 

 No gilded court, nor palace; no cathe- 

 dral is here. The woods their. only 

 home; the hills their shrine; God's 

 azure skies their canopy. 



"Their aacient haunts by wood and stream. 

 Are here before you like a dream," 



From the lofty hill no sign of life is 

 seen; not a single wigwam, canoe or 

 the smoke of a fire, nor anything to 

 show the existence of man. Is it de- 

 serted.'' Look! From among the 

 trees near the river bank a thin line of 

 smoke steals slowly up — and tar down 

 the river a canoe comes in sight, glid- 

 ing rapidly along, propelled by vigor- 

 ous strokes of the paddle. 



With curiosity we descend the hill 

 and cautiously steal our way among 

 the trees towards the camp. In the 

 slow advance we cross a path, which 

 the eye instinctively follows — there be- 

 yond the trees is a garden or field of 

 ripening maize, beans and yellow 

 gourds, nearly ready for the squaws to 

 harvest. A great noise arises from 

 the nearby camp. Are they alarmed,' 

 No. It's the squaws and children 

 greeting the hunters from the river 

 bank, as they reiurn laden from the 

 chase. 



From our snug retreat we can see 

 the camp among the trees. Several 

 wigwams are ranged around a com- 

 mon fireplace. We see within the 

 beds or mats of rushes and robes of 

 skin, dried corn and smoked meat 

 hang from the ridge poles; the mortar 

 and pestle stand ready for pounding 

 the corn; while little dishes of bark. 



