Talk about an Irish cop and you are sure to see one.
Before we
were fairly started we were hailed by one; the very size of him
and his ruddy face as if a danger signal had been waved in front
of us were enough to stop the most venturesome driver. He soon
turned out to be more inquisitive than a bluejay, and although
he did not cry "thief" he hurled a volley of questions at us in
such rapid succession we could hardly find answers. Where are
you from? Where do you live? Where are you going? We told him we
were from Ohio, lived in Indiana and were going home. We soon
bade our friend adieu, neither party made the wiser for the hold-
up.
On our return one of the finest landscapes of the Mohawk region
was suddenly unrolled before us. Miles and miles away stretched
the rolling swells of forest and grain land, fading into the
dimmest blue of the Catskills where the far distant peaks were
just discernible along the horizon. Such a superb and imposing
view as we had was worth all the anxieties of the morning. Each
turn we made brought new views; undulating land of brightest
green, through which wound sparkling streams; and villages lying
here and there with their rising spires that twinkled in the
dreamy atmosphere like stars in a lower firmament.
The landscape in one direction consisted of dark wooded hills
between which a stream flowed on its way like a ribbon of silver
until it disappeared behind the purple headlands.
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