WINTER 51 



try might be as base as life in town if it 

 were not for imagination. How much we 

 owe to it, for how little we have in life, 

 and death, that is tangible ! A little while 

 ago I heard a whistle on a tug-boat in 

 the river, most likely, for I hear it once 

 a week at least; and whenever it sounds 

 across the three miles of roofs, I drop my 

 pen, spade, book, or what not, and am far 

 away for some happy minutes. Sounds 

 have, for me, the suggestive and reminis- 

 cent force that many find in odors; so, 

 this whistle being in my memory the same 

 I heard on the night boat that took me on 

 my first visit to the Catskills, I have the 

 thrill of that trip all over again. It was 

 before the time of mountain railroads, big 

 hotels, land speculations, and " No tres- 

 passing " signs. It was in October, and 

 the haunted hills were lonely and all mine. 

 The two days I spent there were spent 

 afoot, I walked and climbed sixty miles, 

 and they were a revel in color and the 

 pathetic fragrance of fallen leaves. So 

 the tug whistle dispels gloom, soothes 

 overwrought nerves, obliterates meaner 



