The land along the east sh.o.r.e of Narragansett bay was the country of Ma.s.sasoit; that on the west side, and the islands, belonged to the Narragansetts.

It was in the heart of winter when he made his way in secrecy through snow and ice to a place not far from where Blackstone lived. Here he began to plant and build, and others came to join him. Williams was shown great kindness by the Indians, and he bought the land of natives, thereby soon gaining great influence over them.

CHAPTER VII

BERKSHIRE HILLS

I know where wild things lurk and linger In groves as gray and grand as Time; I know where G.o.d has written poems Too strong for words or rhyme.

--Maurice Thompson.

To one who has lived in a level country how full of joyful experience is a winding mountain road!

None of our journeys will be remembered with keener delight than the days spent in sauntering along the Mohawk trail. What incomparable trout streams, what vast primeval forests, how charming the peaceful valleys, what trails leading to the tops of wooded hills or fern-clad cool retreats of the forest! What a life the Indians must have had here, moving from place to place enjoying new homes and new scenery! Here the fierce child of Nature lived amidst the grandest temples of G.o.d's building, where the song of the hermit thrush as old as these fragrant aisles, still rings like a newly-strung lute; while the wind among the myriad keyed pines thrums a whispering accompaniment and the yellow and white birch fill the place with incense.

Many mourn because they have no money to purchase a n.o.ble work of art, or pay a visit to the Vatican or the Louvre. But here in their own beloved America G.o.d has an open gallery, filled with pictures fairer than the grandest dream of any landscape artist, which wear no trace of age and no fire can destroy. Here no curtains need be drawn, as over the masterpieces of Raphael and Rubens to preserve their tints for future generations. 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 pa.s.sing 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 surpa.s.ses 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 pa.s.sed, 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 Ma.s.sachusetts. That grand old state, whose valiant sons were ever ready to guard the rights of a freedom and liberty loving people, can be justly proud of the part she has always played in progressive movements. This superb stretch of macadam road traverses a bit of mountain country hitherto untraveled, save by chance pedestrians or wandering Indians. It pa.s.ses through a region whose marvelous beauty and varied scenery is unrivaled in the East.

Centuries ago the savage Mohawk, in his annual journeys from the valley of the Hudson to the valley of the Connecticut, traveled this scenic highway. This is one of the oldest and most beautiful highways on the continent. It was built at a cost of over a third of a million dollars. This seems a large sum to pay for a stretch of road only fifteen miles in length, "but a trip over it" as one traveler said, "is well worth the price." "Each day in summer, thousands of tourists pa.s.s over it, attracted by the freshness and beauty of the Berkshire Hills."

The old trail crossed parts of three states: Eastern New York, northern Vermont, and western Ma.s.sachusetts. After the white man came and subdued the Indian, this old trail was still used as the only communication between the East and West in this section of the country. What historic ground it traverses, and what stirring scenes were witnessed here! From the Hudson eastward it pa.s.ses the home of the original knickerbocker, celebrated by Washington Irving, and runs near Bennington, famous as the place in which General Stark, with the aid of reinforcements led by Colonel Seth Warner, defeated two detachments of Burgoyne's army.

Here were collected the supplies the British did not get. Here, too, is located a beautiful monument three hundred and one feet in height, which commemorates the event. It leads through Pownal, the oldest permanent settlement in Vermont, where both Garfield and Aruthur taught school and near which, is located "Snow Hole," a cave of perpetual snow and ice. Williamstown, Ma.s.s., also lies along this highway. It grew up near Fort Ma.s.s, which was constructed by Colonel Ephraim Williams as a barrier to guard the western frontier of the Ma.s.sachusetts Bay Colony.

Here is located Williams College, one of the most famous of the smaller New England inst.i.tutions; also Thompson Memorial Chapel, which is considered by architectural authorities to be one of the finest in this country. In Mission Park is located the famous haystack monument, marking the birthplace of foreign missions, a spot visited by pilgrims from all over the world.

We were indeed entering the Switzerland of America. Hawthorne in his notebook characterized its beauty thus: "I have never driven through such romantic scenery, where there was such a variety of mountain shapes as this, and though it was a bright sunny day, the mountains diversified the air with sunshine and shadow and glory and gloom."

"Never came day more joyfully upon mountains," and never was any more fully enjoyed. The dew was almost as refreshing as rain, so copiously had it gathered on the gra.s.s and flowers. Their brilliant spikes of blossoms were like magic wands, enticing us through the place like fair enchantresses. Ferns, the like of which we never beheld, grew all about the highway. Great Osmunda ferns, nearly as high as our heads, formed vase-like cl.u.s.ters, whose magic shields seemed guarding the home of some forest nymphs. It is a delight to be alive amid scenes so fair and on days which are as perfect as July days can be.

