toil. We saw Slide Mountain,
near by to the north, and Whiteface far beyond, perhaps twenty-five
miles distant; northeast, the Gothics; east, Saw-teeth, Mt. Colvin,
Mt. Dix, and the lakes of the Ausable. To the southeast, Skylight;
northwest, Tahawas, still foolishly styled on some of our maps,
Mt. Marcy. The descent of Haystack was as easy as Virgil's famous
"Descensus Averni." We went down in just twenty minutes. The one
that reached the bottom first simply possessed better adaptation for
rolling.

* * *

Eagles still claim the loftiest heights: from there
They scan with solemn eyes the scenes below--
The river and the hills which shall endure
While man's frail generations come and go.

_E. A. Lente._

* * *

One mile from the foot of Haystack brought us to Panther Gorge Camp,
appropriately named, one of the wildest spots in the Adirondacks. We
remained there that night and slept soundly, although a dozen of us
were packed so closely in one small camp that no individual could turn
over without disarranging the whole mass. Caliban and Trinculo were
not more neighborly, and Sebastian, even sober, would have been fully
justified in taking us for "a rare monster" with twenty legs.

The next morning we ascended Tahawas, but saw nothing save whirling
clouds on its summit. Twice since then we have had better fortune, and
looked down from this mountain peak, five thousand three hundred and
forty-four feet above the sea, upon the loveliest mountain landscape
that the sun ever shone upon. We went down the western slope of
Tahawas, through a driving rain, to Camp Colden, where, with clothes
hung up to dry, we looked like a party of New Zealanders preparing
dinner, hungry enough, too, to make an orthodox meal of each other.
The next day the weather cleared up, and we made a trip of two miles
over a rough mountain trail to Lake Avalanche, whose rocky and
precipitous walls form a fit christening bowl, or baptistery-font for
the infant Hudson.

Returning to Camp Colden and resuming our western march, two miles
brought us to Calamity Pond, where a lone monument marks the spot of
David Henderson's death, by the accidental discharge of a pistol. Five
miles from this point brought us to the "Deserted Village," or the
Upper Adirondack Iron Works, with houses and furnaces abandoned,
and rapidly falling into decay. Here we found a cheery fireside and
cordial welcome.

* * *

All the sad s