The Palisades in 
By ROBERT S. LEMMON 
to the water’s edge. Time was when this road 
was a thoroughfare, and the few scattered 
houses to which it leads are but the remnants 
of a once thriving little settlement. In the old 
days of plentiful shad and sturgeon the fishing 
industry was quite extensive and not a little 
F AMILIAR as they are in summer to the 
hundreds who tramp and camp and sail 
on and about them, the Palisades of the 
Hudson are not so well known in their winter 
garb of snow and ice. The camps beside the 
river are all deserted then, the roads along the 
cliffs are seldom traversed save by an oc¬ 
casional wood-cutter, and when the river traffic 
is stopped by huge ice floes one might almost 
think the whole region some distant wilderness, 
it is so still and grim and austere. This very 
grimness and austerity form one of its greatest 
charms at this season, and the charm is muc i 
enhanced when the ground is covered with 
freshly fallen snow. The snow has anothei 
rise, too, for he who can read and understand 
the' records written on it, may be as¬ 
tonished at the variety of wild life that moves 
and has its being so near the great city. 
On a clear, crisp morning in early January 
we take the ferry which runs from West 130th 
street, Manhattan, and crossing the river, board 
a trolley which takes us, after a half-hour s 
pleasant ride, to Englewood. From there a 
broad, straight avenue leads up the western 
slope of the Palisades to the front, showing 
along its two miles of length many an ex¬ 
tensive view across the rolling country inland. 
It is just nine o’clock when we reach the cliffs 
and pause a moment before starting down the 
winding road to the river. The tide is ebbing 
strongly, and broad fields of ice, some of them 
acres in extent, are drifting steadily southward. 
They must have come from far. up the river, foi 
some of them are heavily scored with the marks 
of the ice-harvesters. Almost directly across 
from where we stand is Spuyten Duyvil, backed 
by the rolling Westchester hills, and away to 
the southward the skyscrapers of New York 
show clear in the sparkling air. 
Save the gulls which wing their grave way 
far below or float like tiny white specks on the 
blue-gray patches of open water, no signs of 
wild life are at first apparent. But just as we 
are about to descend to the river level, there 
comes from among the rocks at the foot of the 
cliffs a series of clear, ringing whistles, strong¬ 
ly suggestive of the notes of the cardinal, only 
considerably louder. It is a Carolina wren, and 
throughout the year he may be heard singing 
here as he dodges in and out about the rocks 
and bushes with true wren-like pertness. It is 
a singularly attractive bird—especially at this 
season—when its song is one of the very few 
that enliven the winter woods. 
The scenery is beautiful as we descend the 
old road which leads to the shore. I he gieat 
weather-worn cliffs rise sheer for two hundred 
feet on the one hand, and on the other a pre¬ 
cipitous rock-strewn slope falls abruptly away 
of the towering cliffs. Then a small steamer 
used to run to Yonkers and New York, carry¬ 
ing passengers and occasionally freight, and the 
remains of its old dock are still visible. 
Leaving the last house behind, we tramp 
THE PALISADES NEAR COYTESVILLE AND THE ICE-FILLED HUDSON RIVER. 
PhotoeraDh by Perry D. Frazer. 
