WHERE SWALLOWS ROOST 91 
filling up by the silt brought down by the Hacken- 
sack River. The river has preserved a right of 
way, but the bay has given place to a sea of reeds 
and grasses. 
Ona bright August morning I mount a spur of 
trap rock which reaches out from the western base 
of the Palisades, and from this elevation have an 
uninterrupted view over the meadows. The cool, in- 
vigorating air foretells the approach of autumn; it 
is brilliantly clear. The Orange hills stand out 
with the distinctness of Western mountains. The 
sun is at my back, and the light shows the meadows 
to the best advantage. At this distance I get the 
effect of only the masses of color; tracts of yellow- 
ish green meadow grass tinged with copper, and in 
places thickly sprinkled with the white flowers of 
the water hemlock and water parsnip; streaks of 
light green wild rice, and sharply defined areas of 
dark green cat-tail flags. The grass grows on the 
drier land, the wild rice in the small sloughs and 
creeks which are bordered by the flags. In the 
spring the wind blows the pollen from the cat-tail 
blossoms, and a shifting greenish vapor floats over 
the marsh; in the autumn a heavy westerly wind 
raises the seed-bearing down high in the air, carries 
it over the Palisades, across the Hudson, and it de- 
scends like a fall of fleecy snow on wondering New 
York. 
The marsh is a vast arena inclosed by the Pali- 
sades and Passaic hills; it isa great plain, with blue 
stretches of the winding river appearing here and 
there, and the haystacks are the huts of aborigines. 
I half close my eyes, and it is a copper-yellow sea. 
