The Story of Our Cover Painting 



It's a ■warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries; 

 I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes. 

 For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hilb. 

 And April's in the west wind, and daffodils.— John Masefield. 



HERE is something immortal in boyhood memories of the hills. They are a 

 compelling force, even in one's later life, and invariably there will be a return- 

 ing, if for only a short holiday. Halcyon days when nothing mattered; when 

 white clouds cast huge moving shadows over the Valle}'; when there were long 

 tramps over mountains; trout streams to wander down; clear, cold lakes to 

 swim in; camp fires at the end of long days of exploration, and, finally, nights of 

 starlight and moonfight, with their music of far-away cowbells and the muffled roar from the 

 overland freights as they struggled up the grades. The all-day excursions into the "wilder- 

 ness" beyond Bear Mountain made, perhaps, the deepest impressions. Our favorite trail lay 

 down the Sulhvan Road to the Big Mountain, for it held much romance. Here it was that an 

 American army cut its way through the forests to Cherry Valley to fight Indians. This was 

 back in 1779. (The tragic results of the expedition were all unknown to us.) Here were the 

 deserted camp grounds; White Oak Run with its thunder storms; the winding W. & E. Rail- 

 road with its friendly handcars; Hungry Hill, where we always stood in youthful awe and pity 

 before a lone grave of one of SuHivan's men; Cool-Moor with its gloriously cold spring-water, 

 and, finally, the ascent of the mountain itself, the conquest of which always filled us with 

 manly pride, for we would attack it fully armed with stones and clubs in preparation for bears 

 and rattlesnakes which never appeared. But that was long, long ago, and years have passed, 

 bringing their own responsibilities and perspectives. 



One glorious morning this past August the call came once more, and again we were rolhng 

 along the dream roads. This time, there were only two days to wander, so it had to be by 

 motor. So much to see and so little time in which to see it. But they are all the same — the 

 mountains, the streams, the cool lake where we swam on summer afternoons, and far below 

 us. Paradise Valley, just as in by-gone days. Many old friends are there to give us greeting. 

 Try as we may, we find it quite impossible to drink too deeply of the charms of this, our one- 

 time playground. The hours pass all too quickly, and soon we must start home. But a short 

 time more and we are once again rolling down the Valley. Our car rounds a bend, gains the 

 top of a little knoll, and there before us is the Great Mountain. The old call is on — we must 

 climb. So up we go, Cadillac and all, making the trip in ten minutes from Cool-Moor. In 

 the old days, with good luck and an earlv start, we could sometimes be home by sun-down. 

 Beneath us lies the Great Valley, and in tlie background the long-remembered ranges extend- 

 ing away off into the mysterious distance. At the foot of the mountain are fields of golden 

 grain and green pastures and orchards, with here and there a sapphire lake reflecting the blue 

 of the sky. Farther away are miles and miles of virgin forests, and on beyond the long Blue 

 Ridge and the Gap. Here truly is a superb panorama. Can we not share this with our friends? 

 But how? We must make the effort. 



Only a few days passed before our friend, Martin Lewis, started up the Lackawanna Road 

 with his sketch-book. Our cover is what he saw% and how superbly he has caught the spirit 

 of the Valley, and how happy we are that we can share at least this part of it with you, our 

 friends. Perhaps, if you study it long enough you will find scmething back in your own mem- 

 ory which will respond. There is little to indicate that tomatoes, beets, or cabbages are spoken 

 of inside the cover. Our old friends may miss the scarlet Bonny Best, which has held the place 

 of honor for thirteen years. But, then, perhaps, the spirit of the Valley is so fine and whole- 

 some as to be a representative spokesman for the fair-minded business methods which our 

 company stands for. We do mean at all times to be open and aboveboard, to do our full part, 

 and to take on our honest share of productive work. Further, we hold little doubt that some- 

 thing of beauty — a quiet valley, perhaps, or a far mountain, or a sea storm — is the foster- 

 mother of such ideals as are not inherited. — F. C. S. 



