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Country W alks 
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Being Certain Choice Annals 

of the 
Paterson Rambling Club 



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This Book Comprising the Writings of 
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Here ts one of those rare books that, like a fragrant 
flower seen by the wayside, has found its way out of tts 
obscuring surroundings, and thus has not “‘wasted tts 
sweetness on the desert air.’ The people of Paterson 
and the State of New Jersey have been enlightened and 
delighted, during many years, by the printing, in The 
Paterson Morning Call, of the prectous treasures of in- 
formation and delight from the voluminous writings of 
Joseph Rydings. Carl Schondorf has re-published many 
of them in his popular weekly column on “Country 
“Walks in Many Fields.’’ Thus, those reproduced have 
been read and admired, and have benefited thousands 
of readers. Some of them and many other gems of 
“Rydings Writings’ have been collected for this historic 

What an heirloom Joseph Rydings, the “‘leader’’ 
of the Paterson Rambling Club, founded in 1904, has 
left to this city and to thts state! This book will enrich 
our literature, and thousands of people, nature students, 
botanists and others interested tn our city’s beautiful 
rural surroundings, who read these delightful and tnstruc- 
tive pages will feel grateful, that this humble and revered 
man and great naturalist has lived in our midst. 

Philmer Eves. 

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The Paterson Rambling Club 
Inspecting Art Treasures - 

Anarchy in America - - - 

Mr. Rydings in Reminiscent Mood 
Ramblers at Spring of Dunkerhook 

Ramblers at Haledon oils 










A Pilgrimage to the Place Where Hamilton Fell 

Thanksgiving in the Woods 




Ramblers’ First Hike of the Spring Season 

Some Recollections of Madison Avenue 

An Historic Dundee Ford. - 
‘The Beauties of the Notch - 
Woods Are Beautiful - - 
The Ramblers at Caldwell  - 
The Ramblers Visit Suffern 
Ramblers at Oakland - - 


















Historic Old Stone Church at Paramus 

Springtime Journey to the Glacial Rock 






Spring Flowers Greet Ramblers at Sicomac 

Rambling Club at Glen Rock 


Experiences Along Beaten Paths 
‘The Passaic Falls Years Ago and Now 

A Trip to High Mountain - 
A Ramble to Deep-Brook Glen 


Ramble to Squaw Brook Valley 











How Joseph Rydings Spent a Rainy Day 









Beauties: of ‘the Ramapos)/\-y7-))/=') -° 3a 
The Charms of ‘Cherry Hill see 
Ramblers at Green Pond <--> - ~~) ae 
Another Old Paterson Landmark To Go - - ~- 

A Ramble Over the Haledon Mountains - - - : 

Ramblers in the Ramapo Mountains - - - - 
Ramblers at Gedar Grove = = - ~ =) 7a 
Mortuary Tributes to Old Settlers at Wyckoff, N. J. 
A Ramble By Squaw Brook) 7- -\ ~ 97) gms 
Winter Scenes Along An Old Waterway - - - 
Camp Rusticate at Pompton Lakes - - - - 
Rogers’ Woods of Today and Yesterday - - - 
A Summer’s Day Spent at Old Dundee Lake - - 
A Day in the Heart of the Preakness Mountains - 
‘Wetting’ a New Estate On a “‘Dry’’ Saturday - 
A Ramble Along the Tow-path - - - - - 
A [rip to Garret Mountain) > 9-9) = 3) eae 
From Jitneys to Old Indian Trails - - - - ~- 
The Canal Tow-path in the Wintertime - - - 
Reminiscences of a Popular Orchestra - - - - 

Prehistoric Paterson, Passaic Valley and iit Re- 
mains of a Vanished Race - - ~- oe 

Evolution of the Warping Machine - - - - 

Days of the Old Hand ee ance ia whe 
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Paterson, the Nature Lovers’ Home - - - - 


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Ode of Welcome 
By Philmer Eves. 

Rural ramble, by the bramble, 
Over the mountain, by the brook; 
Through the fairy woods we'll scramble, 
In the field or shady nook. 

Fragrant flowers, the fields adorning, 
Dewdrops glitt’ring on each spray, 
Whisper in the breeze “Good morning, 
Hither come each summer day.’’ 

Leave behind all toil or sorrow, 
Nature’s sweets shall banish care, 

With the sunshine come tomorrow 
Health is free as mountain ait. 

Babbling streams then sing your greeting, 
Crimson leaves bestrew our way. 
Merry men and maidens meeting, 
Welcome to our club today. 

Official Song of the Paterson Rambling Club. 

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The Paterson Rambling Club 

~.| HE Paterson Rambling Club, which has now be- 
“41 come such a popular organization, was formed 
September 15th, 1904, when a meeting was con- 
vened by Philmer Eves to talk over the proposi- 
tion. ‘The idea had its inception in the spring 
of that year, when a number of interesting and most en- 
joyable outings were taken with Joseph Rydings, by a 
few friends, including Mr. Eves, in the mountains and 
woods around Paterson. 

Joseph Rydings, whose delightful articles are so 
much enjoyed, was an ardent lover of Nature, interested 
in botany, entomology and other pleasant subjects, and 
he rendered those few earlier spring walks very attractive 
_and popular. His breezy and cheery articles in the public 
papers had long been enjoyed by all classes of readers. 

Mr. Rydings was one of the ablest pioneers who 
could have been found for the position which he held as 
the Club’s leader, and the founder of the Club, Philmer 
Eves, had had years of experience as leader of a similar 
club in the old country. It was Mr. Eves who originated 
the idea in Paterson and who called the first meeting to 
adopt measures for the formation of a rambling club. 
The idea was decided upon in his mind while taking a 
winter morning’s ramble, or rather a very early spring 
morning's ramble in the Notch mountains with Mr. 
Rydings and John Hartmeier, Jr., editor of the ‘‘Pater- 
sonian.”” It was on that same day that the dilapidated 
hut or hermitage of old Nicholas Murphy was discovered 
in the lonely recesses of the cedar and pine woods, far from 
all human habitations, where the poor old jilted lover had 
nursed his sorrows for the long period of forty years all 



alone. He had, only two days before that time, been re- 
moved from his wet and cheerless arbor, suffering from 
pneumonia and was taken by some friends to the Passaic 
County Almshouse. 

His readers will remember the description given 
by Miss Susan Contesse in one of her articles, about 
the rude haunt of poor old Murphy and about the 
romantic history of this remarkable recluse. It may be 
remarked in passing that subsequent visits by the 
Ramblers to this secluded dell showed the long-used cook- 
ing utensils and a part of the clothing of the solitary 
hermit scattered in all directions around the ruins of the 
almost obliterated hut. 

An account of the pleasant outings enjoyed by the 
Club since September, 1904, when the Club was formally 
organized, would fill several volumes of deeply interesting 
reading, as it would deal with delightful descriptions of 
the enchanting rural rambles over High Mountain, along 
the mountain range extending over to Preakness, and in 
the woods and fields and beautiful scenes of various parts 
of Passaic and Bergen Counties. It would take in a 
comprehensive dissertation on the native flowers, shrubs 
and plants which grow in such lovely and fragrant pro- 
fusion on every hand around our city, and would give 
much interesting information and detail regarding the 
geology and the ornithology of the neighborhood. ‘The 
members have discovered and brought to light many an 
old and almost forgotten homestead or landmark, and they 
have been warmly and cordially welcomed in the woods 
or pastures or the mountains of landowners in all direc- 
tions, to the cheering delight of the farmers and bucolic 
residents of the various localities visited. 

There is another happy feature connected with the 
Club’s purposes. It is at times when members are sur- 



rounded by the glory of the scenery or resting in some 
lovely and flowery spot in the woods where the beauties 
of the autumnal foliage inspire a feeling of delight and 
poetry that appropriate recitations from Shakespeare are 
heard, and where other poetry of a pastoral nature is re- 
cited. It is also on occasions such as these that music is 
enjoyed and happy choruses are sung by the Club. 

On each of the journeys the members study the 
woodland flowers and foliage, pick up specimens of fossil 
rock, revel in the scenery and in the grandeur of the 
autumn woods. On each occasion the ‘‘Ode of Welcome,”’ 
composed by the founder, is sung, and altogether the 
weekly meetings are greatly enjoyed. 

The first ramble to High Mountain took place under 
the most favorable weather conditions. Mr. Buschmann 
accompanied the party and generously brought a carriage 
which conveyed the refreshments to the top of the moun- 
tain, where a memorable meeting was held in the woods. 
The woodland scenery of High Mountain was greatly en- 
joyed, and the flowers and plants which grew along the 
footpaths were explained by Joseph Rydings. Recita- 
tions from Shakespeare and other poetry was given, and 
altogether a most delightful time was shared by all the 
members. | 

The second ramble took place on Saturday, Septem- 
ber 24th, when by the kind invitation of Catholina Lam- 
kert, the owner of ‘‘Belle Vista,’’ the Club visited the 
castle on Garret Mountain. Mr. Lambert personally met 
the party and conducted them through the Italian gardens, 
and afterwards through the picture galleries and private 
tooms of the mansion, describing the art treasures and 
curiosities of his vast and magnificent collection. At his 
invitation, the Club members joined in singing the ‘‘Ode 
of Welcome,’’ and a copy was presented to Mr. Lambert 



as a poetic symbol of the Club’s appreciation and grati- 
tude for the great privilege extended to the Club. 

On October 2d, a ramble was taken to the lovely 
woods around Arcola, and was also greatly enjoyed on 
account of the beauty of the autumn foliage, which on this 
day was in full glory. Many fine specimens of botany 
were discovered and brought away, and a number of 
flowers and plants unknown to some of the members were 
revealed and explained by the able and deeply- aes 
leader, Mr. Rydings. 

The Club then held another meeting on outete 
5th; the brief rules which the founder had drawn up for 
consideration were adopted, and the tenor of these rules 
is fittingly expressed in the concluding paragraph, which 
provides that ‘‘the leader's suggestions be respected at all 
times, and members of the Club will add to the general 
enjoyment and benefits of the rambles by keeping to- 
gether, following the chosen paths and acting cheerily in 
accordance with the general arrangements, always remem- 
bering that the highest pleasure consists in making each 
other happy.” The object of the Club, is the healthful 
and delightful study during rural rambles, of botany, 
geology and kindred subjects. “The idea was promulgated 
by Philmer Eves, who has always taken a deep interest in 
Nature studies and in country walks. 

The suburbs of Paterson are so famous for their 
beautiful scenery, both mountainous and woodland, that 
it is surprising that more of Paterson’s citizens do not 
avail themselves of the proximity of these lovely places 
to enjoy more frequently the beauties and charms of 
Nature, but it is felt that the Rambling Club is doing 
much good, not only to its individual members, but in a 
way of attracting attention to outdoor recreation and 
country walks generally. 



Two pretty poems have been composed by Mr. Eves, 
an ‘‘Ode of Welcome’ was first sung by William Busch- 
mann at the Club’s memorable meeting under the large 
chestnut tree on top of High Mountain, when he so en- 
thusiastically introduced Haydn’s “Hymn to the Em- 
peror’ to the words of the Ode. This melody has been 
adopted ever since and is a great favorite with the 

The doings of the Paterson Rambling Club after its 
inauguration, had been followed with so much interest by 
the public that a resume of the Club’s meetings during the 
first season must certainly be chronicled. 

One of the Club’s most delightful and memorable 
outings was enjoyed on October 30th, 1904, when about 
forty members took a ramble over the Notch Mountain. 
On the way they called at the beautiful residence of 
William B. Gourley, where the party was photographed 
on the picturesque lawn. The ‘Ode of Welcome’ was 
sung, and Mr. Gourley cordially welcomed the Ramblers 
and extended his good wishes. It was a glorious day of 
sunshine, and as the party journeyed through the dense 
cedar woods in the neighborhood of the Notch reservoir 
they came across the remains of the hermitage or hut of 
old Nicholas Murphy, the recluse who had lived in that 
secluded woods alone for forty years. The history of 
this remarkable character had attracted considerable at- 
tention on account of the love romance attached to the 
story, and the Ramblers saw all that was left of the old 
man’s rude and dilapidated habitation. On this delight- 
ful ramble the witch hazel was at its best, and Mr. 
Rydings, the esteemed leader, explained the uses and the 
medicinal virtues of the beautiful tree. Lunch was taken 
on the top of the precipitous and romantic cliff known as 
Washington’s Rock, and the members will never forget 



the glorious view as seen from that elevated spot in the 
clear and bracing atmosphere. 

Another red-letter day was November Ist, when over 
fifty of the members enjoyed the hospitality and the 
cordial welcome of the Pica Club, the local press club, in 
its handsome rooms in the Colt building. Here a social 
evening was spent, and refreshments, music and dancing 
made a delightful time. 

One of the pleasant features of the evening was the 
reading by Philmer Eves of a sketch prepared by him, 
containing the history of the Club. Mr. Eves read as 

“The short history of the Paterson Rambling Club 
is a history of success, popularity and delightful rambles. 
Two days ago thirty-seven members of our club shared 
the never-to-be-forgotten ramble over the mountains and 
Washington’s Rock to the Great Notch and Little Falls. 
As we sat on the summit of those elevated cliffs and 
looked down upon the fertile valley of Richfield, and then 
away beyond over the surrounding country which was 
bathed in the glorious sunshine of one of the last of 
October's brightest days, we felt the inspiring influence of 
the thrilling charms surrounding us. 

“It was when taking a romantic ramble in the same 
beautiful region, when the ice and snow of a hard winter 
was being gradually replaced by the genial sunshine and 
the budding trees of early spring accompanied as we were 
by our esteemed friend and leader, Mr. Rydings, and John 
Hartmeier, Jr., that the idea was developed in my mind 
regarding the formation of a rambling club for Paterson. 
We advisedly allowed the warm summer months to go by 
and the annual vacations to be all ended before we took 
steps to convene the preliminary meeting. You all re- 
member that happy first meeting on September 15th, of 



the present autumn, when Mr. Rydings genially accepted 
the leadership, and when our respected fellow member, 
William Buschmann, gladdened us at the outset by giving 
us the freedom of his High Mountain territories, and by 
offering to escort the members of our Club on the first 

“And who of us meeting here tonight, who reveled 
in that glorious outing and meeting in the woods of High 
Mountain, will ever forget the joyful feeling of healthy 
exhilaration and delight as we listened to recitations of 
appropriate poetry from the immortal Shakespeare, or as 
the sparkling embers of our Gypsy fire crackled a merry 
accompaniment to the first singing of our ‘Ode of Wel- 
come, or as we gazed upon the magnificent panorama 
from the mountain top. We realized indeed that it was 
good to be members of the Rambling Club, and that 
henceforth we should be able to look back with a fond 
recollection of a happy day and enjoy the cheering pros- 
pect of other happy outings to come. And who among 
us will ever be able, even if we desired to do so, to erase 
from the memory the enchanting experience and impres- 
sions of the wonders of Lambert’s Castle? We felt the 
poet's comparison of art and nature, so beautifully ex- 
pressed by Cowper in ‘The Task,’ where he Says: 

‘Lovely indeed the mimic works of art; 

And Nature’s works far lovelier. I admice, 
None more admires, the painter’s magic skill, 
Who shows me that which I shall never sce, 
Conveys a distant country into mine, 

And throws Italian light on our walls: 

Yet imitative strokes can do no more 

Than please the eye—sweet Nature’s every sense, 
The ait salubrious of her lofty hills, 


CO UN PRY OY aw is 

The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales. 
And music of her woods—no works of man 
May tival these, these all bespeak a power 
Peculiar, and exclusively her own— 
Beneath the open sun she spreads the feast; 
’Tis free to all—'tis every day renewed; 
Who scorns it starves deservedly at home.’ 

“Thus in the very early period of our second ramble 
had it been our happy lot as a young club to enjoy both 
the beauties of art and the glories of Nature. 

‘Another short week of happy recollection and eager 
expectation brought us all together in the autumn woods 
of Arcola, where the splendor of the gorgeous sweet gum 
trees and the loveliness of the blue gentian flowers are 
still so fresh and delightful to one’s memory. 

‘“‘And let me ask the small and enthusiastic few who, 
after an early morning of threatening rain, went out to 
Little Falls and felt the inspiration of Nature’s charms as 
we saw the variegated tintings of the foliage illuminated 
in the unexpected sunshine and glorified by the sparkling 
of the myriads of dewdrops glittering on each spray—is 
it not very pleasant indeed to recall that charming ramble 
and that beautiful morning along the Passaic River? 

The sweet recollection of the giant tree and the 
luscious spring of Dunkerhook, and the ramble home 
along the country lanes in the golden gloaming of a lovely 
Saturday, is still and will ever be to those who were there, 
‘A thing of beauty and a joy forever.’ 

“And ‘old men and maidens, young men and chil- 
dren’ will often think in the time to come, of the clear 
October skies, the bracing atmosphere and the romantic 
scenery around Indian Rock, and of the fairy-like and 
lovely glen where we all formed in a ring and sang, so 


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heartily the song of our Club. ‘There are those among 
us who have, on more than one occasion, expressed the 
delight which they have realized in our rambles, and who 
have felt that their lives were brighter and their health 
better, because they have been connected with our merry 
patty whose object is to enjoy country walks together, 
and to study the charms of Nature as presented in the 
flowers and the trees, the mountains and the valleys, the 
by-ways and fields surrounding this good old town of 

I will close these few reminiscences by saying, that I 
hope we shall long be spared individually and asa Club, 
that we may enjoy the benefits and pleasures of these de- 
lightful country outings and happy meetings for many 
years to come.” 

Among the members who joined the Club at its 
meeting on November 28th, were the Mayor of Paterson, 
William H. Belcher, ex-Mayor John Hinchliffe, and Miss 
Jeanette Vermorel, the talented young violinist. 

A few honorary members were also elected at that 
meeting, namely: Mrs. Edwin Simonton, Miss Marion 
T’. Meagher, Catholina Lambert, William Meagher, Con- 
gressman Hughes and Colonel W. H. Rogers. 

