Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down
By the wayside aweary. Through the trees
The golden robin moves. The purple finch,
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud
From cottage roofs the warbling bluebird sings."
The weather during our stay here has been perfect, the air bright and bracing; that old Indian squaw-spirit who is said to influence the weather on the "Catskills," "spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape," was very good to us; she gave us nothing but bright sunshiny days and clear moonlight nights, a sure proof that we were welcome visitors, for it is said that when she is displeased she "would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web; and when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys!"