IN THE CATSKILLS 



smaller song to greet the day, albeit it was of the 

 purest harmony. It seemed to have in a more 

 marked degree the quality of interior reverberation 

 than any other thrush song I had ever heard. Would 

 the altitude or the situation account for its minor 

 key? Loudness would avail little in such a place. 

 Sounds are not far heard on a mountain-top; they 

 are lost in the abyss of vacant air. But amid these 

 low, dense, dark spruces, which make a sort of can- 

 opied privacy of every square rod of ground, what 

 could be more in keeping than this delicate musical 

 whisper ? It was but the soft hum of the balsams, 

 interpreted and embodied in a bird's voice. 



It was the plan of two of our companions to go 

 from Slide over into the head of the Rondout, and 

 thence out to the railroad at the little village of 

 Shokan, an unknown way to them, involving nearly 

 an all-day pull the first day through a pathless wil- 

 derness. We ascended to the topmost floor of the 

 tower, and from my knowledge of the topography 

 of the country I pointed out to them their course, 

 and where the valley of the Rondout must lie. The 

 vast stretch of woods, when it came into view from 

 under the foot of Slide, seemed from our point of 

 view very uniform. It swept away to the southeast, 

 rising gently toward the ridge that separates Lone 

 Mountain from Peak-o'-Moose, and presented a 

 comparatively easy problem. As a clew to the course, 

 the line where the dark belt or saddle-cloth of spruce, 

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