The principal event in connection with the doings of 
the Club during the first season was the most successful 
banquet held at Brunner’s, on December 15th, 1904, when 
over one hundred members and guests partook of an ex- 
cellent dinner and enjoyed one of the merriest evenings 
ever spent by the Club. The floral and electrical decora- 
tions were elaborate and very beautiful. 

Philmer Eves, the president of the Rambling Club, 
was surprised during the merriment of the evening by 
being presented with a handsome gold locket, containing 
the photographs of himself and Mrs. Eves and _ their 

[9] Sec. 2 


youngest son, thus showing the evident popularity of the 
Club and its founder. 

Stirring addresses were given by Dr. Phin, Colonel 
Rogers, Judge Kerr, William Buschmann, Alfred Neu- 
berger and others, and song and music kept the Ramblers 
happy until midnight. 

The “Ode of Welcome’ and the ‘Parting Song” 
never sounded more harmonious or inspiring than on that 
festive occasion. 

Joseph Rydings, the Club’s veteran leader, enter- 
tained the company by an encouraging and delightful 

Some of the guests had come long distances in order 
to show their appreciation of the objects of the Rambling 
Club, and Mayor Belcher and Catholina Lambert and 
others sent letters expressive of their regret at being unable 
to be present. 

The last meeting of the Club, for the season of 
1904, was held in the Mayor’s office, in the City Hall, by 
kind invitation of Mayor Belcher. The “Ode of Wel- 
come’ was sung heartily, and the president outlined the 
Club’s intentions for the spring season. 

‘The special feature of the meeting that will never be 
forgotten by those who witnessed it, was the presentation 
to the Club of a new “‘spring song,’ by Miss Marion M. 
Henderson, who is known in Paterson as the poetic 
“Scottish Lassie.’ Miss Henderson, dressed in her Scotch 
plaid, addressed the meeting and personally recited the 
beautiful words of the song and gave some other poetry 
of her own composition. 

A number of the members addressed the meeting. 
Fred Campbell, one of the charter members, gave a vivid 
description of a lonely visit which he had made to the top 
of Garret Mountain at night to see the glorious effects of 

[ 10 ] 


the moonlight at full moon. It must have been a sight 
worth witnessing, and this shows the growing interest 
which is being taken in studying and enjoying the won- 
ders and beauties of Nature. 

Among the new members enrolled was Max Schra- 
bisch, the able and interesting writer and student of 
geology. The acquisition of such a valuable new mem- 
ber as Mr. Schrabisch was appreciated, and a hearty wel- 
come was accorded our local and talented geologist. 


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Inspecting: Art Treasures 

GAD| N SATURDAY afternoon, September 24th, 1904, 
Hh) the members of the Paterson Rambling Club met 
at the City Hall loop at 2 o'clock, and boarded 
one of the Main Street trolley cars, their destina- 
tion being Lambert’s Castle, on the slope of 
Garret Mountain. 

From the foot of Barclay Street the Club walked up 
the hill to the lodge, where a path was taken leading over 
the lawn to the castle. Half-way up the beautiful green 
slope the party sat on the carpet of closely cropped grass 
and was photographed by John F. Kerr, who had pro- 
cured permission for the visit. Harry C. Shelby arranged 
the members in an artistic group, with the officers of the 
Club and the ladies in the foreground. 

Arriving at the castle, the party was met by Mr. 
Lambert, who received the club guests with a cordial and 
warmhearted welcome, giving them directions to “ramble” 
Over the great picture and art galleries, and to inspect 
the wonderful collection of art treasures from every 
corner of the globe. 

Proceeding first through the long gallery to the 
italian gardens, other groups of the members of the Club 
were photographed with the splendid statuary forming 
the background. 

Here the hospitable owner of the mansion again 
joined the party, making everyone feel welcome to see the 
wonders of his fine collection of curios, plants and flowers, 
and personally describing many of them to the large party 
gathered around him for information. 

Proceeding next to the portrait gallery, Mr. Lambert 
described the paintings and gave the history of other por- 



tions of his treasures. The long gallery contains many 
costly and exceedingly rare paintings by Rembrandt, - 
Titian, Sir J. Lawrence and others of the greatest masters. 

Amid these marvels of ancient art imagination had 
full play, and the fanciful observer might wonder if, for 
instance, before the antique mirror some fair maiden in 
the time of George the Third had turned pale on hear- 
ing of the death of her gallant Tory lover in the war of 
the revolution. Could some ill-fated guest have risen 
from this black, oaken chair, after receiving the poisoned 
hospitality of the Borgias? Is it possible that over this 
quaintly carved table the jeweled hands of Charles’ 
loyalists passed the wine upon hearing that the bones of 
Cromwell had been dug out of their resting place and 
hung at Tyburn? From that oaken seat could it be pos- 
sible that some loyal subjects of Queen Elizabeth had risen 
to congratulate her friends on hearing of the defeat of the 
Armada? or how the gallant Drake was sweeping the 
Spanish seas? 

With the faces of ancient courtiers and statesmen, 
kings and warriors, Dutch Stadtholders, burgomasters and 
aristocratic dames looking out vividly from the canvas, it 
was easy for imagination to people the magnificent halls 
with the ghosts of past ages and to blend the old world 
with the new, and wed antiquity to modern life. 

This thought was exemplified when the kindly host 
applied the electric light to illuminate the beautiful face 
of the Madonna in Botticelli’s glorious painting—modern 
discovery and science lighting up the art and piety of the 
long distant past. Every reader of the New Testament 
recalled the story of the riot at Ephesus, as the genial 
owner paused before the statue of the great Diana and ex- 
plained the symbolic carving that ornamented the figure 
of the goddess, though modern taste might wonder what 



there was about the lady to cause so much racket and dis- 
turbance in apostolic times, especially when one compared 
the dusky features of the Ephesian divinity with the 
charms of the Paterson ladies present. 

Italian and Etruscan marbles, curious and unique 
urns, vases and pedestals, were shown and explained in 
detail, the history of some of them connected with the 
earlier life of the present envied possessor, being especially 
interesting. Electric lights and reflectors were again 
brought into requisition to illuminate and display the 
works of the great masters in clear detail. Astonishment 
and delight, intermingled with an interested appreciation 
of art, and coupled with the instruction kindly given by 
Mr. Lambert himself, rendered the visit and the privilege 
most enjoyable, enchanting and memorable. The mem- 
bers of the Club again and again showed their delight and 
interest as the various treasures were viewed and explained. 

Passing from the portrait gallery, the host conducted 
the party to the breakfast room, kindly permitting an in- 
specton of one of the most remarkable and antique col- 
lections of art, brought, as Mr. Lambert explained, “‘a 
little from everywhere,” and arranged here into an artistic 
harmony of loveliness. 

The delighted party was next invited to the draw- 
ing room gallery, where there is one of the most surpris- 
ing and numerous collections of valuable and magnificent 
pictures in the United States. The large painting repre- 
senting the sad and touching parting of Napoleon and 
Josephine was especially admired, as were also the minia- 
tures of the “‘Senses,’’ and the glorious works of Teniers, 
Rubens and many other world-famous artists of the old 
and modern schools. 

The piano being open, Mr. Lambert generously sug- 
gested music and, by unanimous choice, the words of the 



“Ode of Welcome,’’ composed by Philmer Eves, the 
founder and president of the club, were sung by William 
Buschmann to the melody of Haydn’s “‘ Hymn to the Em- 
peror,’ At Mr. Lambert’s request the piece was re- 
peated, and at the close of the song, in which the whole 
party joined, a copy was presented to the host as a poetic 
symbol of the Club’s gratitude and appreciation. Mr. 
Eves here took the opportunity to express his feelings, 
and, addressing Mr. Lambert, who stood at the head of 
the large group, explained the object of the Rambling 
Club, which was to study and enjoy all that is beautiful 
and lovely in nature, as well as in art. Mr. Lambert 
again expressed the pleasure he felt at the evident en- 
joyment of his welcome guests, and left upon the minds 
of the whole party an unmistakable opinion of an unsel- 
fish and noble minded master of all that is great and 
treasured in art. 

From this apartment of luxuriance and beauty the 
party was escorted to the state dining room, in which 
there is a collection of beautifully carved black oak, silver 
and antique furniture and curios. The party then as- 
scembled in the spacious hall, in which, facing the entrance, 
a Cupid holds the symbolic motto of the owner of the 
castle in the one beautiful and expressive word, ‘‘Salve,’’ 
or welcome. 

Here the keys of the observatory were handed to the 
guests, who proceeded up through the gardens and woods 
to the summit of the rocks. When all had assembled at 
the foot of the tower, the party unlocked the big iron- 
bolted door and ascended the long flights of iron stairs to 
the top, and looked out over one of the grandest pano- 
ramas of New Jersey. Here the members of the Club 
enjoyed the romantic scenery as viewed through the colored 
windows of the dome. ‘The opportunity thus to visit the 



interior and the summit of this well known and picturesque 
landmark was also thoroughly appreciated, one of the 
party, an English literary man, exclaiming, ‘‘This alone is 
worth the three thousand miles of ocean travel.’’ 

From this tower, Mr. Rydings headed the party and 
fed the way over the rocks and through the cliff passes to 
the spot famous for its echo, which was distinctly heard. 
The whole party here sat down on the ledge of the 
mountain, and a number of recitations of poetry were 
given by Joseph Rydings, who contributed the appropri- 
ate legend of ‘““The Well of Saint Keyne,’’ besides which 
was equally enjoyed by all present. 

After this enjoyable gathering on the mountain top 
the members of the club wandered at will over the rocks 
and through the woods, collecting and discussing speci- 
mens of botany and gathering bouquets of golden rod, 
autumn asters, immortelles and other wild flowers which 
cover the mountain and grow in profusion. 

The delightful aroma of pennyroyal scented the 
mountain side, and the visitors wondered when they 
realized that the modest little plant spread such fragrance 
all around. The prickly pear cactus grew on the bleak 
portion of the rock, and nearby the twining stems of the 
bitter-sweet won the admiration of all. Other plants 
gathered were the herb, Robert Cranesbill, the jewel-weed, 
the sweet fern, the mountain sumach, and both the true 
and the false Solomon seal. 

Reassembling at the tower, the party returned 
through the castle grounds, and forming in procession 
four deep, headed by the leader, the president and a sweet 
little child who joined in the ramble, marched down the 
driveway past the front of the castle to the lodge, where 



a short, informal meeting was held to announce the next 

On Saturday’s ramble to Lambert’s Castle the mem- 
bers of the Club wore red and white carnations, the 
favorite flower of the president of the Club, which it was 
suggested, could appropriately be adopted as the Club 
flower, the carnation signifying ‘‘admiration of Nature.”’ 

Those who enjoyed the privilege of this happy 
ramble were: Joseph Rydings, Philmer Eves, William 
Buschmann, Haledon; Horatio Whittaker, of Stockport, 
England; Bernard Taylor, Arthur Cliffe, George Banni- 
gan, John Campbell, chief of the Caledonians; Fred 
Campbell, Herbert Stamp, Nathan Decker, Harry C. 
Shelby, Herman Benz, John Barbarrow, Siegfried Butz, 
Thomas Farrer, Mrs. Barbarrow, Mrs. George Bannigan 
and daughter, Mildred; Mrs. L. Van Riper, Mrs. H. C. 
Shelby, Mrs. Philmer Eves, Mrs. O’Brien, Mrs. B. Taylor, 
Mrs. Begg, Mrs. Campbell, Miss Jeanette Vermorel, 
Miss V. Doyle, Miss Elizabeth Lamb, Miss Buschmann, 
Miss K. Hynes, Miss Kate Wilcox, Miss Margaret Wilcox, 
Miss Alice Wilcox, Miss Frances E. Farrar, Miss Lily 
Whittaker, Miss Annie Dyer, Miss Minnie Dyer and 
Miss Annie Begg. 


Anarchy in America 

[Text by Philmer Eves and Joseph Rydings: Re- 
printed from an issue of the Hoosier Magazine, published 
in Indianapolis, Ind., March, 1906. ] 

NE of the most popular and widely known men 
of the State of New Jersey is Joseph Rydings, a 
X77) resident of the City of Paterson, N. J. His news- 
we ie paper and magazine articles, on a great variety of 
1 themes, are so well known in that city and 
throughout the state that his name has become a house- 
hold word. His age exceeds three score years and his hair 
is white, but he is as active and hearty as many a much 
younger man. He is a ‘‘Rambler,”’ a naturalist, and one 
of the most ardent lovers of Nature that ever lived. He 
is a very dear old friend of the contributor of these ex- 
planatory lines, and many, very many enjoyable and 
profitable jaunts have been taken in each other’s com- 
pany in the woods and mountains of New Jersey. 
Joseph Rydings is ‘‘a working man,’ honest as 
standard gold, a man of unquestioned veracity, and with 
the brain of a philosopher. His very trade or business 
has a charming story attached to it. [he great writer, 
John Ruskin, in one of his popular books deplored the 
fact that in many kinds of manufactures there was some 
kind of adulteration, and especially instanced the manu- 
facture of cloth, in which the cotton and the wool were 
often intermingled, thus mixing the product of the ani- 
mal and vegetable in clothing. His great work was read 
everywhere and, among others by the natives of the Isle 
of Man, who promptly wrote Mr. Ruskin that there was, 



at least in that island, a manufactory where nothing but 
the sheep’s wool was employed in the weaving of cloth. 

John Ruskin, delighted with this communication 
from the Manx people, went to the Isle of Man and found 
the conditions agreed with their claim. He built them 
a small stone mill on the banks of the creek in the village 
of Laxey, not far from the great water-wheel said to be 
the largest in the world. For this little, secluded mill, 
Mr. Ruskin sought and secured a competent man to help 
in the development of the industry, and the cloth manu- 
factured there has since borne the title of “‘Ruskin Home- 
spuns.”’ ‘The overseer appointed was Egbert Rydings, a 
brother of Joseph Rydings, of Paterson, both natives of 
Lancashire, England. The Paterson brother is the Ameri- 
can representative of the little Ruskin mill, and has many 
very influential people of this land on his books as clients. 
His spare hours are devoted to the study of Nature and 
to writing gratuitous articles, over his own name and 
anonymously, on all kinds of interesting subjects. 

Some years ago, Mr. Rydings learned the German 
language, and also became acquainted with an Italian 
family in the City of Paterson, in whose society he has 
now succeeded in acquiring Italian. “The name of the 
Italian, who is one of the most respected and intelligent 
representatives of the silk mill workers of the city, is 
Joseph Borrin, and there is an affectionate and brotherly 
feeling between the two men. Joseph Borrin knows the 
Italians of Paterson perhaps as well as any man in the 
city, and this fact led Joseph Rydings into the study of 
the so-called anarchy which has been so widely and so 
erroneously credited to the City of Paterson. The two 
men together visited the places said to be the haunts and 
meeting places of anarchists, questioned and talked to the 
men on the subject, explored the attics and basements 

[ 20] 


where the ‘‘Reds’’ were said to assemble. The result of 
this impartial and unbiased investigation is now com- 
municated by Mr. Rydings in an original article to the 
“Hoosier.’’ The writer of these lines, on a recent visit 
to Paterson, had the pleasure and novel privilege of 
accompanying Mr. Rydings and his Italian friend to the 
supposed rendezvous of the anarchists. The finest im- 
ported Italian wines and the hearty hospitalities of the 
honest Italian working man constituted all the evidence 
of anarchy that could be either detected or suggested. 

There is a small saloon on the street called Straight, 
the proprietor of which is an Italian by the name of 
Secondo Bianco, who told the writer a pathetic story of 
the midnight appearance of representatives of the law to 
search his premises. In the upstairs room lay his adored 
wife in a dying condition, while he himself, amidst his 
domestic troubles, was smarting under the loss of cus- 
tomers through the misrepresentation and notoriety which 
had unjustifiably become attached to his business. He 
implored the score of officers of the law not to disturb his 
dying wife by entering the room, and they acceded to his 
plea. He lost his wife, however, and also a son and other 
relatives, and feels that great injury and injustice has been 
done to him and to his means of livelihood. But, even 
this much-injured Italian had no more inclination toward 
anarchy than the wealthy men who own the silk factories 
across the street. The small extent to which anarchistic 
tendencies exist in Paterson are faithfully mentioned by 
Mr. Rydings, who claims there is no more anarchy in that 
city than in any other city in the Union. 

The unprejudiced and graphic description now given 
by Mr. Rydings will be deeply interesting. 



GowNrTin Y MWR Kes 


About a year ago I began to study the Italian lan- 
guage. I was guided by several motives. In the first 
place, it was my desire to become better acquainted with 
the Italian people residing in our City of Paterson than 
the imperfect means of communication previously prevail- 
ing would allow; their knowledge of my language was 
woefully defective and I knew nothing at all about theirs. 
Then, again, I wished to find out whether there were as 
many anarchists in our city among the Italians as popu- 
lar report alleged, to the great detriment of our city’s 
reputation. I have made such progress in the language 
as will now enable me to converse in it—not perfectly, 
by any means, but so that the person addressed and I 
can understand each other fairly well. I can read the 
newspaper printed in Italian; the editorials with a little 
difficulty, but the record of passing events has long ceased 
to present any difficulty. 

I found many things; found the people of united 
Italy very much disunited; I found new acquaintances, 
new friends, new ideas, and, in fact, I seemed to find 
everything, except anarchists. The north Italians who 
pride themselves on their intelligence and social progress, 
told me that such violations of human law and order 
could only be found, if found at all, among their country- 
men from the south; and the southern Italians, conserva- 
tive and pious were shocked at the thought that anarchists 
could be found in their ranks, and intimated that if I 
could find such people at all it would be among the 
rationalistic and irreverent Italians of the north. 

