ose bordering hills were named
for the wild boar and the wild cat, and along whose edges are still
scattered the interesting relics of a past that the passenger by
steamer or rail can never know.

Take it in May or June when all nature is fresh and green, with fleecy
clouds above, and below a bank of wild azalea or an apple orchard in
bloom. Or try it in the Fall when the woods are as gay as the painted
butterfly. Each season holds out its own attractions.

Few places can equal the Hudson Valley for the Autumn panorama. The
brilliant colors of the deciduous foliage intermingled with the dark
of the evergreens rise from the blue of the river to the blue of
heaven with every variety of tree and shrub to lend a hand in the
illumination. It is red gold and yellow gold, purple and fine linen,
and all manner of precious stones when the sun puts a crown of glory
on some great tulip or sparkles in the gorgeous maple leaves. The
colors are so splendid that even Turner, in all his glory, could not
equal one of these.

There is no office at which to buy a ticket for this Post Road route.
It is Shanks' mare, with an independence and freedom that no other
mode of travel knows. To be sure, one can also take it on horseback,
by bicycle or automobile, according to fancy and finances, and,
provided he does not exceed the speed limit, it matters little how he
goes. The speed limit naturally differs with the individual. The
writer thinks that three miles an hour is fast enough--a pace that
enables one to keep his eyes on the picture and does not necessitate a
continuous inspection of the road.

Naturally the weather plays its part in such an open air journey, and
this is particularly the case if the trip be made on foot. It is the
loss of the landscape, blotted out by the mist, rather than the
physical discomfort of being caught in a rain squall, that counts. In
fact, if one is protected by a light rubber cape, and will take the
storm philosophically with a mind to enjoy it and rise superior to the
drip on his knees, there is huge satisfaction in being alone with the
patter of the rain. But the loss of the landscape is serious in such
country as the Post Road deals with. An instance of this comes vividly
to mind in connection with the Wiccopee Pass and the plain south of
Fishkill. As I first saw it of a perfect June evening, it was as
delicately beautiful as a bit of silver filigree, but another time, in
September, the mist hung low