8 A WORD WITH THE READER. 



My lesson had been learned in that dearest of schools, 

 but it took more years than with apter scholars. Yet I 

 have never regretted the cost of the education. 



The earlier incidents recorded took place in Green- 

 bush, N. Y., and on the Popskinny Creek. I have outlived 

 them both. The creek was merely an arm of the Hudson 

 reaching behind an island, and water no longer flows 

 through it. I tried to get at its correct name, but failed. 

 Mr. A. C. Stott, of Stottville, N. Y., writes that on a 1777 

 map it is spelled "Popscheny," and that older writers give 

 "Palp-Sikenekoitas," while O'Callaghan, in his "History 

 of the New Netherlands," speaks of the "Papsknee." Col- 

 onel David A. Teller, whose family has owned a farm on its 

 banks for over a century, gives me other spellings, and 

 I've seen it as "Popsquinea," therefore I have fallen into 

 the habit of spelling it as we boys pronounced it. It 

 makes no difference now, it does not exist. 



Greenbush is dead in name only. It is now a city of 

 the Empire State, having been consolidated with East 

 Albany, Bath and other places, under the name of Rens- 

 selaer confound the vandals who had no regard for the 

 historic name honored in history by Fort Crailo, which is 

 the oldest building now standing in America, and by 

 Washington's headquarters on the McCulloch farm, on 

 the heights above the village. 



So, one by one, the columns supporting the arches of 

 our memories are swept away by a younger generation, 

 which cares nothing for them. They are falling fast. 

 Men who are now reckless boys will live to realize this. 

 A year ago I made a pilgrimage to the old scenes, and I 

 regret it. 



I was a stranger in a strange land. The tan-yard was 

 gone; the nut orchard was filled with cottages, and the 

 trees had gone where good trees go. No one likes to out- 