Still, there are anarchists in Paterson, no doubt; a 
young Italian, who speaks almost perfect English, told 

[ 22 ] 


me this; but he had lived in London five years, and, said 
he: “There are fifty times as many anarchists in a single 
block in Whitechapel, London, as in all the city of Pater- 
son put together. In my extremity, I applied to my 
friend, Joseph Borrin, and he said: ‘‘Oh, I will take you 
to the anarchist den, but be sure for a start that your con- 
science is clear,” and he made a request similar to that 
made by Sir Lucius O’ Trigger to Bob Acres before the 
duel, that if there was any kindness he could do for me 
of a post-mortem nature he would be glad to undertake 
it. Had I my will, and had I selected the place of sepul- 
cher for my poor dissevered remains when they would 
be carried all bleeding from that chief den of anarchists? 
This conversation took place on the way to the den, but 
my friend did not consider the warning sufficient, and at 
the threshold of the den he halted and quoted Dante’s 
famous lines, ‘Abandon hope all ye who enter here!” 

But we entered notwithstanding. An introduction 
to the proprietor followed and this commenced my friend- 
ship with Secondo Bianco, really one of Paterson’s most 
respected citizens, respected by all who knew him, and 
their number increased after the mists of calumny and 
misunderstanding had cleared away after the anti-anar- 
chist agitation of some years ago had died away. “I 
will not say that no anarchist has ever been here: I will 
not say that no anarchial talk has ever been spoken here: 
people come here as they come to other saloons and talk 
together on such topics as they may choose; on politics, 
religion, business or whatever they may select; my duty 
is to supply them with what they want and not to hang 
around and listen to what they are talking about. But I 
will say this, that never to my knowledge has this place 
been used for the projects of anarchy or for any unlawful 
purpose whatever.’’ Such was Mr. Bianco’s declaration 

[ 23 J 


after the introduction, and subsequent experience has con- 
vinced me of its truth. 

I found men there at the tables who were plotting 
the destruction of kings, but they were kings that had 
been dealt out to their opponents in the game. They 
displayed no spark of chivalry even when the crowned 
head was that of a queen; kings and queens alike were 
ruthlessly slaughtered, but they were the monarchs that 
the other fellow had in his hand, and I am fully con- 
vinced, after subsequent visits that this is the only form of 
regicide that my friend, Bianco, has ever permitted. His 
story is sad, of the time when he was under suspicion, a 
story of midnight visits to his house by the officers of the 
law, searching for bombs at a time when his wife lay sick 
with the shadow of approaching death before her. ‘The 
officers were considerate and seemingly indignant when the 
nature of their search was disclosed to them; but popular 
imagination was not to be appeased, and another mid- 
night visit had to be made. Then the craze died away, 
and the man has been allowed to remain at rest. I have 
visited other Italian saloons, but found no anarchists. 

The anarchist, the typical anarchist, evaded my vigil- 
ance, but it was always my luck when I was looking for 
types. I have been in this country now thirty years and 
have never yet found the typical Yankee. Where is he? 
The man who salutes you with a ‘““Wal, Stranger!’ “The 
man who “‘calculates’ this, that or the other. Where is 
the man with the jack-knife who is eternally whittling 
away, when at leisure, accompanying each splinter with 
an expectoration of tobacco juice? I read of him often 
before coming here; he showed himself to Dickens and 
other travelers, but has never once shown himself to me. 
Newspaper scribes from all parts of the United States, 
who do not know a single word of Italian, can come to 

[ 24] 


Paterson and find anarchists by the score. I have studied 
the language for the purpose, and never found one. 
Wonderful! Or, as the Italians themselves would ex- 
claim, ‘‘Meravigliosa!”’ 

Still, I would not say that there were no anarchists 
here. If I started out to look for a vegetarian my search 
would probably be just as fruitless, still, undoubtedly, 
there are vegetarians in Paterson, but, as with anarchists. 
they do not exist in such numbers as to entitle our city 
to any special notoriety. 

Though not a native here, I have become attached to 
the city and am zealous in defense of its name. It has 
dealt kindly with me, and I have made many friends here, 
one of my truest and best being Philmer Eves, whom 
Paterson lost with regret and whom the flourishing city 
of Indianapolis will appreciate warmly when it comes to 
know him as we have done. 

[ 25 ] Sec. 3 


Risk eae hs aes Ch. cA 


if COT ras 
Mich § ag } “a . cee A Tt a sf 

ore Rio. Cena ahs any ap veka er 
Got alee hore Saeed ae ae ri 
sb; Atal iy. Chie 

ed 3 ery EM Be Mi ay ea ‘itaorteghh 

j Mia: Ae) Gis ee at |. 4 

Pe Fae Wy Pim od Dns iat 

pul (2. ee spel x i, fi “stains es 

) ek ‘YeEPSE, 9 eee: aA 
TANTS wen’ saa he 

beats: Pid be lel ite A 

. =; , an ry ‘<a 
: #0 ts Ohh a | Oily ae 

, r er 
‘5 7 
Hh \ 
hil ot? eee 
ee WD ABA Sere’. 
- eres: | 5 ane i iM 
ah) Ns FU) ( dB. 
, A Cid Set 9 
) ia. a a oe ad 7 

Mr. Rydings in Reminiscent Mood 


Living still through scenes distressing, 
Such as makes one’s courage flat, 
Brave old town, more lives possessing 

Than the old proverbial cat! 

Proving that no stern disaster 
Long can hold her in its clutch; 

Will the world’s last crash dismay her? 
Fatth, I doubt it very much! 

When some reckless, roaming comet 
Strikes the world with fiery tail 
Will our city, in her anguish, 
Then begin to weep and wail? 

No, het courage still undaunted, 
From a world to fragments blown, 
She may turn upon her orbit 
Form a planet of her own. 

MONG the many interesting characters that the 
magic pen of Oliver Wendell Holmes created 
stands prominent the “‘misshapen, dwarfed,” un- 
couth, but still lovable figure of the gentleman 
whom the boarding-house imps nicknamed ‘“‘Little 
Boston.’’ To him the universe was well enough in its 
way, the globe on which we dwell not particularly bad, 
the United States a good country to live in, but Boston! 



It was when Boston was spoken of, when the capital of 
Massachusetts had to be defended or eulogized, it was then 
that the little deformed ‘‘Sculpin’s’’ body seemed hardly 
half big enough, for the heart within it was fairly on fire 
with local patriotism. Most of us here in Paterson, even 
the least sentimental among us, must feel and be stirred 
with emotions similar to that of the little patriot of “‘the 
Hub.” Was it not St. Paul who described himself as 
“a citizen of no mean city?” If Tarsus, in St. Paul’s 
day, could merit such distinction, what can be said of our 
own city after the achievement of the last twelve months? 
But after the glowing tribute paid to the city by its promi- 
nent citizens last Monday night, little can be said further 
in the way of praise and congratulations, the subject of 
my present sketch is not the Paterson of today, but the 
city as I saw it twenty-four years ago. 

I came to Paterson from England in 1879. ‘The 
city did not seem a nice place then—not to me. It was 
just Babylon. The maples and elms along the streets 
were willows on which I was continually hanging my 
broken, disconsolate English harp, and longing for the 
lapse of just sufficient time—eight months or so—when 
I could go back to England and rejoin my friends with- 
out being overwhelmed with ridicule. What a curious 
creature man is! Six years after that I was back in Eng- 
land and found myself practically worshiping a flower! 
It was covering with its graceful wreathes a cluster of 
rocks in the world-renowned conservatory at Chatsworth, 
in Derbyshire. Magnificent palms, tropical plants, all 
the rich floral treasures that the vast wealth of the Duke 
of Devonshire had collected and brought together; these 
faded into insignificance beside this modest little plant of 
the Virgin’s bower—clematis virginica. I had seen it 

[ 28 ] 


often in my rambles around Paterson, and that was 

But, as I have said, my first impressions of the city 
were anything but pleasant. I found fault with every- 
thing—-streets, houses, climate, customs and people; all 
were included in one general condemnation. Good, gentle 
Mrs. Reynolds, my first landlady—what a wretched time 
she had with her dissatisfied querulous ‘‘sparrow”’ 
boarder! She did everything to please, even to cooking 
beef dumplings for dinner, after the English style, as it 
had been given to her in a recipe obtained from an English 
lady with whom she was well acquainted. That was 
alright, as far as it went, but why did she turn the dinner 
plates face downwards when she set the table? Why did 
she put on the table such a strange, un-English concoction 
as stewed tomatoes? She was the embodiment of patience, 
even sympathizing with me when I broke out over the 
hands and face with what she called the hives—I had 
never heard of any hives except bee hives. But she said 
it was the climate that caused them—lI had not got used 
to the climate. This put a fellow-boarder—a Scotch- 
man—in a fury. ‘The climate!’’ he shouted. “‘Is it 
the climate that goes bimmin and bizzin aboot the room 
a the nicht? Hoot awa, woman, dy’e ca’ that the 
climate?’’ She took the hint. Next day the bedroom 
windows were supplied with better screens, and this had 
the affect of mitigating the effect of the ‘‘climate’’ con- 

But the novelty of ‘‘the climate’ as an introduction 
to American natural history was certainly interesting. 
My fellow-boarder would cover himself up with the bed 
clothes, all but the tip of his nose, and say: ‘“‘Ach, the 
deevils! ‘They tarrify me!’’ But I would lie awake 
and listen. That mysterious sound! That wonderful 

[ 29 ] 


nocturnal symphony, as if it came from some far-off 
spirit land! Marvelous! Poor ‘Mrs. Reynolds.’’ She 
died some few years back. I went to the funeral of her 
daughter, who died a curious sort of death. The doctors 
gave the disease a long and scarcely pronounceable Latin 
name, but it simply meant nose-bleed. It was a very rare 
case, the physicians said. It baffled their skill. A year 
after burial the old lady had the girl’s body taken up for 
some purpose or other, I don’t just remember. ‘There 
was no change in the appearance of the corpse except 
one—the mother was astonished to see how the hair had 
grown in the coffin. | 

I moved afterward to Division Street, as it was then 
called, and in going to and from Hamil’s mill I went 
along Paterson Street. How fast the city has grown! I 
remember that I went by green pastures on the eastern 
side of the street, and stopped to gather violets there, the 
first springtime that I passed in America! I remember 
how delighted I was to see a flower that grew in my own 
native land, and that Shakespeare had almost consecrated 
in those beautiful lines. 

“Violets blue, but sweeter than the lids 
Of Juno’s eyes, or Cytherea’s breath.” 

The common speech of the Patersonians soon began 
to interest me. The common substitute of the word 
“good” for ‘‘well’’ seemed very curious. “The common 
use of the double negatives was very noticeable. “‘He 
ain’t nobody,’ for instance, and “‘don’t you never do 
this,’ that or the other. The application of the word 
“awful’’ to strengthen an adjective in cases where the 
object described was pretty or becoming, or nice, simply. 
“It’s awful awful pretty,’ “‘awful pleasant,’ and so 
forth, seemed queer. “There were other changes not at 



all indicative of bad grammer, but which simply showed 
the retention of old English forms of speech that had 
almost become obsolete on the other side. For instance, 
a cousin of mine then in Paterson brought word that a 
certain case then before the court could not go on, as he 
expressed it, because one of the jurymen ‘‘went mad.” 
“What did he get mad about?” the boarders inquired. 
He went mad, went out of his mind,” said my cousin in 
further explanation. ‘‘Oh, is that it? You mean he 
went crazy,” was the response. Now the curious thing 
is that both parties in this dialogue were talking perfect 
English, although they did not understand each other! 
The signs along the street were curious to me. 
“Walk Your Horses Over This Bridge,’ ‘Oysters in 
Every Style,’’ “Sample Room’ on an alehouse window, 
and “Shaving With Bay Rum” in front of a barber shop, 
all these were novel. I thought that bay rum was a liquid 
stimulant of some sort which the barber kept on tap and 
which the customer drank to keep him from catching cold. 
And no wonder! What convivial Englishman would 
think of so degrading and debilitating the word rum as 
to apply it to anything intended for outward application 
only? Shades of fat, red-nosed Toby Belch and of good 
Sairey Gamp, with her bottle on the mantlepiece, to which 
she would put her lips when so “‘dispoged!’”’ Why, it 
was enough to make them turn over in their graves! 
When I first came to the city I remember that I formed 
a pretty decent opinion of the American people as I rode 
along the track. It was a week day in the middle of the 
forenoon, and in every village we came through the church 
bell, as I thought, was ringing. Whatever their faults 
might be, the Yankees were pious people, or they would 
not hold regular church service on a week day. Oh, 



what a surprise when I got off at the station to find that 
the ‘‘church bell’’ was attached to the engine. 

Some local historical events took place during my 
first two years in the city. The first spring was marked by 
the Garret Mountain riot. I did not see it. I went up 
the mountain very early and left before the disturbance 
began, but what a change it must have been from the 
scene as I had witnessed it a few hours before. It was an 
ideal May morning. Glorious! Flowers were springing 
up everywhere and the birds were singing joyfully. The 
German minstrels sang ‘‘Mein Hertz ist am Rhine,’’ and 
I wondered whether the Rhine could anywhere show a 
scene more enchanting than that which lay before us. At 
night and for days after the city was terribly excited over 
that unfortunate affair. 

Another event occurred which made a deep impres- 
sion on the English residents of the city, especially during 
the same year. 

Henry Mellor, an Englishman, died through drink- 
ing a concoction made from Stramonium. The plant, by 
the way, is all too common here, and a thousand times 
more dangerous than the beautiful leaves and branches of 
the so-called poison ivy that people make so much fuss 
over. Mellor was buried in Cedar Lawn. | 

It was in the same year, or perhaps the year after 
that Paterson went “‘dry’’ for three or four Sundays to- 
gether. Strange to say, during this time both saints and 
sinners fought vigorously for Sabbath observance. ‘The 
sinners even worked harder than the saints. ‘The saints 
only saw to it that the saloons should be closed, but the 
sinners stopped the street cars, stopped the sale of Sunday 
newspapers, arrested the milk dealers, and decided that if 
the blue laws were to be enforced there should be no half | 
way action in the matter. The end was I think that both 

[ 32 ] 


parties got tired. The common people were neither 
saints nor sinners; they chafed under the Puritan law and 
were glad when the righteous spell ended. 

Such were some of the local events which took place 
during the first year or so when the writer was becoming 
acclimatized. The latter process did not take long. In 
a year's time I began to feel as if I were as much a part 
of the city as the old town clock. The country round 
about began to be delightful. Garret Rock, the Preak- 
ness hills, the Goffle, the valley of the Passaic, what could 
one desire fairer than these? The natural objects began 
tocharm. ‘The blue bird, the American robin, the oriole, 
the bobolink began to compensate for the loss of the 
throstle, the linnet, and the lark. I shall never forget the 
interest that the first sight of the fire-flies excited. I had 
read about them at home, but the conception I had formed 
was nothing to the actual reality. 

I like Paterson for the cosmopolitan character of its 
inhabitants. All races, all religions, people from every 
country in the world living together in harmony. There 
is nowhere to be found a grander school of toleration. 
Here it is as the good poet, Whittier, expressed it: 

“Where Freedom's chemistry combines, 
The alien elements of man.”’ 

We have the world in miniature. I have talked 
with a man who could speak Arabic, and who claimed to 
have been as well acquainted with Egypt and the Red Sea 
as any of the Pharaohs ever were. I have among my 
friends here, one who saw the first battle between the 
Germans and the French when poor, ill-fated Prince Louis 
received his “baptism of fire!’’ I have friends here, who 
when children, gathered edelweiss from under the Alpine 

[ 33 ] 


snows, and others who plucked gowans on the banks of 
the Doon. 

It is a wonderful city. ‘‘Sir!’’ roared out Dr. John- 
son, when Boswell asked him if he ever got tired of 
London; “‘the man who is tired of London is tired of 
existence,’ and in the same way, no man can reasonably 
become tired of Paterson before the time approaches when 
he shall desire to leave the pomps and vanities of the 
world altogether and join the silent majority. 

The city has improved wonderfully since the time 
when I first saw it, and only such people fail to realize 
the improvement who make no effort to recall the past. 
Even in the most frequented streets the garbage barrels 
then were never disturbed, except by Italian ragpickers, 
till the middle of the day. At that time the streets were 
so dirty that no one ever thought of crossing them except 
on the crossing at the end of the block; but you see people 
now crossing the streets anywhere, just as they do in Eng- 
land and it excites no comment. No one would con- 
sider you ‘‘a sparrow,’ as would have been the case 
twenty years ago had such a thing occurred then. No 
one could walk along the side streets then on a muddy 
day without having to balance himself by stepping over 
puddles from one rickety flag to another after the manner 
of Eliza in “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’”’ when crossing the Ohio 
cn the floating ice. If a fire broke out, it continued un- 
checked until a number of men could turn themselves into 
horses and drag the lumbering fire engines through the 
ill-paved streets. Street cars left Main Street for Park 
Avenue or Broadway only once in forty minutes. Ex- 
cept in the very heart of the city no letters were collected 
from the boxes after 4 o'clock, or delivered before 10 in 
the morning.. No newspaper sold for less than three 
cents, and some of them were curiosities in their way. 

[ 34] 

iV AN Vs et DS 

The Paterson newspapers were all right, but such 
New York papers as Truth and the Star, were even worse 
than the yellows of today, and these papers circulated 
largely in Paterson at that time. In the Star, candidates 
for municipal honors even had the audacity to advertise 
that they would give so much money to this or that 
church or hospital in the event of election, thus making 
religion herself the handmaid of electoral corruption. 
Such advertisements cannot be found in the papers of 
today, and doubtless the moral tone of society is improv- 
ing, though sadly, too slowly. 

