e Triassic
period. What can you get anywhere older than that? And Europe would give
a cathedral or two out of her jewel-box to look young as long as America
does!

We've got a queer old manuscript at Awepesha, which Jack has ferreted
out of obscurity, telling the Indian legends of the Hudson River. They
are as beautiful as anything from the ancient Sanscrit, and the Indians
who lived on the Palisades' green tops, or along the shores beneath--the
Hackensack, and Tappan Indians and others who have given their names to
river places--had some of the best legends of all. I love the Woman of
the Mountains (young and lovely, not old, as some people say) who had
done noble service for the Great Spirit: as reward she had the privilege
of cutting out a new silver moon every month with her magic shears, and
when it was shrinking into uselessness, to snip what was left into
little stars--as Juliet wanted done with Romeo! She lived in a wonderful
purple cave, not in the Palisades, but hidden in the Catskills; and from
its door, which no one could find, she sent forth Day and Night
alternately. Also, in immense jars of porphyry and gold, she kept
sunshine and storm, to let out when she thought best. Perhaps those
purple splashes and golden gleams we saw under the water were her storm
and sun jars, which floated out of the cave and buried themselves in the
sand poured down by Sandy Hook!

To jump from the Indian legends to the Dutch, I do trust the story of
Spuyten Duyvil is true. It must be, because it's too good _not_ to be
true. Do you remember it's told in dear Washington Irving's
"Knickerbocker History of New York?"--the most amusing history book ever
written, I should think. The man--one of Peter Stuyvesant's men, I
fancy--was hurrying to warn the farmers that the Beastly British were
coming, and when there was no bridge by which he could cross the stream
he vowed he'd do the trick "in spuyt den duyvil." The history says he
was drowned in the fierce waters, but I _can't_ believe that part. I
think his jealous rival--of course he had one--put _that_ tale about. Of
course he got across and warned the farmers, as he deserved to do for
defying the devil.

I remember when I used to be at boarding-school in New York, and in
spring we were taken little Saturday trips when we were good, the very
name of "Yonkers" meant deadly suburban dullness to me. I only wanted to
get past the place. But to motor through with Jack makes all the
d