"Oh, yes, I remember. I have a song relating to it, and will give you a verse;" and she sang:
"'Where Hudson's waves o'er silvery sands
Wind through the hills afar,
And Cro' Nest like a monarch stands,
Crowned with a single star.'"
After a round of applause had subsided, Burt, whose eyes had been more demonstrative than his hands, said, "That's by Morris. We can see from Fort Putnam his old home under Mount Taurus."
"I know. He is the poet who entreated the woodman to 'spare that tree.'"
"Which the woodman will never do," Webb remarked, "unless compelled by law; nor even then, I fear."
"Oh, Webb!" cried Amy, "with what a thump you drop into prose!"
"I also advise an immediate descent of the mountain if we are to have any time at Fort Putnam," he added. "I'll walk on."
They were soon winding down the S's by which the road overcame the steep declivity. On reaching a plateau, before the final descent, they came across a wretched hovel, gray and storm-beaten, with scarcely strength to stand. Rags took the place of broken glass in the windows. A pig was rooting near the doorstep, on which stood a slatternly woman, regarding the party with dull curiosity.
"Talk about the elevating influence of mountain scenery," said Miss
Hargrove; "there's a commentary on the theory."
"The theory's correct," persisted Burt. "Their height above tide-water and the amount of bad whiskey they consume keep our mountaineers elevated most of the time."