Alfred Billings Street.
HUDSON HIGHLANDS, FROM BULL-HILL.
THIS view out from the gorge of the Highlands presents a foreground of cliff and shadow, with their reflections almost folded across in the bosom of the river, and a middle ground of the village of Newburg and the gently-undulating country in the rear. The blue and far-off line of the Catskills shuts in the horizon.
There is some very romantic scenery hidden among the undulations just mentioned, embracing several small rivers, and also a romantic stream called Murderer’s Creek,—a tributary of the Hudson. Mr. Paulding, in his “New Mirror for Travellers,” gives the following interesting legend in explanation of the name:—
“Little more than a century ago, the beautiful region watered by this stream was possessed by a small tribe of Indians, which has long since become extinct, or been incorporated with some other savage nation of the West. Three or four hundred yards from where the stream discharges itself into the Hudson, a white family of the name of Stacey had established itself in a log-house by tacit permission of the tribe, to whom Stacey had made himself useful by his skill in a variety of little arts highly estimated by the savages. In particular, a friendship existed between him and an old Indian called Naoman, who often came to his house and partook of his hospitality. The Indians never forgive injuries or forget benefits. The family consisted of Stacey, his wife, and two children,—a boy and girl; the former five, the latter three years old.”
The legend goes on to say that Naoman, in grateful friendship, gave the wife of Stacey a secret warning that a massacre of the whites was resolved on, exacting from her a solemn pledge of secrecy, and advising instant escape across the river.
“The daily visits of old Naoman and his more than ordinary gravity had excited suspicion in some of the tribe, who had accordingly paid particular attention to the movements of Stacey. One of the young Indians, who had kept on the watch, seeing the whole family about to take their boat, ran to the little Indian village, about a mile off, and gave the alarm. Five Indians collected, ran down to the river side where their canoes were moored, jumped in and paddled after Stacey, who by this time had got some distance out into the stream. They gained on him so fast that twice he dropped his paddle and took up his gun. But his wife prevented his shooting, by telling him that if he fired, and they were afterwards overtaken, they would meet no mercy from the Indians. He accordingly refrained, and plied his paddle till the sweat rolled in big drops down his forehead. All would not do; they were overtaken within a hundred yards of the shore, and carried back with shouts of yelling triumph.