170 A PEEP AT 



and the graceful, plumy hemlocks that intersperse 

 them. 



" In 'winter, the art that sends you swiftly and 

 securely through these stem solitudes is most grate- 

 fully felt. The trees bend creaking before the howl- 

 ing blast, the snow is driving and drifting, here it is 

 piled on either side in solid walls above your car, and 

 there the hideous roots of the upturned stumps are 

 bare. Even the hardy mountain children have 

 shrunk from the biting blast, and the whimpering dog 

 has begged an inside berth. You see no little tow- 

 head, with its curious eyes peering at you through the 

 icy window ; you hear not even the salute of a bark. 

 On you glide, by the aid of the most recent discover- 

 ies and ingenious contrivances of art, through a coun- 

 try whose face is still marked with the savage grand- 

 eur of its primeval condition. To give the transition 

 to the smiling valleys below the full force of contrast, 

 it should be made in summer. Then you slide down 

 amid green pastures, meadows and orchards. You 

 glance at Hinsdale and Dal ton, and enter Pittsfield, 

 famous for its lofty elm, the last veteran of the origi- 

 nal forest, (now, alas ! a dying veteran,) for its 

 annual fairs, its thriving medical institution, and for 

 its rural wealth, possessing, as it does within the limits 