“When I am dead you will find Calais hanging at 
my heart,’ said Queen Mary Tudor when word was 
brought to her that the French town across the channel 
so long held with pride by England, had finally been lost 
to the English crown. I have left Paterson three times 
since I came here first, but during each period the town 
was “hanging at my heart.’ The radiance of the sun- 
shine seemed to increase, and the flowers on Garret Moun- 
tain grew fairer when seen through the portals of memory, 
and the wandering prodigal like the proverbial cat, ‘“‘came 
back.’ It is a good city for sinners so long as they 
choose to behave themselves, and if the human affection 
is set upon higher things, there is ample scope for de- 
velopment in our charitable and religious institutions. It 
is a pretty fair oasis for good people, who in old Bunyan’s 
quaint phraseology are ‘‘passing through the wilderness of 
this world.’’ Let them make the best of it and improve 
their talents for its benefit until their earthly pilgrimage 
comes to an end, and until they become inhabitants of that 
other city more glorious “‘whose builder and maker is 

[ 35 ] 

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Ramblers at Spring of Dunkerhook 

HE members and friends of the Rambling Club, 
about thirty in all, held their fifth ramble on 
Saturday afternoon, October 15th, 1904. The 
members met at the City Hall, at 2 o’clock, and 
walked thence to Broadway, where they boarded 
the Hudson River trolley car and rode to Swamp Road, 
near Arcola. ‘There alighting, the party proceeded along 
the road which skirts the western bank of the Saddle 
River in the direction of Paramus. The day was de- 
lightfully fine; cool, invigorating breezes, blue October 
skies and brilliant sunshine, making a perfect autumnal 
day. | 

The picturesque lake at Arcola and the clear little 
river were among the fine objects to win attention. The 
recent gales had stripped many trees of their leaves, but 
the golden maples were in full glow; bright scarlet wreaths 
of the Virginia creeper climbed the trunks of trees and 
intertwined among the wayside shrubbery, giving a bor- 
rowed charm to the woods that Nature had deprived of 
their own particular foliage. Even the wayside weeds 
became attractive. The pods of the milk-weed were un- 
folding, and the white fleecy sails were carrying the brown 
seeds like little vegetable ships to unknown harbors. The 
walnut trees were completely bare, but in the grass under- 
neath, the young Ramblers found a rich harvest of wal- 
nuts, and these were added to the store of chestnuts and 
acorns and served as a festive souvenir of the day’s ex- 
cursion. Pretty cottages and quaint old homesteads were 
passed, in the gardens of which still bloomed such 
autumnal flowers as the chrysanthemum, the china aster 
and the blue campanula. 

[ 37 ] 


After passing the end of Berdan Avenue, the Ram- 
blers came to the monster chestnut tree, the largest tree 
for twenty miles around Paterson. Its girth was measured 
and found to be twenty-one feet in circumference. Here 
the Ramblers were grouped while Harry Shelby produced 
his camera and took a photograph of the excursionists 
with the fine old monarch of the forest in the back- 

The party then went on, with the exception of 
Michael Butz and his bright little son. Mr. Butz was so 
struck with his admiration of the gigantic tree that he 
could not overcome the temptation to remain behind and 
sketch it. 

A little further on the Ramblers came to the cross- 
roads, and taking the eastern road, they were soon revel- 
ing in the beautiful groves which skirt the enchanting 
Saddle River on both sides. Leaves of oak, hickory and 
chestnut thickly covered the ground, and the searchers 
were again rewarded by a further addition to the store of 
nuts already garnered. 

The neat little cottages of colored people at Dunker- 
hook were much admired, flagstones and doorsteps fault- 
lessly clean, and windows that shone like polished mirrors, 
while well trained vines and pleasant little gardens added a 
natural tribute to domestic art and care. 

‘The party rested by the famous Dunkerhook spring, 
known to travelers for twenty miles around. The old 
buttonwood tree with its long brass dippers never looked 
more beautiful; the bright verdure like an emerald carpet. 
and the clear water of the spring all combined to make 
the spot exquisitely attractive. Here the members were 
again arranged in a group, and Mr. Shelby, assisted by 
former Judge Kerr, again photographed them. 

Mr. Rydings then read a letter which he had re- 

[ 38 ] 


ceived from Philmer Eves, the respected president of the 
club. Mr. Eves regretted his inability to be present, but 
said he would be with the party in spirit, and would 
often think of the Dunkerhook ramble and his friends, 
even amid the glorious autumnal attractions of Mount 
Pocono during his short visit in the latter place. 

Enjoyable as the ramble was, the president’s absence 
was regretted from the start, and amid the many delights 
of the ramble, an inspiration, so finely expressed by 
Tennyson rose up in every mind: 

“Oh, for a touch of a vanished hand: 
And the sound of a voice that is still.” 

The members then sang the Club’s ‘Ode of Wel- 
come,’ and found an appreciative auditor in a gentleman 
named Stewart, a resident of the place. Mr. Stewart 
kindly gave some interesting information about Dunker- 
hook and about its old Colonial founder, who built the 
mansion close by. 

The Ramblers then took leave of the beautiful vil- 
lage, and in the twilight of a magnificent sunset con- 
tinued their way back to the car along a road shaded by 
tall pines and hemiocks and adorned with beautiful dwell- 
ings. The last rays of the setting sun had departed when 
the Ramblers reached the trolley car at the Swamp Road 
and continued the journey back to Paterson. 

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Ramblers at Haledon 

HE sixth ramble of the Paterson Ramblng Club, 
held October 26th, 1904, was one of the most 
romantic and enjoyable of the Club’s autumn 
outings. Over forty members met at the City 
Hall loop at 8:45 a. m. with Mr. Rydings, the 
veteran leader, and went by trolley car to Haledon. 
Alighting at Buschmann’s hotel, the large party took the 
road leading past Judge Thompson’s junction to the 
Pompton Turnpike. The main road was followed to 
Hall’s farm, celebrated for its well of delicious spring 
water. Here the genial farmer joined the Ramblers, who 
entered the cedar woods near the deep cutting in the 
rocks forming the road to Upper Preakness. “The mem- 
bers soon began to pick up the latest of the autumnal 
flowers and to gather bouquets of cedar and colored 

A short walk through the narrow path of the woods 
brought the Ramblers to the famous boulder named 
Indian Rock, an enormous pile of glacial deposit on the 
brow of the hill and said to be the largest boulder rock 
in New Jersey. [The members of the Club were here 
grouped in front of the great rock and were photographed 
by John Hartmeier, Jr. A number of rare flowers were 
discovered in the vicinity of Indian Rock, one of which 
with a form and color similar to pink clover, was ex- 
plained by Mr. Rydings as being in the botanist’s list 
without any name other than its botanical description and 
Latin species. “The blue berries on the cedars were ad- 
mired and sprays were brought away among the bouquets 

Proceeding through the cedar groves in which there 

[41] Sec. 4 


are also some fine specimens of the dogwood trees, now 
leafless, the party assembled in a lovely dell which it was 
thought well fitted the name of Cedar Cliff Park. It is 
a beautiful garden-like opening adorned with the finest 
specimens of the cedar tree and with a sloping background 
of these stately evergreens reaching to the summit of the 
hill. ‘The morning being one of the brightest and clearest 
of the October days the party rested here and were again 
photographed, the cedars being bent over and joined in 
the form of rustic arches. A number of artistic pictures 
of the woods and groups of the Club members formed in 
circles were taken. Here in this romantically lovely grove 
the Club’s “Ode of Welcome’ was sung, the members 
forming a large ring with William Buschmann as the 
leader of the melody. The last lines were repeated with 
enthusiasm, and it was felt that the words of the ode were 
never more appreciated and enjoyed than on this occasion. 

From this fairy-like park a path was taken leading 
through the higher woods in the direction of Preakness, 
and the party was guided through the labyrinth of narrow 
passages by Mr. Benz, a brother of one of the members, 
who knew the difficult way. Farmer Hall presented the 
Club with three splendid specimens of the Rolofe apple, 
large in diameter as an ordinary saucer and rosy as the 
famous Mackintosh Red. ‘These fine apples have been 
placed on public view in the window of a Main Street 
jewelry store, together with a large hornets’ nest and some 
autumn foliage and berries discovered and collected in the 
woods. ‘The hornets’ nest was a perfect and a good sized 
specimen, and it was very interesting to know, from in- 
formation contributed by one of the members of the Club, 
that the decayed and pulp-like leaves which the wasp 
family uses to build its home was said to be the first 
““paper’’ ever manufactured, and it was this composi- 

[ 42] 


tion of paper-like material that first gave the suggestion of 
paper and thus caused its discovery and manufacture. 

Crossing the open meadow between the woodlands, 
a magnificent view was obtained of the surrounding coun- 
try and New York, the Palisades, and the mountains 
across in New York State were seen in all their autumn 
glory. The foliage, which in some parts of New Jersey 
has begun to fall or fade, is still lovely in its fall tint- 
ings, the leaves of the red oaks and the golden maples, 
with the crimson plants of the underbrush, having sur- 
vived, and been intensified by the recent morning frosts. 

The scenery of lower New Jersey, with Garret Rock 
in the perspective, as viewed in the clear atmosphere from 
the rocky ridge of the woods, was greatly enjoyed, and 
the City of Paterson seemed to lay very peacefully amid 
its environment of rural beauty—peaceful it seemed after 
its many vicissitudes and struggles with the terrors of 
Nature and the elements. | 

‘The children of the party, as usual, found amuse- 
ment in finding the autumn’s lonely flowers, the blue aster 
being among the last of the showy ones to remain with 
the falling leaves. The main Preakness road was reached 
soon after noon, and the Ramblers walked to Totowa 
Avenue by the Old Ladies’ Home and came back to Pater- 
son by car. 

‘The members who went on this memorable ramble 
were: Joseph Rydings, leader; Philmer Eves, president; 
William Buschmann, Bernard Taylor, Herman Benz, 
Alfred Neuberger, Arthur Cliffe, John Barbarrow, Peter 
Borrin, Arnold Eves, John F. Kerr, Walter M. Preater, 
John Kuyl, John Campbell, Fred Campbell, J. F. Begg, 
Harry C. Shelby, John Garrison, John Hartmeier, Jr., 
Mrs. Bernard Taylor, Mrs. H. B. Shelby, Mrs. L. Van 
Riper, Mrs. Davenport, Mrs. Philmer Eves, Mrs. John 

[ 43 ] 


Barbarrow, Mrs. George Bannigan, Mrs. Walter M. 
Preater, Mrs. John Garrison, Mrs. O’Brien, Mrs. F. A. 
Begg, Mrs. Irving Benn, Miss Annie Begg, Miss Kate 
Wilcox, Miss E. Scarr, Miss Margaret Wilcox, Miss Bertha 
Buschmann, Miss Mary O’Brien, and Miss Jean Begg. 

[ 44] 

A Pilgrimage to the Place 
Where Hamilton Fell 

HAVE recently made a pilgrimage to Weehawken 
for the sake of doing homage to the memory of 
Alexander Hamilton, the founder of Paterson. [| 
am little acquainted with the life of Hamilton, 
and am aware that some would say that he had 
about as much to do with the founding of Paterson as 
he had to do with founding Calcutta, but this city, by 
the erection of his statue in front of our City Hall, has 
conferred upon him the honor, and as a loyal Patersonian, 
I have made a pilgrimage to the spot where Hamilton 
passed away from this beautiful world and departed for 
that bourne from whence no traveler returns. There is 
hardly another man around whom so much controversy 
has arisen, but our city has recognized him as the founder, 
and that is enough for me. 

A bust of Alexander Hamilton has been erected upon 
the spot where he fell in that fatal duel, and this spot was 
the objective point of my recent pilgrimage. 

I live near the car barn at Lakeview, and on this 
Sunday morning I “‘inhaled’’ the car at Gould Avenue. 
A dear old friend of mine was fond of using big words, 
the meaning of which he did not always know. Instead 
of hailing cars he ‘‘inhaled’’ them, and many were the 
vehicles that found a lodgment on his lungs if the ex- 
pression could have represented an actual fact. The 
morning was fine; in fact, just such a morning as we 
usually expect in April or early May instead of November. 

If we keep our eyes and ears open, the everyday 
world we live in will present to us most wonderful things 

[ 45 ] 


to admire and wonder, and when I took my place in a 
White Line car, bound for Hoboken, I felt sure that the 
view from the car windows would supply me with ob- 
jects sufficiently interesting if I could work them up, with 
only a moderate expenditure of labor and intelligence. 

How reminiscent these thoroughfares are through 
which we are passing! Crooks Avenue! How many 
are there who think of the person to whom the term 

My father made the acquaintance of “Jimmy” 
Crooks soon after he came to America. and he related to 
him his unfortunate adventures in real estate. ‘“The 
panic of 1873 came, and all went,’’ was his short but 
significant expression of the termination of all his plans 
and anticipations that went astray. He showed him a 
photograph of Lakeview and the railroad station, and de- 
scribed the plans he had formed to make this the fashion- 
able and residential suburb of the new and thriving indus- 
trial city of Paterson. 

There are thousands living yet who will remember 
Jimmy’s car line to Lakeview, which ran along Trenton 
Avenue which Jimmy thought would be the main thor- 
oughfare of Lakeview. The rails were left rusting in 
the ground for years after the cars had been taken off 
them, and Trenton Avenue refused to flourish at Crooks’ 
command. ‘The real estate speculators have made great 
efforts since Jimmy’s time, and Trenton Avenue is no 
more a rural thoroughfare, though still a part of old 
Cherry Hill. I remember one Sunday afternoon an Italian 
real estate dealer was busy trying to boom the next ave- 
nue. He had studied the geography and was convinced 
that when the public came to its proper judgment it 
would see that the coming main line of connection be- 
tween Paterson and Passaic would be not Main Street or 

[ 46 ] 

Pei ANY e@ bP Veiup:s 

‘Trenton Avenue, but Wabash Avenue. This, he said, 
was the shortest and most direct way, and he advised his 
auditors to purchase lots on Wabash Avenue if they 
wanted a sure and sound investment for their ‘‘monota.’’ 

But Wabash and all the thoroughfares around it 
are still calling for investors, and even the Italians are still 
cautious about exchanging their hard-earned ‘“‘monota’’ for 
lots on Wabash Avenue. 

An old friend of mine, Nicholas Vogel, had beauti- 
ful visions of Lakeview, and it was said that when the 
Hands’ factory was building he saw every brick that was 
laid and every slate that was put on the roof, and his own 
little bit of real estate grew more valuable in his concep- 
tion at each operation. 

But when the factory was finished he was disap- 
pointed, and said there never was a people that could be 
depended on less than the people of Paterson. The opera- 
tives traveled by car, and the few that lived in the neigh- 
borhood seemed, by some sort of infatuation to prefer 
working in the city, and those that live in the city went 
back there instead of settling in Lakeview. And so it 
has always been, 

“The best laid schemes of mice and men 
Gang aft agley, 

And leave us naught but grief and pain, 
For promised joy.” 

The neighborhood has been blessed with a few im- 
provements, but still nature holds sway, and when the 
early warm rains of spring come the denizens of the 
marshy places still let the residents know that there is life 
in them yet, for they croak and holler most vociferously. 
And the old wild flowers still persist. The purple 
gerardia blooms beautifully as on the day when no real 



estate speculator had ever profaned its seclusion, and the 
yellow dog’s tooth violet shakes its cap in the passing 
zephyr, as if the factory and the trolley car were many 
miles away. 

During the recent heavy rain I saw a hop-toad jump- 
ing its way across Pennsylvania Avenue. At first I took 
it for a flying leaf and stopped to examine the object more 
closely. A hop-toad in a November storm seemed im- 
possible, but there it was. It had been suffering from the 
drought so long that when the rain came it could not 
resist the temptation of going out to enjoy it, even though 
the temperature was near freezing point. ‘This was at 
the corner of Alabama Avenue, where the young men of 
the neighborhood congregate to lay plans for the ball 
season. | 

While I have been ruminating, the car has carried me 
on, and I find myself passing along State Street, Passaic. 
It is the same reproduction of Naples in miniature. Buy- 
ing and selling, gossiping and meeting in little groups: 
bambini playing in the street, and chalking the sidewalk 
in the formation of curious diagrams before beginning to 
play that peculiar game they call ‘““Hop-sy.”’ 

On we go, past the old French chateau of the famous 
wine grower, and also past the dingy tenement that the 
Volunteers, who separated from the Salvation Army, are 
utilizing for their work of piety and benevolence; and 
now we come to the river and the old historical county 
bridge, where Washington crossed the Passaic. 

How many cross the river at this place without even 
a thought of the historical events connected therewith. 
In the month of November, 150 years ago, the American 
army, under General Washington, came to the river at this 
point in their retreat through New Jersey, after the dis- 
astrous battle of Long Island. “They had crossed the 

[ 48 ] 


Hudson at Fort Lee, and the British followed them in 
such close proximity that several shots were fired at the 
pursuing forces for the purpose of halting them as the 
latter approached the bridge. An old wooden structure 
formed the bridge in those days, and when Washington’s 
army had crossed by it, several valiant residents on the 
Passaic side, decided to demolish it before the British could 
come up and use it. “This was done, and the American 
army in the meantime made their way in the direction of 
Monmouth, where the famous battle was fought. Some 
of the British, in retreat, came back so far as the river at 
this point, and a skirmish took place between them and 
some of the inhabitants, and the records state that several 
were wounded. 

About thirty years ago the Passaic Queen used to ply 
between here and Newark, and I took an occasional trip 
on the sturdy little craft. How careful one had to be 
in passing down the gang-plank so as not to make a false 
step and become capsized in the inky waters below! But 
the gallant vessel did her work well. And such pas- 
sengers as were deficient in the sense of smell seemed to 
enjoy the voyage. We landed at Newark, but progress 
became slower as we approached the terminal, probably 
through the increasing density of the water, after taking 
in the refuse of Belleville and other towns along the 

But the Passaic Queen has not soiled her royal bosom 
in the river for many years, and though it is popularly 
supposed that the royal office is never vacant, no prince or 
princess has ever taken the old lady’s place. 

The car has gone on to Carlstadt, an old German 
settlement. There is a tradition that when it was founded 
there was a certain stipulation that no church or religious 

[ 49 ] 


edifice should ever be planted there, but churches came, 
and beer saloons as well, for— 

“Wherever God erects a house of prayer, 
The devil always builds a chapel there.”’ 

The pleasures of the pilgrimage began at Carlstadt 
station, for I decided to walk from there to the Hacken- 
sack bridge, and take the car again at the bridge. It was 
a glorious morning, and the Hackensack meadows were 
very interesting. The tall pampas grass shook its silver 
tresses in the wind and the brown “punks” of the cat- 
tails were turning to downy seeds that the gale carried 
away in every direction. Here and there one came to a 
patch of woodland and in one of these comparatively dry 
patches I started to walk, but the dryness was more ap- 
parent than real, and after a few steps in the soft yield- 
ing grass I turned back to the hard macadam car tracks. 
In front of the lonely hotel I found a path which seemed 
firm enough for the farm wagons, and I went along it 
for a few hundred yards perfectly dryshod. 