Imagine if you can a balmy south wind, heavily laden with the fragrance of pine mint, balsam and scented fern; myriads of pine needles each tipped with its diamond drop; musical brooks far- flashing in the morning light; twittering swallows in the sky above; add to this the mysterious veil of color that makes distance so magical, and you yet have a faint idea of the picture.

In the valleys lay velvety meadows with their stately groups of elms, beneath which droves of cattle and sheep were grazing. Now and then lakes gleamed like sheets of molten beryl in their forest setting. Here and there we observed s.p.a.ces in the valley resembling sunken gardens, with houses surrounded by their graceful elms, or having tree-bordered fields in their midst. We knew not in which direction to look, for beauty was on every side and we absorbed new life, new hope, and spiritual tone from our wonderful environment.

"Today we dine at the sign of the White Pine Bough," we said, as we beheld a fine forest of evergreens, whose myriad needles seemed to be calling us to enjoy their "restful solitude."

Chickadees and warblers sang among their branches. The ground beneath them was covered with a thick soft carpet of rich brown needles. Large boulders covered with moss and lichens were scattered about, which served us for tables. Tall ferns grew in abundance. The air was heavy with fragrance of pine and hemlock.

Our appet.i.tes were made unusually keen by our sampling of choke cherries that grew in abundance along the highway. How delicious is a meal of buns, with honey and b.u.t.ter, berries and pure spring water! One learns the real flavor of food out here where the odors of restaurants are but a memory.

Thinking that there was a waterfall somewhere near, we penetrated quite a distance the forest, only to learn that we had heard naught but the wind among the pines.

Here in the lovely Berkshire country near a charming lake we saw the st.u.r.dy New England farmers at work in their harvest fields.

One farmer was still using the old self rake-reaper. It was interesting to watch the old reaper in operation. A real old gentleman seeing us, came out to the road and after a friendly greeting, asked: "And what be ye doing in Yankee land?" Mr. H.

could not resist the temptation to bind a few sheaves for old times' sake, and soon was binding the golden bundles, and so fascinated was he, that an hour pa.s.sed by (to the utter delight of the old man's son, let it be known) while he neatly bound his first New England sheaves.

He was well aware that this stop had undoubtedly meant the missing of some grand natural scenery, but he declared with amazing indifference that he would not have missed this opportunity for many mountain scenes, however fair. The same mysterious power that threw over the hills that filmy veil of delicate blue had turned to gold the standing wheat, which so lately undulated in the rippling wind with its sea-like tints of shimmering, shining green.

Bidding our friends adieu, we thought what a grand harvest of by- gone memories the day had brought.

One can never forget the groups of yellow and silver birch that grow like beautiful bouquets along the trail. Druids built their altars and worshiped beneath the aged oaks, but surely there were no lovely groups of white and yellow birch there, or they would have forsaken their oaks for these graceful, fragrant trees. What lessons of humility they teach by their modest, humble manner!

Where the forest contains so many n.o.ble trees to challenge one's admiration, you will linger fondly among these glorious creations of G.o.d's art, where each new group is more beautiful than the last, and extol their beauty above all other New England trees. They are indeed the gold and silver censers in Nature's vast cathedral which scatter incense on every pa.s.sing breeze. One could wish for no lovelier monument to mark his last resting place--and it would indeed be a n.o.ble life to be worthy of such distinction.

The most beautiful of all eastern evergreen trees is the hemlock, which forms a most vivid contrast to the groups of birch, and when they are ma.s.sed in the background the birch stand out in fine relief. Then how different from the vigorous aspiring pines they are. Poor soil seems to be no drawback to the pines, for they appear to possess a native vitality found in no other tree, and push upward st.u.r.dily toward the light; their "spiry summits pointing always heavenward." The slender, graceful branches of the hemlock trees are hung with innumerable drooping sprays of bluish green foliage, beautiful as the Osmunda ferns that grow in these wonderful woods. Then how charming their blue flowers and rich brown cones that form cl.u.s.ters at the ends of their numerous sprays They are just the ornaments to enhance their delicate foliage, and a bloom of silvery-blue clothes the trees like that which veils the distant mountain sides.

The trees became thicker and the scenery more rugged as we neared a place where the road doubled back, forming a sort of triangular piece of land known as "Hairpin Curve." This seems to be one of the shrines of travelers, and the goal of many a summer pilgrimage. There is an observation tower here, where a wonderful view of the country may be had. The view, though not so extensive, is very much like that obtained from Whitcomb's summit. Here we met two boys with pails well filled with blueberries and huckleberries. They kindly gave us a sample of each variety, the quest of which would furnish an excuse for so many memorable rambles in the days to come.

