, laden with such
stores from the village as they could carry with them on the retreat.
Now and then an unkept farmhouse appears, but there is little life; it
is possible to walk as far as Nelson's Mill, some eight miles, without
passing a team of any sort, and hardly any one on foot, but, like
Goldsmith's village street the wayside is

"With blossomed furze unprofitably gay."

Joe Pie weed, as heavy-headed as a sleepy child, alternating with the
straight stemmed goldenrod, while every wall is adorned with
snapdragon or Virginia creeper, the scarlet product of the deadly
nightshade, or the silvery remains of the clematis--this in August or
September. If one goes this way in the Spring there is the wild azalea
against the edge of the woods, and the woodland flowers come trooping
down even to the wheel tracks.

It is forty years since the telegraph abandoned this abandoned
highway, and the tramps left with the telegraph poles. One old
inhabitant says it used to take a considerable part of her time each
day to feed the gentry who applied, for she, being afraid of them,
never refused. To-day, over this part of the road, the tramp is as
scarce as the stage coach. To be sure the law may have something to do
with it, for any one who lodges information against a tramp gets $15,
and the gentleman of leisure presumably suffers accordingly, as the
farmer is not likely to assess himself merely for the pleasure of
housing lazy humanity.

Just beyond the fifty-fourth mile-stone stands one of the old inns
which is put down by Christopher Colles as Travers's Tavern. It still
offers shelter to him who will seek, as I discovered when caught by a
sudden shower.

From the last hilltop, before Nelson's Mill is reached, is a glorious
view of the "Golden Gate," the notch between Storm King and Breakneck,
through which the Hudson flows, and, in summer floods of gold from the
setting sun. On all sides are hills and valleys. It seems as though
the whole world is on edge.

Here stands sentinel a tall old mile-stone by the road side demanding
of every one that passes the countersign--Wonderful!

Down the steep hillside the road now lunges to Nelson's Mill or
Corner, once a relay station for the stage coach horses, and a mill
site for many generations, and now we are looking up at the mountains
instead of down on them. The road floats up and down the gentle swells
of the valley's floor, each bend bringing into line another view of
th