This detour interested me very much. On one side 
were fields of celery and turnips, and on the other was 
the virgin forest. The birds were very numerous, there 
were flocks of pine finches, and it was interesting to watch 
them feeding on the tall reeds, and creeping around the 
branches of the golden rod to pick off the ripe seeds and 
any late caterpillar that might still be found there. Often 
the entire body of the bird was suspended from the thin 
branch, but whether it digged at the branch from an up- 
right position or from below, the little head kept picking 

There were several robins, who evidently were not 
in a great hurry to join their fellows in the southern 

[ 50 ] 


The real cold weather had not come yet and they 
had probably decided to stick to the mild Jersey woods 
for a little time longer. But the snow birds had come 
from the north, and their presence should have warned 
the robins that much longer delay would not be advis- 
able. ‘The fox sparrows, too had come from Canada 
and were using the woodland swamp as a halting place on 
their migration to the woods of the South. The fox 
sparrow is the largest and the handsomest of the sparrow 
kingdom, and his handsome vesture is always conspicuous 
among our autumn birds. “The swamp sunflower was 
seen in the brooklets and the ditches, and the clusters of 
red berries of the swamp honeysuckle made a brilliant 

The farm path was firm and dry, and I might have 
continued my excursion still further, but I decided to re- 
trace my steps and get back to the car tracks. 

A big mastiff dog came out of the stable and seemed 
disposed to dispute my passage, as if it would remind me 
that I had set at naught the warning on the sign board 
that trespassing was not allowed. Well, Bruno, let me 
out this time and I will not come this way again. ‘The 
wise old fellow complied with my request, but a little 
yelping cur continued barking while I was not only on 
the highway, but a considerable distance down the road. 

Berry's Creek is my next point of observation. It 
provides accommodation for “‘picnick’’ parties, and one 
hopes that the ‘“‘accomadicion’”’ is better than the or- 
thography, otherwise it is not worth very much. 

From now on to Homestead I pass through the salt 
meadows. ‘The lonely houses, half submerged, seem to 
enjoy this cool November breeze, and the freedom and 
relief it brings them from their enemies, the mosquitoes. 
There would seem little to entice one from the road, but, 



for all that, there seems, from the notices, repeated warn- 
ings to trespassers, ‘‘Beware of the dogs’ and ‘‘Trespassers 
will be prosecuted’’ appears above the fuzzy cattails. One 
proprietor is very laconic, but very determined, and he 
comes forth with the grim legend, ‘“‘Keep out, or—shot.”’ 
The Hackensack River is still there and beautiful as 
ever. Except the Hudson, no stream of water pleases me 
so well, and here is a curious sight! There has been a 
huge entomological army here, and it seems to have gone 
into winter quarters on the south side of the river. The 
beautiful moth, Samia Cecropia, has been here in summer 
time, and its curious cocoons cover the willows by thou- 
sands. It would appear as if an army of these insects 
had flown to the river and found themselves unable to 
cross it, so they appear to have decided to winter here. 
When the embattled hosts come out of their cocoons in 
spring they will resume their flight and cross the stream, 
or will they retreat back to Hudson county? Probably 
the latter, if Secaucus borough will provide an abundance 
of brilliant electric lights, but it is not likely that this 
bustling little borough will go to such expense to have 
its lamp globes infested by even the charming cecropia. 
At the Hackensack bridge while waiting for a car, I 
amused myself in watching the treatment of a sick motor- 
cycle. ‘The poor instrument was evidently in a bad way. 
The owner mounted and worked the pedals energetically, 
but when he stopped the machine stopped, but a little 
more treatment by the doctor, and another vigorous 
pedaling by the owner, and the thing started off and 
crossed the river, but as the trolley car came I had no 
chance to see whether the cure was permanent or only 
temporary. ‘[he owner at one point made a suggestion 
which the doctor declined, as he said he did not want to 
““boeyn”’ his fingers, and I knew from the local pronuncia- 

[ 52] 

_—-- = ~~ 


tion of the word ‘‘burn’”’ that the machine and its owner 
were not far from home. | 

A mile or two more of salt meadows, a few million 
more cattails, and the car rattles over the stony pavement of 
Homestead, but the civic scene does not interest me very 
much, and I listen to the final scene in a drama that has been 
going on since we left Hackensack bridge. The conductor 
has demanded his fare and the passenger has refused to pay 
it a second time, as he asserts. The passenger may be right, 
but how complacently the ordinary mortal will skin the 
company out of a nickel if he can. The good deacon in 
“David Harum’’ did not think it very wrong to cheat his 
client when selling a horse. And when ‘‘skinning’’ a rich 
corporation, what man’s conscience is so tender as to keep 
him awake at night by malfeasance in the matter of a 
nickel? But it is not right for all that, and John D. 
Rockefeller is entitled to his own as much as if he were 
not worth a dollar. 

I stayed a few hours with friends in West Hoboken, 
and then my Hamilton pilgrimage was resumed. To get 
to Weehawken you go down the cliffs, either on foot 
down long wooden stairs, or you descend by way of the 
horse elevator a little further on. I went down the 
famous Shippen Street steps and landed near the Wee- 
hawken police court. I had reached a municipality which 
exists at a distance of several hundred feet nearer the center 
of the earth than the town on the top of the rock, and after 
crossing two trolley lines I came to the hill on which the 
objective point of my pilgrimage stands. This hill and 
the wood surrounding it is Kingswood. It is the big 
headland that juts out in the Hudson River and that you 
notice while looking up the Hudson, when crossing on the 
Hoboken ferry. I began to climb and find the ascent 
pretty hard. However, by watching my steps and cling- 

[ 53 J 


ing to the scrubby trees and the rocks, I manage to reach 
the summit. 

Hundreds come here to enjoy the fresh mountain 
air, and the beautiful scenery along the Hudson, and this 
fine Sunday afternoon the place is alive with visitors. 
And here is what you seldom find nowadays—a haunted 
house! Yes, if you come here at midnight you will find 
four uncanny visitors from the other world who flit 
through these corridors and silent rooms and thwart all 
cfforts of real estate dealers to sell the property or to let it 
out to tenants of flesh and blood willing to pay rent and 
taxes. The ghosts have it all their own way, and the 
building would soon crumble to dust if it were con- 
structed in the ordinary way, but the original owners 
built it of hard trap rock material, and fashioned it on the 
supposition that they were building for eternity. You 
look at it and note the thick heavy walls, and you climb 
the wide staircases that are so firm in carpentry that they 
scarcely yield to your tread, and yet the place has been 
abandoned to its ghostly occupants. It is generally some 
old tumbling shack that ghosts love to haunt, but ap- 
parently if they had chosen the strongest building in Wee- 
hawken they could not have found a firmer one. And 
everything is so modern, from the celler to the roof there 
is nothing antiquated or out of date. “The expenditure 
of a few thousand dollars would put the place in fine 
condition for collecting the highest rent, but—oh, those 
confounded ghosts! In places the walls have been stripped 
of their paper, and scores of visitors have written their 
names on the white plaster underneath. From many of 
the legends and illustrations it would appear as if Rabelais 
or Swift came from their filthy inferno and walked these 
corridors at night. 

But the sun is getting low and I leave the haunted 

[ 54] 


house and take foot again to the terminal of my pil- 
grimage. . 

A few blocks further on the same elevated platform 
and I come to where Hamilton, in white stone, is looking 
out from his fenced enclosure on such pilgrims as come 
to pay him their tribute of attention. If he were as hand- 
some as his horse the city of Paterson may certainly boast 
of a founder as comely as the “‘beloved’”’ in the ‘‘Song of 
Songs.’ The figure wears a fancy shirt, bosom, adorned 
with a ruffle and frills. But why go into details of ves- 
ture? ‘This is Alexander Hamilton, the founder of Pater- 
son, and I, a humble citizen of that municipality, come 
here to pay homage. And I am apparently alone in my 
attention. A young man and his lady love pass, but they 
are too happy to pay attention to a dead statesman. 

And here comes an old man, walking all by him- 
self. Surely this intelligent looking sire will give Hamil- 
ton a little recognition! No, he does not even turn his 
head. Well, never mind, Alexander; one of thy visitors 
on this bright afternoon will not neglect thee. Thou 
mayst not have been a perfect man, but as the founder 
of Paterson I will ever honor thee. Good-bye, Alexander 

I can hear the objections of the iconoclast already. 
It will be said that Hamilton did not found Paterson, but 
as our city has accorded to him that distinction, I must 
refuse to discuss the point, and no consideration of this 
sort shall interfere with my devotion as I walk back 
from Kingswood this afternoon. And by the way, where 
will the destroyers of historical images stop their con- 
temptible work? They will say that William Tell 
never lived, that Shakespeare never wrote the dramas 
ascribed to him, and it does not astonish one to hear 
that Hamilton did not found Paterson. Well. we have 

[ 55 ] 


settled that question to our own satisfaction. His 
statue stands in front of our City Hall and his name 
adorns two of our city thoroughfares, and we are satis- 
fied that the great American statesman added to his laud- 
able achievements the distinction of being the founder of 
our own beloved city. So I am satisfied with my pil- 
grimage after all. 

[ 56 ] 

‘go0soy “AT ‘Moydeu puv SUIYIed ‘SAT pue “AP ‘SToyom SST 
‘SUIWIO[Y ‘SOUL ‘SIT pue “aT ‘ssurpAy Yydosor—:poystnsulsiq 9q UeD dnory UT 



Thanksgiving in the Woods 

)| UR national bird, the turkey, as Oliver Wendell 
‘Tk Holmes calls it, roosted so high that few of us 
: could afford it. But it was a glorious Thanks- 
giving for all that. Nature gave us in delightful 
weather what more than compensated us for 
gastronomic loss. Thousands enjoyed the balmy day and 
the bright sunshine. The fields, the woods and the parks 
were never so animated with people out for a walk at this 
time of the year as they were yesterday. 

Nature is not seen at her best so late in the fall, 
but there were many objects interesting to me in the 
course of a ramble through Rogers’ wood, along the 
boulevard and through Coulson’s grove and the lower end 
of Eastside Park. Well, in fact, some plants look prettier 
when they are dead than when they are living, remind- 
ing us of human beings of whom the world never found 
out half their virtues until the grave had closed over them 
and their sorrowing relatives had written their epitaphs. 

Here is a plant, the climbing false buckwheat, for 
instance. J remember it only as a troublesome vine, en- 
tangling and trying to strangle the woodland shrubs in 
the summer time. The flowers are small, of a dirty 
white, and unattractive, but today its withered tendrils 
make the woodland dell look as if the fairies had been at 
work weaving brown lace curtains and hanging them in 
front of every thicket and dingle. 

The wild yam is another illustration. The flowers 
are of no account, but how pretty are these brown three- 
cornered seed vessels which shake like bells in the breeze 
and jingle their little hard seeds musically in their thin 
brown capsules! A living dog may be better than a dead 

[ 57 ] Sec. 5 


lion, but as a natural ornament a dead wild yam vine is 
worth a thousand living ones. 

We pass the bitter-sweet, too, in summer time, but 
take no notice of it, and it is only when the leaves begin 
to turn yellow and drop from the stems that we begin to 
notice how charming the vine is. Then its bright yellow 
seed vessels appear, these open later, and the brilliant 
scarlet seeds are seen, and if there were nothing else to 
tempt one to turn aside into this old rustic cowpath, the 
beautiful trellis work of the bitter-sweet would be sufficient. 

The trees are bare, even the graceful willow, Salix 
Babylonica, finds it can keep its leaves no longer and begins 
to scatter them to the winds. The children of Israel wept 
under it, and we think of it mournfully when we read the 
Psalms, but New Jersey would lose much of its arboreal 
loveliness if deprived of this graceful immigrant from the 
eastern world. It is not known who first brought the 
tree to this country, but it came to England in a curious 
manner. Alexander Pope, the poet, received a consign- 
ment of figs from a friend in Turkey, and he noticed that 
one twig among the number that formed the wicker work 
in which the figs were enclosed, had begun to sprout. 
The poet took this and planted it in his garden at 
Twickenham. It grew, and fora time the tree was known 
as Pope’s willow. This is how the Babylonica willow 
first found its way into England. 

What idiots some people are! One would think 
that even mischievous boyhood would shrink from the 
thought of setting fire to these beautiful trees. Here is a 
magnificent specimen of the American elm, half of its 
trunk has been burned away, and yonder is a fine old oak 
which has entirely succumbed to the spirit of wanton 

The spring which bubbles up through the old 

[ 58 J 


wooden cask in the wood is deserted today, and it is left 
to imagination to recall the merry picnic party that 
gathered here and quenched their thirst from its crystal 
water in the warm summer time. Among the rest came 
“Bessie and Eddie’”’ and left their names on the trunk of 
this old beech tree nearby. It must have been many years 
ago, for the inscription is somewhat changed by the 
growth of the tree, though it is still legible. Health and 
prosperity to Bessie and Eddie wherever they may be, and 
I hope the spirit of mutual affection continues as warm 
in after years as on the day when their names were linked 
together and inscribed on this old beech tree. 

I like to read these arboreal inscriptions. They seem 
to make the woods happier by recalling the happy days 
gone by, for the rude sculptors themselves were happy 
beyond a doubt. Nobody in misery would stop to cut 
his name on a tree. 

What a lot of shooting there is! The air resounds 
with the firing of guns, as if this were the Fourth of July. 
Youthful Nimrods are seen everywhere, but what they 
find to hunt is a mystery. I have seen no birds, except 
one or two juncoes, and surely no one would think of 
shooting them. If the squirrels in the Eastside Park have 
had their nerves upset it is not likely they will soon re- 
cover their tranquility after today’s firing. But, really, 
there is no game in sight and the hunters are in a worse 
plight than the “three jolly Welshmen’’ who went out 
hunting upon St. David's day, 

They hunted and they halloed, 

But nothing could they find— 

Nothing but a hedge-hog, 

And that they left behind. 

“Oh!” one said, ““That’s a hedge-hog,”’ 

[ 59 J 


But the other he said, “Nay. 
That's nothing but a pincushion, 
With the pins stuck the wrong way.” 

The Paterson hunters have not even the consolation 
of finding a hedge-hog. In desperation a number of them 
find a tin can and set it afloat on the river and begin firing 
at it, trying to believe, I suppose, that it is a wild duck. 

My ramble yesterday was a pleasant one, though [ 
missed my friends of the Rambling Club. My well 
wishes go with them, and I hope they enjoyed Thanks- 
giving, even if ‘“‘our national bird’ did not furnish their 
repast. After all, what does it matter? ‘‘Better is a 
dinner of herbs where love is than a stalled ox and hatred 

[ 60] 

Ramblers’ First Hike of the 
Spring Season 

HE Rambling Club last Saturday had their first 
“hike” of the Spring season. Brookdale was the 
selected place. ewer members than usual met 
at the City Hall, but they happened to be men 
who believe in carrying out the syllabus, and so 
the appointed ramble was negotiated. 

We took the car to Nutley and dismounted at 
Center Street. From thence we climbed the hill, pass- 
ing along meadow and field paths which skirted the 
woods. Here the robin and the bluebird began to greet 
us, and here we saw our old entomological friend the 
mourning cloak butterfly. This is the first specimen of 
this butterfly that I have seen this season. He is some- 
what late, for the entomologist expects to meet Antiopa 
papilio very early in the season. Even the less observant 
Rambler who is glad to get out in the first sunshine will 
often have met and noticed a brown winged butterfly 
with a yellow band around the border of each wing. 
As the air is yet unfrequented by flies of any description, 
Antiopa is always conspicuous. His presence indicates 
that gentle Spring has begun to feel a disposition to divest 
herself of Winter’s white drapery, and come out in the 
sunshine, but the Antiopa’s presence gives no assurance 
that Spring is really come out to stay. Two swallows 
do not make a summer and one mourning cloak butter- 
fly certainly does not make a Spring, though one feels 
glad to greet the vernal harbinger once again. 

In the woods and along the margin of the meadows 
the snow still lingers, and there is a suggestion of more 
snow in the atmosphere, but we hope it will not come 

[ 61] 


until we have completed our first “‘hike.’”’ Leaving the 
field path we come upon Watchung Avenue, and after a 
short walk we come to the Morris Canal. The old 
bridge has disappeared and an iron structure less pictur- 
esque but more durable has taken its place. Here we 
prepare ourselves for a long ramble. We pass the old 
farmhouse where on one occasion the Ramblers took 
refuge when a violent storm came on, but there is not 
the same necessity just yet. 

The landscape becomes more extensive, and we catch 
sight of Upper Montclair and get a good view of the 
Normal School. In the stream below, which goes by 
the name of the Notch Brook, a young fellow is fishing. 
He tells us that he is fishing for trout, and this it appears 
is the Notch Brook with which we have been acquainted 
so long! Evidently it gives its name to the village. It 
is just a sweet meandering stream as the trout and the 
grayling may be supposed to take delight in. “The tow- 
path with the canal on one side and the brook on the 
other is very charming, and we feel that pleasant touch 
of resiliency in the soil as we pass along. 

The tow-path becomes further on almost covered 
with mud, which has been thrown from the bottom of 
the canal, and it is evident that the mud scows have been 
very active. ‘This is a sign that the old waterway is not 
to be abandoned just yet. It is not unusual for a small 
portion of the canal to be dredged, but here is at least a 
mile which has been put through the process. We re- 
mark on the fact in talking to a young man who is guid- 
ing a canoe along the canal, and he tells us that the old 
waterway is about to take on another spell of active 
existence, and he says that one hundred new canal boats 
are being built. So the old raging Morris apparently will 
be permitted to live after all! 

