H (Sluest for ranter. 223 



its way across Gilder Hollow, up the wild ravine 

 which leads past Sky Farm to the corner township 

 of the Bay State, Mount Washington. It was a 

 thrilling ride, along the side of a deep ravine, on the 

 verge of a gulf full seven hundred feet to the brook- 

 bed below. The road was narrow, and it seemed 

 as though if the horses should swerve we should go 

 tobogganing to the very bottom. But twice we met 

 descending teams, and found room enough to turn 

 out. There was more snow here than in the valley, 

 and the sleighing was excellent. And the woods 

 bare of leaves, the long vistas down the gorge, the 

 sharp contrasts to the summer aspects with which 

 we were so much more familiar, made the upward 

 way seem very short, so that, as we drew up before a 

 Mount Washington farmhouse and greeted its aston- 

 ished owner, we were quite prepared to vote that 

 for real, racy pleasure, January is the most desirable 

 month in the year for picnics. The lunch was eaten 

 with a keener relish than on summer days, albeit it 

 was the conventional bill-of-fare, — sandwiches and 

 hard-boiled eggs and coffee. 



It was soon despatched and we had parted with 

 our host, hardly  recovered from the shock of our 

 surprising visit, and were rapidly descending another 

 and wilder ravine to the picturesque Bashbish. Just 

 as we were approaching the falls, and before we had 

 fairly caught sight of the Hudson valley, the grey 

 snowstorm pervaded the air, and shut us into short- 

 range views. We found the lovely cascade all cased 