Indeed the Mecca of travelers is Mount Whitcomb, from whose summit you look over a vast expanse of mountain peaks stretching away in all directions like a huge sea. Standing on the summit of Whitcomb, one of the finest views of pure wild mountain scenery in the East is disclosed. Immediately in front of you loom vast numbers of wooded slopes with their varied tints of green in grand variety, stretching shoulder to shoulder like works of art. A great many peaks, rivers and dark blue lakes, all saturated in the warm, purple light, lie dreamily silent in the far distance. Rounded summits rise up from the vast undulating ma.s.s like a never-ending sea, whose surface is broken as far as the eye can reach with their immense billows of blue and green.

The nearer forests comprise the green-tinted waves, which recede and blend imperceptibly into infinite gradations of color from palest sapphire to darkest purple tones. Standing here, gazing at the glorious landscape circling round with its far-flashing streams, placid lakes, and the infinite blue dome of the sky above, and an air of mystery brooding over all, we exclaimed with the poet: "And to me mountains high are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture."

What a wealth of natural beauty greets you here! It is the highest point along the Mohawk trail, twenty-two hundred and two feet above sea level. From the sixty-foot observatory the eye sweeps sections of four states: Vermont, New Hampshire, Ma.s.sachusetts, and New York. Among the prominent peaks that distinguish themselves are Monadnock, in New Hampshire, Mount Berlin in New York, Wachuset, Mount Tom, and Graylock in Ma.s.sachusetts, the latter being monarch of them all, rising to a height of thirty-five hundred and five feet. A remarkable feature of the place is a spring issuing from the rocks near Mount Whitcomb's summit.

There is more sublimity in the towering snow-clad Alps, more real wildness in the Adirondacks, more gracefulness in the flowing contour of the Catskills, yet few are so beautiful or "bring more lasting and inspiring memories." Lying dreamily silent in thick purple hues, old Graylock is a vision of splendor that looms as a charming surprise to all observers. The sunbeams that filter through innumerable leaves give the place a cathedral-like solemnity. How all sordid thoughts disappear, vanishing on the far sh.o.r.es of forgetfulness like the pale tints that grow dim and melt along the sky-line! How the so-called splendors and pomp of your cities pale into insignificance out here among G.o.d's eternal hills! The eye roves over this vast domain in unwonted freedom.

How quickly one imbibes disdain for all unrighteous restraint.

No wonder the inhabitants dwelling among the Swiss Alps could not bear the crushing yoke of tyranny thrust upon them. The very atmosphere they breathed had in it an elixir, and the lofty, snow-clad hills, as they gazed upon their seeming unchangeableness, were only loftier principles that led their souls in trial flights heavenward.

As you look out again at this vast wilderness of mountains towering together you are aware how many and superb are the views you never could have enjoyed by remaining in the valleys below. Only by continued effort can one leave the lowlands of self, and it requires a courageous soul indeed not to look back as did Lot's wife at the smoking ruins of her village. How much of indomitable courage and firmness is taught by those hills!

How much of humility by the little blue campanula peeping from rocky ledges, with heaven's own blue "gladdening the rough mountain-side like a happy life that toils and faints not."

We do not know why the Florida range in the Hoosacs was so named unless it was on account of the wonderfully luxuriant ferns that present an almost tropical appearance along its sides. Here are vast meadows of Osmundas, waving their plume-like fronds of rich green in tropical beauty. These are the most luxurious plants our low wet woods or mountain meadows know. They are all superb plants whose tall, sterile fronds curve gracefully outward, forming vase-like cl.u.s.ters with their resplendent shields.

The regal fern belonging to this family is all that its name implies. It has smooth pale green sterile fronds, with a crown that encircles the fertile, flower-like fronds, forming a vase- like cl.u.s.ter of singular beauty. This fern was one time used by herbalists to prepare a salve for wounds and bruises. We thought that it would be harder to destroy such beauty than to bear the wounds and bruises. It has in it the very essence and spirit of the woods, and "as you approach and raise these fronds you feel their mysterious presence."

Here, too, you meet with the interrupted fern, whose graceful, sterile fronds fall away in every direction, holding you captive with its charm. It is fair enough to interrupt Satan himself.

An old English legend relates that near Loch Tyne dwelt an Englishman, Osmund, who saved his wife and child from imminent danger by hiding them upon an island among ma.s.ses of flowered fern, and the child in later years named the plant for her father.