[ 62] 

ere mv eC, 


The ridge of canal mud has become dry and the 
Ramblers find it an easy matter to walk upon it. It 
continues until we come to the place where the Jersey 
City pipe line passes beneath the canal. Here we ap- 
proach the domain of the red-winged blackbird, and here 
we find the spring “‘peepers’ in full melody. Old natu- 
ralists say that though other signs fail, one may safely 
put it down that Spring has really arrived when we hear 
the “‘peepers.”’ The Spring peeper is a little frog which 
bears the long scientific name of Hyalodes Pickeringii. 
The name when written out takes up more length of 
spaces than the animal itself does. 

In Summer the moist meadow on our left is orna- 
mented with the beautiful Canadian lily, but today all 
that flora has to offer us is the skunk cabbage. But there 
are fewer things in botany more interesting after all than 
the skunk cabbage. We notice by the margin of the brook 
how its brown scape pushes its way through the yield- 
ing earth, and if we open the scape we find a cluster of 
flowerets all covered with yellow pollen, and this attracts 
the bees, and notwithstanding the vile odor of the plant, 
the produce of the flower helps to build and stock the 
busy hive. 

The Ramblers pass on and soon find themselves at 
the old Change bridge. The spot is “haunted.” If we 
should search carefully among the brush we might find 
the foundation of a house where tradition has it a murder 
was committed. A man and his wife lived in that house, 
and discord held sway there both day and night. One 
day the quarrelsome couple disappeared and later the 
neighboring farmers heard that the man was living in 
Philadelphia. What became of the women none could 
tell, but somehow it became reported that she had been 
murdered, and her body had been thrown into the canal. 

[ 63 ] 

Go wNiITir vow AA wes 

Boatmen when passing the spot at midnight began to tell 
how a woman would get on the boat and walk from 
stem to stern apparently in great agony. ‘The spectre was 
without a head, and the bargemen concluded that the 
woman's head had been cut from her body, and that the 
object of the nightly search was to find that head. But 
the visitation lasted for months and the bargemen dreaded 
coming to the Change bridge at 12 o'clock at night. 
Finally, the ghost ceased to appear and the episode passed 
over as a nine days’ wonder. 

It is strange that these goblins should be so desirous 
to haunt the places where Nature has done her best to 
make all so beautiful. There are plenty of less attractive 
spots along the old canal, especially near Bayonne, where 
any sort of ghost might be excused for haunting. Why 
did that frightful spectre not select Fiddler’s Elbow, in- 
stead of coming to such an exquisite resort as the Change 
bridge? Fairies might come and revel here with pro- 
priety underneath the dome of the bell flowers. Puck 
and Robin Goodfellow might hold gambols to their 
heart’s content, but the ghoulish spectre of a headless 
woman to haunt such a delightful spot is an outrage. 
Happily the ghost has been laid, and for many years now 
pedestrians and voyagers who have passed the Change 
bridge have never seen the apparition, even though the 
time has been 

“The witching hour of night 
When churchyards yawn and graves give up their dead.” 

Our hike seems to be rewarded by the sight of birds. 
Near the first bridge at Richfield we see the meadow lark. 
The bird is not a lark at all, but is a near relative of the 
starling. His peculiar feature is his walking habit. He 
has wings and could fly around, but he seems to like 

[ 64 ] 

te te ell, aan ee 


using his legs, and is a ‘‘hiker’’ for fair. And how fast 
those sharp legs do go. The Rambler who first noticed 
him exclaimed: “Oh, look at that funny bird; how 
fast he can walk’! I knew at once that it was the 
meadow lark, and he certainly was walking around that 
field as if he had been training for some pedestrian con- 
test in some ornithological stadium. Although not a 
very rare bird, his feathers so imitate the color of the 
brown and yellow meadow grass that one often fails to 
get sight of him. 

We saw a belted kingfisher just before coming to 
Richfield, and he appears to confine his attention to the 
canal and its estuaries. If he should ever find out the 
speckled trout that swim in the Notch Brook, it will 
be the death of them, for he will catch five fishes while 
the angler with his rod and line catches one. And the 
kingfisher has no regard for the legal regulation. He 
knows nothing of the open season or the closed season, 
and all is fish with him that comes to the nets. Old or 
young, great or small, are his without reserve. 

The red-wing blackbird is out in considerable num- 
bers. [he swamps around here are his favorite haunts, 
but we have no desire to disturb his favorite abode and 
will be content if he will let us pass without scolding us 
as if we were murderous intruders. Surely we are en- 
titled to walk quietly along the tow-path without being 
assailed with all this ornithological ‘“‘sass!’’ The ex- 
cited bird on the base branch of this tree does not say it in 
plain words, but his squawking tone and his agitating 
demeanor say in plain effect: ‘“‘Beat it! Beat it!” 
What are you looking at? What do you want?’’ Well, 
poor foolish red-wing, we want nothing of you, but are 
at liberty to walk along the old tow-path when we feel 

[65 ] 


like it, and we shall never consult the inclination of a 
red-winged blackbird. 

We sit for a short rest under the foot bridge at 
Richfield, and watch the hardy children of the German 
farmers on the other side of the canal enjoying them- 
selves by wheeling the baby in the farm wagon, climbing 
up and down the wire supports of the artesian well, and 
other forms of juvenile amusement. Enjoy yourselves 
little ones, and be thankful that you are not confined to 
some sickly textile factory. The fresh pure air and the 
free sunshine is yours, though the days of strenuous toil 
are coming when the weeds and the bugs will find you 
plenty to do. We have seen how industrious you were 
in the blazing sun when we were too languid to do any- 
thing but sit under the old bridge and watch the dragon 
flies. Enjoy yourselves now to your heart’s content. 

I must notice if the water hyacinth that I saw a 
few years ago has extended its domain. No, it has died 
out, or has been rooted out. Not a fragment remains, 
so the old canal will not be choked by the beautiful but 
pernicious weed. 

It has been a long walk from Nutley to Richfield, 
and one thinks with pleasure of catching the jitney, but 
as we approach Richfield the jitney gets just ahead of 
us and is off before we can hail it. 

We think with pleasure of the long canal dredging 
and its evidences that the charming old waterway is likely 
to last a few years more. We are grateful to our State 
Legislators, notably John Hunter and Senator McCran, 
who have assisted in the preservation of this public bene- 
fit. While the old turnpikes are becoming unsafe for 
the pedestrian, here along the fascinating Morris he can 
tamble to his heart’s content. No reckless road hog comes 
hither with his howling screeching Klaxon. 

[ 66 ] 

Some Recollections of 

Madison Avenue 

| IT CAME within my programme the other day to 
is pass the corner of Madison Avenue and Market 
Street. This was one of my favorite resorts in 
years gone by. The municipality of Paterson 
had not then begun to establish the little urban 
parks and breathing spots which are now happily to be 
found in every part of the city. I remember the place 
when it was practically a wilderness—a part of old Sandy 
Hill, before the latter began to move away on contractor's 
wagons and on an improvised railroad that someone had 
laid down for. the sake of shifting the undesirable sand. 
This work was gradually accomplished and Sandy Hill 
was leveled. 

In times gone by I enjoyed those four corners, and 
my pleasure would have continued if the land had re- 
mained a desert. The old boulder stone on which I used 
to sit and meditate is still there. When the day had been 
hot in the factory what a pleasure it was to cool off at 
night and catch the breezes from every point on the com- 
pass. This cross-road had many charms. Whatever be- 
came of the other big boulder stones which were found 
there at the time and on which it was such a pleasure to 
sit and read the newspaper by the electric light? It be- 
came painfully evident that the days of these geological 
benches would be numbered as the neighborhood began 
to get ‘“‘hightoned.’”’ I knew the spot first when it was 
a mere intersection of two country roads—long before 
even the hospital was built. The northeast corner where 
the church stands was then a thicket of cat-brier, bramble, 


COU Ne TERRY We At as 

and stunted shrubs of the Chinese ash. The robin sang 
there on his return from the South—just to practice a 
little and get his voice in trim for a more pretentious or- 
chestra. And I have heard the yellow-billed cuckoo call- 
ing there frequently from the topmost heights of those 
magnificent elms which Jacob Rogers planted, and which 
suffered such terrible havoc when the cyclone chose to 
pass that way. At eventide the electric light attracted 
moths and beetles from near and far. The beetles were 
of every species and variety, horrible creatures some of 
them, which were popularly known as ‘‘pinching-bugs,”’ 
though they must have dealt favorably with me. I could 
catch them and suffer no harm from the formidable and 
ugly pinchers with which nature had armed them and 
send them forth to conquer in the battles of their tribe. 
i was an enthusiastic student of entomology at the time, 
and what a field for study these four corners offered. 
What a little world of war and extermination came be- 
fore one’s gaze as one seated himself on those boulders 
and began to take note and observation! The little gnats 
and mosquitoes came first and after them the small moths 
such as millers. Probably other creatures too small for 
observation were hunted by the smallest of the ‘‘bugs”’ 
then carrying on the rhymster’s rule, 

The little fleas to bite us so 

Have other fleas to bite ’em, 

And these, again, have others, too. 
And so ad infinitum. 

Sometimes a winged warrior would get wounded, 
or falter in the fight. This would be a lucky thing for 
the bats, who would seize him before he fell to earth. If 
he should fall, however, to terra firma there was no escape 
from the jaws of death even there, for another class of 

[ 68 ] 


enemies were there waiting for him. Toads would seize 
him, darting out their long, curious tongues, and this 
would be the finale of many a beautiful moth arrayed in 
the loveliest colors and with wings more gorgeous in de- 
sign than an Indian shawl or a Persian carpet. One used 
to wonder if these poor, frail creatures felt much pain as 
their poor, unfortunate life thus came to such a tragic 
close. ‘Then the old problem of evil would present it- 
self again and set one thinking. Here was nature, “‘red 
in tooth and claw,” hard to understand if love was ‘‘crea- 
tion's final law.”’ 

When the starlings came here the electric lamps at- 
tracted them and they had just room to build under the 
reflector. So they toiled hard and reared their first brood. 
It was interesting to watch the parents bringing food to the 
young and to see with what admirable neatness they kept 
their little houses clean, bearing the ordure of the young 
away every time a fresh supply of food was brought. In 
this way was the entire dwelling kept free from defilement. 

There was a collection of boulder stones on the 
corner and all have been shifted except this one. It marks 
the corner of the church property, but the whitewash on 
it shows that it is no longer used as a resting place by any 
contemplating lounger. It is probably the last relic of 
the colonial time when the land of the Rogers tract was 
parted off from the original Van Houten estate. The old 
pathway that led into Rogers’ wood still skirts it, but the 
new name of Eighteenth Avenue seems to confuse all the 
old precious memories of the past. 

The place is connected with other associations which 
began long before real estate came upon the scene. As 
said before, when I first knew the place it was a wilder- 
ness. Property in those early days was very timid. It 
failed to expand. It clung to the neighborhood of Park 

[ 69 ] 


Avenue and advanced with very faltering steps along any 
of the side streets. It crept up Madison Avenue with the 
utmost caution. For many years it did not dare to ven- 
ture beyond Seventeenth Avenue. [Then a few venture- 
some spirits began to think that it possibly might be safe 
to go a few steps further to the south, until at length the 
half of the western block was covered. 

But in those days people were so afraid of living 
“out in the country,’ and Madison Avenue was then re- 
garded by many as “‘in the country.”’ When a tenant 
moved in the late fall, there was a strong probability that 
the rooms would remain empty all winter, so fearful were 
people of living “‘in the country’’ during winter time, and 
the rent they offered to pay was ridiculous. There might 
be improvements, gas, water, bathtubs, etc., but then, it 
was “‘in the country.”’ 

It was when Madison Avenue was “‘in the country” 
that I moved into it. With me the attractions began to 
lessen as the place became more urban. As first one resi- 
dence and then another came within hailing distance of 
the lonely stone where I was watching the night flies, the 
place became less and less desirable. 

Gradually the native American birds began to desert 
it. [he summer yellow bird was no longer seen in the 
garden of Mr. Grueters. ‘The tanager and the oriole came 
a little longer, but the sparrows and cats became too 
numerous, and finally the birds departed. The robin came 
a long time, and so long as the shade trees remained that 
Jacob Rogers planted the robins’ melody cheered one dur- 
ing the early spring. The white-billed cuckoo could 
often be heard, but he did not like the encroachment of 
real estate on his old domain and finally he took flight 

The waste places were covered with the “‘tree of 


[70 J 


heaven,’’ and upon these the Cynthia moth spun its 
cocoon and went through all its life transformations until 
it came out a perfect moth and joined with others in 
circling the electric light. Finally all the trees of heaven 
were cut down and the Cynthia disappeared. 

It was while the place was in this semi-rural condi- 
tion that I robbed a man of his watch and chain. He 
had been drinking in the city and had struggled under a 
cargo of wet goods until he could carry the burden no 
further. He sat down to rest at the southeast corner and 
was soon completely dead to the world. In this con- 
dition I found him at 12 o'clock one summer night. It 
was vain to try and rouse him. I might as well have 
tried to wake a corpse. I took his watch and chain and 
carried them home, and returned to the man to see if any 
late pedestrian might be passing who was able to identify 
him. But time wore on, until two young men came who 
thought they had seen the man before. At last a young 
fellow came who recognized the drunkard, and knew 
where he lived. We went to his home and woke up his 
family, and with their help we got the man home and in 
bed. I made it known at once that I had his watch and 
chain, and the eldest son came home with me and took 
possession of it, and this ended one of the strangest ad- 
ventures of my life. The watch and chain were pur- 
chased originally, I afterwards learned, by the weavers in 
a certain silk mill and had been presented to the foreman 
as a recognition of numerous good qualities, but surely 
strict sobriety did not figure among them. But I shall 
never forget the strange sensation that came over me as 
I became a thief, even though an honest thief. There 
was no policeman around, and for fear that someone 
might be watching me I made the robbery as public as 
possible. Carrying the booty exposed with the chain and 



watch dangling from my right hand fully extended, but 
I had the victim alone, and not a movement or sound of 
buman voice came from anywhere, and I could have kept 
the treasures, and not a soul would ever have known it. 

Watch and chain and owner left Paterson shortly 
after, and I hope no similar adventure ever occurred in 
Pennsylvania, unless some other honest thief should be 
there to enact the part I played, and for which act I may 
say I never received even a word of thanks. 

One very warm night in summer I got up from the 
stone and proceeded to walk home. ‘Then I began to 
feel ‘“‘queer.’’ It seemed as if something had burst in my 
inside. If the sensation had been warm I might have 
thought it was blood, but it was cold as ice. I clapped 
my hand to the spot and held the cold object until I 
reached the bathroom, and there I found out the mystery. 
It was a toad. I had been stretched out on the ground 
during the early part of the evening, and the creature had 
invaded me, but whether from above or from below I 
could never tell, but after that I always felt ‘‘squeamish’”’ 
about lying on the ground during a hot summer night. 
Of course, there is no danger in such contact with a toad, 
but the thought of such a clammy creature clinging to 
your skin inside your clothing is somewhat gruesome. 

The bugs interested me so long as they remained in 
their proper places but, like the toad referred to, they tried 
to scrape up a closer acquaintance than was desirable. 
The little beetle came often and I did not make a fuss, 
but the condition became objectionable when some mon- 
strous proud bug or some hideous “‘pincher’’ began to 
measure the dimensions of my neck. It was then that 
the insects’ attention, in the language of Artemus Ward, 
became ‘‘2 much.”’ 

The stone remains, but real estate has become im- 

[ 72] 


portant, and if I were to sit watching the stars or the 
moths at the corner nowadays I should probably attract 
the “‘cop’s’’ attention. Even before I left the neighbor- 
hood my presence had begun to be objectionable. I was 
‘lounging’ said one policeman, new on the job; “‘It is 
not that we object to you so much, but if we allowed one 
to lounge here we would have to permit all, and the boys 
would collect here and make a noise that would disturb the 
patients in the hospital.” Shortly after that I shifted my 
headquarters to Lakeview, from where, on a hot summer 
night, a brief walk will bring one to old Cherry Hill, 
where one can watch the stars undisturbed and mingle 
with the moths and bats to one’s heart’s content. 

[ 73 ] Sec. 6 

Oe ine DA 
744 4 * 
\°¥ee 4) OF aoe 
ve tp wa 
ois . wa 
fT 2 
‘ + 
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a eee 

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oA) &. 


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ete 2 

An Historic Dundee Ford 

“Come fill up my cup, 
Come fill up my can, 

Come saddle my horses 

And call out my men; 
Unhook the west port 

And let us go free, 

For it’s up with the bonnets 
Of Bonnie Dundee.”’ 

Wp] O RUNS the old Scottish lay, and Dundee on 
‘| Saturday afternoon, May 20th, 1905, was bonnie 
| indeed, and it was merry with the voices of in- 
¢4| vaders from Paterson, who had gone thither not 
———' on any war-like mission such as drew the old 
Cavaliers to the Scottish town famous in song, but with 
the members of the Rambling Club who had gone to the 
spot to enjoy and study Nature. Still even our own local 
Dundee, it is well to recall, had its associations connected 
with war, and the Ramblers formed themselves in a group 
on the new bridge at Robertsford and listened attentively 
while Robert Macnab pointed out the place where Lord 
Cornwallis and his soldiers forded the stream after their 
advance had been cut off by the destruction of the bridge 
at Acquackanonck by Post, the patriot, thus giving Wash- 
ington and his men the advantage of the delay in their 
retreat through New Jersey. 

The Ramblers had met at the City Hall loop and, 
though detained for a while by the threatening aspects of 
the clouds, it was finally decided to take the White Line 
trolley to Clifton and carry out the afternoon’s program 

[ 75 ] 


by walking to Dundee and the beautiful woods beyond 
the village. 

In the little water course along the Passaic spur of the 
Susquehanna Railroad were found the pretty little blos- 
soms of myosotis laxa, better known by its poetical title of 
forget-me-not. Few of the Ramblers had seen the flower 
in its native habitation, and the discovery was a pleasure 
to those with whom the flower had become endeared 
through its associations of poetry and song. 

