162 IN BERKSHIRE FIELDS 



once more a living highway. I well remember, 

 however, that in the yard of the first farm we came 

 to stood a large cage, of wood with an iron-barred 

 door, and inside snapped and spit an extremely 

 peevish wildcat with huge, restless paws. 



Trie town of Sheffield, where I now live, is in the 

 southwestern corner of Massachusetts, on the plain 

 of the Housatonic River. It is bounded on the 

 west by the long rampart of Mount Everett, or "the 

 Dome, " as we call it, which rises in a sheer leap for a 

 thousand feet directly from the level, and then 

 slopes back more gradually till the dominating sum- 

 mit ascends to a total height of 2,600 feet, the sec- 

 ond highest mountain in the state. Sheffield was 

 settled in the first half of the eighteenth century, 

 among the earliest inhabitants being a certain Dutch 

 family named Spoor (since changed to Spurr), who 

 had a large grant of land on the western side of the 

 township, lying on, and at the base of, the mountain. 

 They came from the Hudson Valley, presumably 

 over the mountain. My farm is a part of their 

 grant, and just beyond my north boundary, entering 

 first the grounds of the Berkshire School, is an an- 

 cient road, leading west from the state highway. 

 It makes directly for the mountain wall, which is 

 here almost precipitous in places, and it can still be 

 followed to the summit of the ridge, an air-line dis- 

 tance of considerably less than a mile, but a rise of 

 almost a thousand feet. You would naturally sup- 

 pose that it would have to resort to frequent switch- 

 backs in order to make the ascent, more than half 

 of which is contained in the last few hundred yards, 

 yet the switchbacks are few. It makes a long 



