k, "the fireplace of the nation." The Mohicans
had been pretty thoroughly "pacified" by the Mohawks about the time
that Hudson ascended the river, and this region is full of legends of
fights and ambuscades.

It seems that Burgoyne's captured army was marched south over this
road, and some three miles out of Castleton, so the story goes, one
Jacob Jahn, a Hessian prisoner, escaped to the woods and later,
building a log house on the exact spot where he effected his escape,
he settled down, after taking unto himself a wife, and became a good
citizen.

The road follows the level table land almost to the Hudson, when it
dips down a steep incline, crosses the Muitzes Kill and joins the
river road. Once upon a time, as history records, as an excitable
Dutch vrouw was wending her way along the banks of this brook, a
sudden gust of wind caught up her cap, the pride of her heart, and
whisked it into the water beyond reach, whereupon she set up an
outcry, "Die muts is in die kill! Die muts is in die kill!" and so it
is even unto this day. What kind of a name the stream might now be
murmuring under, had this adventure befallen her good man is fearful
to think on.

[Sidenote: _CASTLETON._]

It is Castleton because the Indians once had a castle on the crest of
the hill back of the village. The town is comparatively new, having
been incorporated as late as 1827, and appears to have taken no
important or interesting part in the days when history was making; but
there was a ship yard here, and home-built sloops competed for the New
York trade before the railroad changed things.

It is told of a certain foolish citizen, a passenger on one of the
village sloops anchored for the night somewhere in the Highlands,
that, being requested by the wag of the party to steer the stationary
boat while the others took needed rest, he faithfully performed his
task until relieved the next morning. When asked by his shipmates how
they had got on during the night he replied that they had got along a
good ways by the water, but not far by the land.

Castleton is one long street which wanders out into the open country
at either end, and lonely country it is if one proceeds north as the
early twilight of a cool November evening is closing around. The
wayfarer, if he be of a fearful temperament and has read the story of
the Murder Place, is apt to quicken his steps as he passes into the
shadows of the trees that gloom the crossing of the stream mark