The swampy footpath gave the throng a splendid 
opportunity to notice the ferns. Many varieties were 
found, ranging from the tall, graceful osmunda to the 
lowly and exquisite lady fern. The sensitive fern was 
abundant, while the fronds of the cinnamon and inter- 
rupted ferns added freshness and beauty to the marshy 

Joseph Rydings drew attention to the leaves of the 
common European plantain, which grew by the pathway 
side, and mentioned the fact that wherever the white man 
has settled on this continent the plant has sprung up. So 
invariably has this been the case that the Indians have 
given to the plant the appropriate name of the white 
man’s footstep. 

‘The most attractive of the flowers of the swamp was 
the blue flag (iris versicolor), the large blue flowers of 
which were conspicuous among the marshy grass. It met 
with great favor among the lady Ramblers who gathered 
it eagerly and carried large bunches home with them. 

Leaving the railroad side, the Ramblers took a 
narrow path through the swamp and came to a farmhouse 
where they drank from the crystal well, and obtained per- 
mission to rest a while and sing under the fine old cherry 
trees. Here they sang ““The Old Oaken Bucket’’ and the 
Club’s “‘Ode of Welcome.’’ The president, Philmer Eves, 

[ 76 ] 


then called them to order and arrangements were made 
for a picnic to the grounds of their popular fellow mem- 
ber, William Buschmann, near the High Mountain, on 
Decoration Day, to which friends were invited. 

Leaving the farm the party soon found themselves 
on Midland Avenue, along which they wandered until 
they came to the old deserted garden of the once famous 
Half-way House, now in ruins from a conflagration a 
year or more ago. Here the Ramblers again halted, and 
the green slope of the old garden formed a delightful rest- 
ing place. Mr. Rydings mentioned a few points of bo- 
tanical interest concerning some of the flowers that had 
been gathered on the way, notably the blue flag and the 
shrub. This latter is of interest, owing to the fact that it 
was largely used by the old Colonial settlers. When the 
berries of the shrub are boiled they give off a waxy sub- 
stance, and this the old settlers employed in making their 
primitive candles, which in burning gave off a pleasant 
odor, and so the shrub also obtained the name of the wax- 
berry, as well as the bayberry. Discussion arose as to 
whether the blue flag represented the national flower of 
France, but the point was not decided, and perhaps some 
French Patersonians with an interest in botany and 
heraldry might clarify this point of information. 

The Ramblers continued their journey along Mid- 
land Avenue to Warren Point, where they boarded a 
trolley car of the Hudson River line on its way to this 

The ramble, though somewhat long, was considered 
a very pleasant one, especially through the thick woods 
along Midland Avenue, after the party had left the old 
Half-way House garden. Here the frail butterfly tenants 
of the air seemed to be numerous. One butterfly, a black 



swallow-tail, was so beautiful in its perfect state that the 
Ramblers gazed with wonder and admiration at its ex- 
quisite form and coloring. A charming specimen of the 
red admiral also flew near, and Mr. Begg had the good 
fortune to find a perfect specimen of the Io moth, which 
was greatly admired by all. 

In the wood near the great spring some very pretty 
blossoms of the sheep laurel (Kalmia angustifolia) were 
found. This shrub also goes by the uncomplimentary 
name of lambkill, and unfortunately, not without reason, 
as it kills young lambs when they eat it, as many farmers 
in mountainous regions know to their cost. 

One object interested the juvenile Ramblers very 
greatly. It seemed so strange that what looked like half- 
ripe strawberries should be found growing on oak trees. 
One tree growing on Midland avenue was beautifully 
ornamented with these curious forms. This gave older 
heads the chance to explain to the little minds the mys- 
tery of the oak-gall fly—how it came and wounded the 
oak leaf, depositing its egg in the wound, how the tree 
in the process of healing surrounded the spot with the 
vegetable growth that formed these pretty ‘‘strawberries’’; 
how the “‘strawberry”’ grew to a round oak gall, and how 
the egg hatched out into a caterpillar and bored its way 
out of its vegetable prison, changed to a chrysalis and 
then to a fly; a true story told by Dame Nature more 
wonderful than Cinderella or Red Riding Hood. Some 
of the party found on the willow trees what seemed like 
real cones of the fir tree. ‘This, too, was explained as 
the work of another fly which puts the willow to the 
same use as the oak-gall fly does the oak, only in this case 
a fir or hemlock cone is selected as the most pleasing form 
of insect architecture—or rather architecture which comes 
as the result of the combined effort of insect and tree. 

[ 78 ] 


It is in the solution of these interesting natural prob- 
lems that the Rambling Club sees one sphere of its use- 
fulness, though the Club does not claim to be scientific, 
and welcomes within its ranks all who enjoy a “‘rural 
ramble by the bramble,’’ whether birds or ‘‘bugs’ or 
flowers interest them or not at all. 

Words by ‘“‘Rambler’ J. A. Macnab. 
Music by Robert Recker, of New York. 

Sung at banquet given at Colt’s Restaurant, Pater- 
son, November 13th, 1905, in honor of Philmer Eves, 
founder and first president of the Paterson Rambling 

“It was in the early springtime, 
When we rambled through the lanes, 
O’er the fields and in the forests, 
By the river—on the plains, 
Where each leaf and ev’ry flower 
Had some welcome to bestow, 
In the old New Jersey mountains 
Where the sweet wild flowers grow. 

Where each flower welcomed Eves, 
Where the trees all welcomed Eves, 
In the old New Jersey mountains 
Where each songbird welcomed Eves. 
Where the brooks and limpid fountains, 
And each bush, crowned with its leaves, 
In the old New Jersey mountains, 
Gave a welcome to our Eves. 

[ 79 ] 


We were anxious that our rambles 
Should be crowned with full success, 

When each tree, each leaf and flower 
Plainly said, ‘I'll acqutesce,’ 

So well ramble through the forests 
While the seasons come and go 

In the old New Jersey mountains 
Where the sweet wild flowers grow. 

It may be life’s youthful playtime, 
But the years will roll along, 
Till our days are nearly ended, 
With our hearts still full of song; 
And we still will be glad Ramblers 
Though our heads are white as snow, 
In the old New Jersey mountains 
Where the sweet wild flowers grow. 

When we reach that endless summer 
In that land above the sky; 
Where there are no earthly pattings 
And our souls can never die; 
When our eyes with joyful greetings 
Will look down on earth below, 
In the old New Jersey mountains 

Where the sweet wild flowers grow.” 

SS ae 

[ 80 ] 



“And now, my treasured friends, ’tis time 
Before we seek yon western clime 

Where we must dwell; 
The hour has come. Ah! here’s the rab— 
When we must bid the Rambling Club 

A fond farewell. 

Of scenes, thro’ which, with you, we've passed 
This closing banquet forms the last, 
For mem’ry’s cheer; 
The fragrance of these leaves and flowers 
Will gladden all our lonely houts 
For many a year. 

The music of the ‘Parting Song’ 
Will echo in the mind as long 
As life shall last; 
And oft as spring and fall return, 
We'll just as often sigh and yearn 
For seasons past. 

Those woodland charms you still can shate, 

But, ah! dear friends! we'll not be there; 
It grieves the heart 

To know that we, from all these scenes, 

From all this Rambling club now means, 
Must now depatt. 

But some day we may hope to meet, 

These songs to sing, each other to greet; 
And now we'll try 

To say, once more, with aching heatt, 

Since now ’tis fate that we must patt, 
To all ‘Good-bye.’ ”’ 

[ 81] 

The Beauties of the Notch 



“How glorious this delightful day! 
How blue the sky ts overhead! 
Behold the beautiful expanse 

Of hill and dale before us spread! 

Behold the lily in the shade, 

Close by the sweet-brier and the brake; 
The type of modesty’—‘“Look out!”’ 
“What is it?’’ Oh, a snake! a snake! 

“The scene is grand and so sublime; 
Pray don’t you think so, Mrs. Hicks?” 
“Til tell you when I’ve freed my skirt 
From thorns and briers and beggat-ticks.”’ 

“Oh, yes, these grand old hills to climb, 

So beautiful and so immense! 

Their crags adorned with ** “Holy smoke! 
Another nasty barbed-wire fence!” 

“Hark to the wood-lark’s jocund song 
To his sweet mate this blithesome day; 
In dulcet tones ** “Oh, Jack, we're lost! 
Where has the crowd gone, anyway?” 

“This flower is exquisite indeed, 

I don’t know what its name, str, ts, 
But yours ts Dennis tf you step 
Too near that frowning precipice. 

[ 83 ] 

GO WNITIR Y  OviaAue mes 

“Now, I remember, what ’tis called, 

The flower you showed me, yes, the same 
Is Stsyrinchium angus fer Spd 

Has it no decent Christian name?’ 

So mingled poetry with prose— 

We find the rambling hours so sweet, 

While the pale cheek with health now glows 
As “‘merry men and maidens’ meet. 

And though the appetite grows keen 
Amid the health-restoring hills, 

‘Tis cheaper far than nauseous drugs 
And physic draughts and doctor’s bills. 

And what tf beggat-ticks assail 

And ugly rents in coats are made, 
And skirts are torn, who cares for that? 
‘Tis better for the clothing trade. 

UNDAY, May 21st, 1905, being one of the most 
favorable days of the spring season, there was a 
large muster of the members of the popular Pater- 
son Rambling Club at the City Hall, when at 
8:45 a. m., a start was made for the Notch 
Mountains and the famous Washington’s Rock. The large 
party, headed by Leader Joseph Rydings, President 
Philmer Eves and Vice-President Alfred Neuberger, left 
the trolley car at Barclay Street and walked along the 
Notch Road. past Belle Vista Castle to Albion Place. 
Leaving the road near the church, a path up the fields was 
taken to the top of Little Notch, where the whole party 
stopped to view the scenery in one of the clearest of 
atmospheres. Before proceeding along the edge of the 

[ 84] 

a ee ee 


rocky cliffs through the woods the “Ode of Welcome’”’ 
was sung, after which the Ramblers began to study the 
wild flowers, plants and bird life, with which the Notch 
is so abundant and varied. 

The dogwood trees were in full bloom, white as 
driven snow, and presented a charming picture amid the 
fresh verdure and the dark foliage of cedar and hemlock. 
On the sloping mountain sides the columbine flowers were 
found in abundance. The mountain pinks were almost 
gone, but the brilliant blossoms of a kindred flower, the 
meadow beauty (Rhexia virginica) took up the floral tale. 
At the foot of every beech tree nestled the modest little 
Canadian mayflower, while the mountain grass was every- 
where, bespangled with the delicate little blossoms of 
Houstonia cerulea, better known under its appropriate 
title of Quaker ladies or bluets. The pretty azalea, loved 
by the old Dutch colonists, and to which they gave the 
name of Pinxter bloom, was in full glory. 

The mountain birds generally retired when the 
Ramblers invaded their solitudes, but the scarlet tanager 
allowed one to admire his splendid plumage, the robin 
continued his merry song, and the note of the chewink 
came as a greeting from the thicket, while the redstart 
darted after his prey amid the branches of the neighboring 
trees. Some very rare plants were found. Miss Annie 
Begg discovered the one-flowered broomrape (Orobanche 
uniflora), and another botanical Rambler was delighted 
to find the rattlesnake fern in one secluded spot. 

The young entomologists brought along their nets, 
but nothing rare in the butterfly line rewarded their pur- 
suit. The mourning cloak (Vanessa antiopa)  flitted 
dreamily by; some early specimens of the black swallow- 
tail were seen on the wing, while the beautiful tiger swal- 
lowtail darted here and there in the glowing sunshine. 

[ 85 ] 


Near Washington’s Rock the Ramblers had the 
pleasure of greeting John Grossbeck, who, with a younger 
friend and a lady companion, was busily engaged in his 
favorite study of entomology. Joseph Rydings intro- 
duced him to his fellow-ramblers and spoke of his ardent 
love of Nature and his marvelous success in discovering 
the secrets of the insect world. Mr. Grossbeck is em- 
ployed by the State Department, and his labors are spe- 
cially devoted to the study of the mosquito, its habits and 
its structure, with regard to its ultimate destruction, which 
the State Department in conjunction with other agencies, 
is striving to accomplish. Mr. Eves, the president, in- 
vited Mr. Grossbeck to join the club, and though the 
latter gentleman found it impossible to accept the invita- 
tion, he kindly agreed to accompany the club on one of 
its rambles and point out the marvels of insect life in the 
woods of Arcola. 

The party branched off into sections, some going 
along the rocks to revel in the beautiful views which em- 
braced New York, Newark Bay, Staten Island, the Pali- 
sades and the rich intervening farm lands of New Jersey, 
and others delving deeper into the woods in quest of 
floral treasures and to keep in the cool shades afforded by 
the luxuriance of the woodland foliage. 

But wherever the Ramblers roamed there was unani- 
mous rapture and admiration for the splendor of the 
flowering dogwood trees, which it was agreed had never 
been seen to greater perfection. Clusters of these lovely 
white blossoming trees were met with in various parts of 
the woods and their peculiarly fascinating effect, when 
seen in their setting of the dark greens of the cedars and 
the more brilliant tints of the maples and birches, will 
never be forgotten. The day being so exceptionally 
spring-like and beautiful, various other parties number- 

[ 86 ] 


ing from two to fifteen or more were met with, all intent 
on gathering clusters of bloom and enjoying the cooling 
breezes of the higher Notch woods. 

A most enchanting walk by the various paths 
brought the party all together again on the summit of the 
gigantic cliffs, known as the spot from which General 
Washington is said to have viewed the troops in the vast 
plains of New Jersey below. 

Here lunch was taken and the Ramblers rested and 
sang their Club songs. Judge Kerr then gathered the 
group together and read some choice selections of poetry 
which were much enjoyed. 

Journeying on through the glens and rocky dells, the 
remains of the rude hut of Nicholas Murphy was reached. 
The president gathered the members of the club around 
the spot and related the pathetic story of the hermit who 
had made his rural habitation there for so many years. 
Joseph Rydings and Mr. Eves had visited the place in the 
late winter of last year, and found that the old man had 
been discovered there two days previously in the last 
stages of pneumonia. Some kind and sympathizing 
friends had removed him to the Almshouse, where it is 
said the aged and romantic recluse has since died. 

The whole region is a secluded and sylvan forest of 
cedars, vines, dogwoods, maples, hickories and _ birches, 
and is well worth a visit, although to get there and back 
is a long and arduous walk. The Ramblers didn’t seem 
to mind the clambering up and down the rocky slopes of 
the numerous ravines and the intricate labyrinths of shrubs 
and trees, but kept on from one vantage point to another 
and then through the forests again until the Notch reser- 
voir was finally reached. Here their thirsts were relieved 
and the party reassembled for a photograph, which was 

[ 87] 

Cro.UN ERY AW Wks 

taken by Fred Campbell, and for the walk along the 
Browertown Road to the Little Falls Turnpike. 

Before leaving the woods the whole party gathered 
on an enormous trap rock and sang the doxology and 
“Rock of Ages,’’ and closed the singing of the Club’s 
melodies with the ‘‘Parting Song.”’ 

It was the middle of the afternoon before the Club 
reached the Paterson City Hall again, but all were en- 
thusiastic in their praises of the foliage and flowers and of 
this memorable ramble. 

[ 88 ] 

» eS ae 

‘sToyoUM SSTIN ‘SIAVG 90BID SST ‘OSpny “A ‘Uvsy soulef—:poysInsulysiq 9q UBD dnoiyH uf 




Woods Are Beautiful 

iXD| N SUNDAY, October 8th, 1905, the long-talked- 
MINS) of ramble through the Arcola woods was enjoyed 
by over forty members of the Paterson Rambling 
Club. The Club was accompanied by a number 
of friends, who joined the ramble as the Club's 
guests. The large party met at the Straight Street station 
of the Susquehanna Railroad, at 8:45 a. m. Arrange- 
ments had been previously made with R. H. Wallace, gen- 
eral passenger agent, for the 8:47 a. m. train to stop at 
Dundee Lake station. 

As the combined party alighted from the train, the 
country, showing the glowing signs of autunin, looked 
gay and lovely. The morning air was fresh, clear and 
bracing and the sun shone in the brightest of blue skies. 
It was an ideal morning and everyone felt delighted to be 
out among the fields in the crisp and healthful air. Presi- 
dent Philmer Eves, Vice-President Alfred Neuberger, 
Leader Joseph Rydings and Secretary George Bannigan 
were all with the party, and there was a representative 
gathering of the lady members of the club and quite a 
number of children. 

The footpath was followed across to the long coun- 
try lane named Orchard Street, leading towards the 
swamp. On the way, Mr. Rydings delighted the Ram- 
blers with the discovery of a rich display of the beauti- 
ful and rather rare closed gentian; a blue flower that 
grows on the borders of the woods of the swamp. Bou- 
quets of these and other rarer wild flowers were gathered. 

Crossing the Bergen County short cut, the party en- 
tered the woods near the little Hebrew Cemetery, where 
the gum trees were showing their earlier fall tintings. 

[ 89] Sens 


Branches of these variegated leaves were brought away, as 
they are among the most beautiful in the autumn foliage. 

The ramble through the woods and along the by- 
ways was continued until the party arrived at the Great 
Spring, where everybody refreshed themselves with a 
drink of the bubbling spring water. Farmer Nicholas 
Van Riper, the owner, met the Ramblers and kindly con- 
tributed a plentiful supply of watercress from the large 
cress beds which are fenced in around the spring. 

From this point a path was followed through the 
Arcola woods where the fallen leaves formed a colored 
carpet and rustled merrily to the tread. Here the party 
was fortunate in meeting with Henry Terhune, one of the 
owners of the woods, who was engaged at the time in 
collecting a large bouquet of dogwood boughs and other 
gay foliage. He accompanied the party through the 
woods and extended a cordial welcome. 

In one of the more open glades the whole party 
halted and formed a large ring while the Club’s ‘‘Ode of 
Welcome’ was sung. The singing was so hearty and so 
thoroughly enjoyed that the last verses were repeated. 

The forest paths and the lovely and romantic vistas 
presented at every turn won the enthusiastic admiration 
of all, and the party sauntered leisurely along to the 
melodies of familiar songs. The trails are in places com- 
plicated and difficult, but Mr. Rydings, the leader, had 
marked the trees in various parts of the woods. At one 
point a wrong turn was made, but Mr. Rydings retraced 
his steps and the right road was recovered. 

