They grow
more mellow and tender as countless years roll by. All of these
you may have, to hang on the walls of memory where no Napoleon
can come to take them to a Louvre.
THE LURE OF THE MOHAWK TRAIL
Along the Mohawk trail, standing gold and white
Where the crystal rivers flash and gleam;
The fragrant birch trees greet the sight,
And gently droop to kiss the steam.
And the lure of the pine on the Mohawk trail,
Is tuned to the spirits' restful mood,
It murmurs and calls on the passing gale,
For all to enjoy its solitude.
Still, the birch and pine all silver and gray,
Call from the Berkshires and seem to say:
"Leave your lowland worries behind
The petty cares that hinder and blind;
Come hither and find a quieter spot
Where troubles and cares and sorrow are not.
Come out where the heavens just drip with gold
And the Divine Artist's paintings ne'er grow old.
- O. O. H.
Scenery such as you meet with here has a more telling effect
upon one than a masterpiece of sculpture, literature or music,
and infinitely surpasses man's most worthy efforts. Why cross
the ocean or spend an over-amount of time in the art galleries
of our own country, when we dwell so near Art's primal source?
Out here the Divine Artist, with all rare colors, has painted
scenes of panoramic splendor and every day new and grander views
are displayed, for He sketches no two alike. Then, what
harmonious blending of light and shadow; what glowing veils of
color that no Turner has ever caught! At every turn in the road
new pictures are passed, revealing rare and unrivaled beauty.
You need not sigh because you are so far removed from grand
opera, for the very trees and ferns are eloquent with melodies
irresistible; although their silence may be perfect, the heart
perceives the richest, fullest harmonies.
You should not lament the fact that you have never heard the
skylark or nightingale for, their melody, although infinitely
rich and varied, do not attain that sublime height of harmony
found in the thrush's song. If you long to go to Europe to hear
the lark and nightingale, save the best trip for the last and
come out to the White mountains, where you can hear more
ethereal songs.
With such pure air, stately trees, sparkling brooks, and singing
birds, surely the sick would all speedily recover and the lines
of suffering and care be smoothed from their pain-traced faces,
could they spend a few weeks on the Mohawk trail.
This trail is one of the newest and by far the most beautiful
opened by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
