SUMMER WALKS IN THE WOODLAND 



ALONG THE PALISADES IN THE INTERSTATE PARK 

 BY J. OTIS SWIFT, AUTHOR OF WOODLAND MAGIC 



(PHOTOGRAPHS BY THE AUTHOR) 



THERE is an order of holy men who go about the 

 world doing good to inanimate things. You will 

 know them by the far-away, detached look in their 

 deep eyes when you meet them in the crowded streets, 

 and by the way they have of looking away over the 

 roof-tops as if used to great spaces and lofty mountains. 

 You will come upon them in the waste places, in the 

 shade of the deep woods, 

 on the margin of the brook, 

 the pitcher plant-haunted, 

 quaking peat of the bog, 

 and walking lonely hill 

 paths in the cool of the 

 evening. Then you will dis- 

 cover that the far-away 

 look in their eyes has gone. 

 In its place is quick flash- 

 ing attention to every 

 drooping leaf, bent twig, 

 lichened ledge, rabbit path 

 and flitting thrush. These 

 men are priests of the Order 

 of Nature. Sometimes they 

 are old and bent, with palms 

 calloused by the plough 

 handles and the pruning 

 hook. Again they are 

 youths with soft treading 

 feet and poet's mouths. But 

 all are holy, for they have 

 received their initiation as 

 children in the secret places 

 of the deep forests and 

 their lives, among other 

 things, are consecrated to 

 loving, appreciating and 

 caring for inanimate trees, 

 shrubs, plants and mosses 

 that animate nature — in- 

 sects, birds, animals and 

 men, may be happier. This 

 is the ancient order to which 

 Pliny, Linneas, Asa Gray, 

 Donald Mitchell and Thoreau belonged, and to which 

 you and I are initiates. Its members are the sort of 

 men of whom women, children, dogs and wild creatures 

 are never afraid and are usually trustful and fond. 

 There is a secret bond of fellowship between them and 

 every living thing in the wilderness and waste places. So 

 come, this September morning, and we will make a pil- 

 grimage from Hastings-on-Hudson, across the river to the 



ONE OF THE NEW AUTOMOBILE 

 MAJESTIC CLIFFS OF 



great Palisades Interstate Park, the most weirdly beau- 

 tiful spot about the American metropolis. 



This park is being developed by the Palisades Inter- 

 state Park Commission representing both States of New 

 York and New Jersey, with jurisdiction along the west 

 bank of the Hudson from Fort Lee, New Jersey, to 

 Newburg, New York. The Commission has acquired 



all of the Palisades section 

 extending up to the tops of 

 the cliffs from Fort Lee to 

 the State line opposite 

 Hastings, and it is a little 

 out of this wonderland we 

 will visit today, for we can- 

 not hope to explore the 

 summer camp for the mili- 

 tary training of youths 

 south of Nyack, rugged 

 Hook mountain at the top 

 of the Tappan Zee, the big 

 Bear Mountain tract a few 

 miles south of West Point, 

 or the Harriman Park sec- 

 tion of 30,000 acres run- 

 ning west from the Hudson 

 towards Tuxedo, all in one 

 day. This great park, as 

 wild and romantic in places 

 as a bit out of the heart of 

 the Rockies, has been made 

 possible through money and 

 land appropriated by New 

 York and New Jersey, 

 through the gift of 10.000 

 acres of land and $1,000,- 

 000 by Mrs. Mary W. Har- 

 riman, and gifts by other 

 individuals of various par- 

 cels of land, an aggregate 

 of nearly $2,000,000. It 

 all lies at the doorway of 

 New York City so that a 

 scrub-woman -may spend 

 her day-off in forest depths under the shadows of the 

 frowning palisades for a few pennies and a few minutes' 

 time in getting there on the ferry. 



We go down to the wide blue river at Hastings, and 

 row over to the shadow of the cliffs, dropping down 

 with the tide to Alpine, opposite Yonkers. We are seek- 

 ing solitude, and find it in spite of the fact that thousands 

 of people landed here at Alpine last Sunday and were 



ROADS WINDING ROUND THE 

 THE PALISADES. 



13S8 