Emerging from the Arcola woods, the field road was 
followed across country to the farm of J. C. Meéeisters, 
near Arcola. Mr. Meisters and other members of the 
family greeted the Ramblers as familiar friends, for the 
Club had visited the farm on a previous occasion. These 

[ $0] 


hospitable friends of the Club kindly invited the party to 
make use of the garden in front of the old homestead 
where the great cedars and maples formed a pleasant 
shade. As it was nearly noon the Ramblers and their 
guests sat down under the trees and partook of lunch, 
after having been photographed in different groupings. 
After lunch the ‘‘Ramblers’ Song’’ was sung around 
the old well, to the tune of ““The Old Oaken Bucket.”’ 
The president then invited each member of the party 
to sample the excellence of the large Rolofe apples which 
where presented to the Club by Mrs. Louise Hall, of Hale- 
don, and which had been displayed during Friday and 
Saturday in a store window in Paterson. This unusually 
large and fine fruit was greatly admired and enjoyed. 
While the members were assembled in the garden 
the opportunity was chosen to make a formal presenta- 
tion to Joseph Rydings, who had been the Club's leader 
since the Club was organized in the early fall of last year. 
The members and friends, including the family of Mr. 
Meisters and their guests, formed in a circle when Presi- 
dent Philmer Eves proceeded to make the presentation in 
the name of the Club. In doing so, Mr. Eves said: 
“Joseph Rydings is one of the dearest and most 
valued friends I have known. In days gone by, when 
I used to read with so much delight and edification the 
particularly attractive and characteristic articles of Mr. 
Rydings which appeared from time to time in the public 
press, I felt a strong desire to become acquainted with him. 
I felt he was a man with tastes like my own—a lover of 
Nature and a true Rambler. “Through the influence of a 
mutual friend, I obtained an introduction by appoint- 
ment. The appointment was faithfully kept, and I have 
cause to look back upon that first evening when I had 
the great pleasure and honor of meeting Mr. Rydings, as 



one of the happiest in my life. We talked unreservedly 
and in the friendliest spirit, and I believe that each seemed 
to realize that a new friend had been found. Since that 
first night of our meeting, how many happy hours and 
days and weeks have we spent together What romantic 
and delightful rambles in the mountains and in the woods 
we have had. What heart-to-heart talks on Nature and 
on the subjects that were dear to our hearts we have had 
together. We have rambled in each other’s company and 
we have had other company to join us. 

“We have traveled east and west, north and south, 
but wherever we have gone it has always seemed to me 
that I was under the influence of some special and un- 
precedented charm when Mr. Rydings was one of the 
company. How vividly we recall that never-to-be-for- 
gotten journey through the Notch Mountains in the early 
winter of 1904, when we discovered the hermitage of 
Nicholas Murphy, half buried in the snow in the woods, 
and when it was almost impossible to descend the ice- 
bound rocks without coming down on all fours. It was 
this enchanting ramble that induced me to finally decide 
to bring up the question of the formation of a rambling 
club in Paterson. It was during a Sunday morning walk 
out over in Bergen County that I first mentioned the mat- 
ter to Mr. Rydings. He at once very heartily coincided 
with the idea and consented to accept the position of 
leader, if a rambling club was found to be acceptable. 

“The Rambling Club was formed, and we, as mem- 
bers of the Club are privileged to meet here amid the 
glories of the autumn woods on this ever-memorable Sun- 
day morning. It was, therefore, entirely through the in- 
fluence of Mr. Rydings that this Club was formed, and 
to him, therefore, must be given the credit, if any credit 
is due, for the good that is being accomplished, not only 

[92 ] 

DN a IVA Nay EF DE oD § 

among our fellow-members and ourselves, but among our 
fellow-citizens and the public generally. 

“And what shall I say of those fascinating contribu- 
tions to public literature which flow from Mr. Rydings’ 
pen, from time to time. His name has become a house- 
hold word throughout New Jersey. His articles are read 
with the keenest delight by all classes of readers. His de- 
scriptions and talks on the beauties and wonders of Nature 
have allured hundreds of his fellow-citizens, and thou- 
sands of children to take a deeper interest in Nature. His 
chatty articles have given hours of delight around the fire- 
side in thousands of homes, and copies of many of his 
charming writings are filed away and treasured for future 
reading and reference. 

“T sometimes think that the very wild flowers of the 
country seem to know Mr. Rydings as one of their most 
frequent and studious visitors. The trees of the forest 
seem to put on their gayer colorings in honor of the fre- 
quent coming of Mr. Rydings among them. 

“The rippling brooklets seem to sing more merrily 
as he saunters along their mossy banks. And the very 
birds will respond to his call when he is welcoming them 
in the early spring, or bidding them a pathetic farewell 
on their departure south at this time of the year. 

“The success of the Paterson Rambling Club is due 
in a great measure to Mr. Rydings’ connection with it. 
His name is a valued asset to the Club, and his associa- 
tion with the Club, as its leader, gives both prestige and 
confidence. We are all proud to belong to an organiza- 
tion of which Joseph Rydings is the leader. We are all 
better for that association. Our days have passed along 
more pleasantly since we became members of the Club, 
and our hours of recreation have had ten-fold more en- 
joyment connected with them than ever before. Our 

[93 ] 


lives are brighter, and we feel that it’s both a privilege and 
a benefit to be fellow-ramblers with our leader. We 
hope he may long continue in office and that this Club 
may have the benefit of his long years of experience with 

“I desire at this opportunity to express my indebt- 
edness to Mr. Rydings for what little knowledge I possess 
of botany. He has deepened in me, and I believe in every 
member of the Club, a love for the wild flowers of the 
woods and the desire to study them in order to find out 
the wonders of their construction and loveliness. Pater- 
son owes a great deal more to him, and we desire, today, 
to express our feelings of indebtedness and regard, by pre- 
senting Mr. Rydings with a gold mounted pair of eye- 
glasses, in a case suitably inscribed. The inscription 

“Joseph Rydings, Leader of the Paterson Rambling 
Club, presented by his fellow-members, October, 1905.’”’ 

“It is not necessary that our beloved leader shall look 
through these spectacles to see the great esteem in which 
he is held by every member of the Club, but he will, as 
he wears them in the future, be able to see in them the 
expression of affection which we desire to convey to him 
this morning. ‘May he live long and prosper,’ and may 
the Paterson Rambling Club be honored with his leader- 
ship for many years to come.” 

This deserved eulogy of the veteran leader was sup- 
ported by Vice-President Alfred Neuberger, who paid Mr. 
Rydings some high and well meant compliments, referring 
to his constant willingness to impart to the Club his 
knowledge of the wonders of Nature, of which he had 
been an ardent student for so many years. Former Judge 
John F. Kerr made a happy and delightful speech on 
behalf of the lady members of the Club, in which he feel- 

[ $4] 



ingly showed the affection in which Mr. Rydings is held 
by every member of the Club. His remarks were followed 
by an earnest speech by Bernard Taylor, one of Mr. 
Rydings’ oldest friends. John A. Macnab told of a letter 
which he had received and treasured from Mr. Rydings 
eight years ago, when, in acknowledging the reading for 
the first time of the “‘Song of the Passaic,’’ the old 
Rambler and Nature lover had shown a thorough grasp 
of the meaning and purpose of the beautiful song. Miss 
Marion M. Henderson, the ’’Scottish lassie,’’ recited some 
original lines of poetry written especially for the occasion, 
and appropriate and earnest words were spoken by J. 
Tyldesley, George Oakley and others. 

Mr. Rydings, in accepting the gift and acknowl- 
edging the many kind things that had been said of him, 
spoke of his earlier years, when, from a boy, he had been 
fond of taking long rambles in the country, gradually de- 
veloping a deep study and love of all that is beautiful 
and curious in nature. He valued the gift as coming from 
his fellow-ramblers, and thanked the speakers for their 
kind sentiments and all the members of the Club for the 
acceptable present. 

Mr. Meisters was then formally proposed for honor- 
ary membership in the Club, in grateful acknowledgment 
of his aid and the family’s kindness and hospitalities. On 
his being unanimously elected, Mr. Meisters addressed the 
assembled party, and expressed a hope that he might be 
able to join them on some of their future rambles. 

On leaving the farm the field path was taken along 
the Saddle River, the glittering waters of which looked 
lovely with their fringes of autumn leaves and wild 
flowers. Among the latter, the wild thyme was dis- 
covered, with its fragrant little blossoms and green stems. 
Halting again under a large oak tree by the riverside an 

[95 ] 


impromptu and memorable meeting was held, when one 
of the new members, Edward Riley, gave the party a 
graphic description of his personal visit to Stratford-on- 
Avon, the birthplace of Shakespeare. Mr. Rydings re- 
cited the humorous sayings of Mrs. Maloprop. Other 
members sang, and a very happy time was passed. 

At 4 o'clock in the afternoon some of the members 
returned to the city by the Hudson River trolley line, 
while the majority stayed on and enjoyed the genial air 
and the splendors of the country until sundown. 

During the day some of the friends who had joined 
in the outing were made members of the Club. All were 
delighted with the ramble, which was one the club had 
enjoyed on two previous occasions. 

[ 96 ] 

The Ramblers at Caldwell 

HE Paterson Rambling Club went to Singac 
mountains on Sunday, November 4th, 1906. 

The greater part of the forenoon was spent 
in admiring the magnificent views of the Passaic 
valley and distant mountains from the North 
Caldwell roadway, which leads past the residence erected 
by the late William Ryle, and which place is now owned 
and occupied by Madame Schumann-Heink. 

Saturday’s downpour of rain had washed the verdant 
hills and dales, and a clear atmosphere afforded greatly 
extended views in almost every direction. 

The Club stopped at the stone bridge which crosses 
Green Brook at the hemlock glen near the old wood-turn- 
ing mill, where several songs were sung, among which 
were the favorite hymns of the Club, ‘‘Nearer, My God, 
to Thee,” and ‘Rock of Ages,’’ after which the nearby 
famous spring named after the great chief, Tammany, 
who held such powerful, yet gentle sway, over the great 
Lenni-Lenape or Delaware tribe of Indians, was visible. 
Tradition ascribes wonderful virtues to this spring of 

Some distance beyond the spring another rest was 
taken for lunch, where a most singular formation of 
octagon-shaped series of rock columns appear. 

Proceeding on the mountain road the club reached 
the residence of Charles Gould, where the members re- 
freshed themselves from an old oaken, if not ‘‘moss cov- 
ered bucket which hung in the well,’’ which still retains 
an ancient well-sweep to lower and raise the bucket. 

This was so suggestive that instinctively the Club 
sang ‘“The Ramblers’ Song,’ to the tune of “The Old 



Oaken Bucket.’’ Many of the guests were still at this 
‘summer home,’’ and they joined most heartily in sing- 
ing this and other songs and hymns. 

Passing on the Club reached the beautiful Mono- 
monic Inn, which perpetuates the Indian name of the 
‘Place of Observation,’’ which was held in great esteem 
by all the tribes of Northern New Jersey. 

From the inn the Club walked through the streets 
of beautiful Caldwell, past the magnificent stone church, 
the Mount St. Dominic Seminary, and the birthplace of 
former President Grover Cleveland, to the residence of a 
former Patersonian, a Miss Wilson, where they were 
graciously entertained with refreshments, and where they 
again sang a number of hymns and club songs. 

Boarding a trolley car in front of the State Reforma- 
tory at Caldwell, they passed through that most sumptuous 
panorama of New Jersey scenery, the Watchung Valley, 
and at Belleville Avenue, in Newark, a car was taken for 
Paterson, where they arrived at 5:30 o'clock. 

Only eight hours on a ramble, and what a variety 
of scenery and blooming fall flowers; what a wealth of 
enjoyment, and what a host of friends the Club made. 

[98 ] 

The Ramblers Visit Suffern 

HE Paterson Rambling Club went to Suffern, 
Saturday afternoon, November 10th. 1906, their 
conveyance being a large stage drawn by four white 
horses. Leaving the City Hall at 2 o'clock, the 
party soon reached Glen Rock. This borough 
would seem to be a good place for the defeated political 
candidates, to seek new residence, as it has an actual exist- 
ence, is so easy of access and the offices are said to be so 
numerous that there are not enough legal voters in the 
borough to fill them, while that of “Salt River’’ is imagi- 
nary at the best, and so filled with defeated candidates 
that there are no vacancies in the political requirements of 
the place. 

The next town reached was Ridgewood, with its 
beautiful lawns and tree-lined streets with their alluring 
invitations to ‘(Come and make your homes with us ere 
the price of lots exceed those of Fifth Avenue in New 
York City.”’ 

Passing along Maple Avenue from the Rouclere 
house to Ho-Ho-Kus, the Paramus plains are in full view, 
with the old stone church dimly outlined in the distance, 
where it nestles as tranquilly as a watchful sentinel be- 
side the murmuring currents of the Saddle River on the 
one side, and the silent resting places of so many of 
Bergen county’s lamented dead on the other. 

Paramus signifies a place where wild turkeys are 
plentiful, and a tradition tells us that the great chief, Ho- 
ko-sham-us, ruled over the destinies of the Paramus 
Indians with far better judgment that he did over the 
cravings of his own appetite, for the tradition says: 

[99 ] 


Turkey meat, with over eating, 
Filled the eater full of fever, 

And his nurses being skilless, 

Failed to cure him of his illness, 

So he passed to state of chillness 
From which there is no retreating, 
And the grave ts the receiver; 

Close beside the ancient trailing, 

He was buried with much wailing, 
Which disturbed the forest stillness. 

Undercliff, with its many beautiful homes, was next 
reached, when the bridge which spans the swiftly flowing 
waters of Ho-Ho-Kus Creek brought the Ramblers to 
the old historic town of Ho-Ho-Kus. Paramus and Ho- 
Ho-Kus are as closely connected as the patches in a crazy 
quilt, and one cannot mention the name of one place 
without his thoughts turning to the other, and involun- 
tarily his mind turns to Aaron Burr, Theodosia Provost 
and the old Rosencranz homestead, all so closely associ- 
ated and so interestingly discoursed upon by Mr. Vander- 
hoven in his recent lecture before the Paterson Rambling 

Ho-Ho-Kus has much of interest which appeals to 
the student of history, and to simply ride through the 
place gives one a feeling of love for its reminiscences. 
One of its notable features is that of the remarkable elm 
tree which stands a short distance from the Mansion 
House. This tree is said to be the largest tree of that 
species in Northern New Jersey, and the tradition already 
quoted refers to this tree also. 

At Ho-Ho-Kus, and still growing, 
Looms up the stately tree of elm, 
Its great roots the earth imbedding, 

[ 100 ] 



And with branches far outspreading, 
Leaves unfold and have their shedding, 
Not a single creature knowing 

How many years tt has had realm; 
And near plains of old Paramus 
‘Neath the tree lies Ho-ko-sham-us, 
With the rootlets deeper threading. 

The next towns reached were Waldwick, Allendale, 
Ramsey and Mahwah, the latter place, long the residence 
of the late Senator, or, as he was familiarly called, 
“Buffer’’ Miller, through the invention of his coupling 
buffer, which superseded all others then in use on the dif- 
ferent railways, and which brought him not only fame 
but fortune. Times and conditions change, steam buffers 
have superseded those of the Miller type, the Senator has 
passed into that condition of silence expressed by the word 
death, the mansion he erected was destroyed by fire, and 
the herd of buffalo he essayed to establish at Mahwah is 
with us, it is to be feared, no more forever. 

Soon after leaving Mahwah the stage approached a 
large white house, and amid the green lawns, the autumn 
foliage and the pleasant surroundings of the place, there 
fluttered in the breeze that emblem of sorrow which enters 
so many homes, a wreath of flowers and a broad, purple 
ribbon hanging to the casement of the front door. ‘The 
house was passed in silence and with bowed heads, al- 
though the inmates of that house may never know of 
the sympathy that went out from the heart of every 
Rambler to them. 

Shortly after leaving Mahwah the stage was stopped 
on the state line where a few explanatory remarks were 
made by one of the party. The Ramblers were now in 
view of Suffern, the place of destination, the pretty little 

[101 ] 


town which lies at the foot of the Ramapo mountains, 
and where in former times the Erie Railway followed the 
trend of the valley to reach New York City by way of 
Piermont and the Hudson River. The Paterson and 
Hudson River and the Paterson and Ramapo Railroads 
were Paterson enterprises, but were leased to the Erie, 
since which time the great Erie system has run its trains 
through this city. The Piermont tracks are still in use, 
however, for coal, and to a considerable extent for local 
passenger traffic between Piermont and Suffern. 

While it was known that preparations had been 
made for the Ramblers’ entertainment in Suffern, yet their 
arrival at Mr. Pohlig’s place was an agreeable surprise. 
This gentleman happened to have been married just 
twenty-one years last Saturday, and by a singular coin- 
cidence there were just twenty-one Ramblers in the party. 
The rooms were tastefully decorated with autumn leaves 
and evergreen boughs in anticipation of the double event 
of celebrating the marriage anniversary and the reception 
of the Ramblers. 

After the hungry members of the party had eaten 
their suppers the whole party indulged in instrumental 
music and song, the host and his interesting family con- 
tributing in a generous measure to the entertainment. 
Some of the Ramblers wanted to carry to their homes 
one or both of the host’s two beautiful little twin daugh- 
ters, but as the mother and the brothers and sisters of the 
twins, as well as the father failed to give their consent, 
the Ramblers reluctantly drove away without them. 

The ride homeward in the moonlight was greatly 
enjoyed by all, while the club’s reception in Suffern in 
every detail was one long to be remembered. Arriving 
at the City Hall a little after 10 o’clock, a unanimous 
vote of thanks was extended to the four beautiful white 

[ 102 ] 


horses for their endurance in patiently stepping off the 
fully thirty miles in going to and from Suffern without a 
single mishap. The horses were not so rapid, perhaps, 
but they were a hundred times more intelligent than the 
numerous auto-bubble-wagons the Ramblers met along 
the way. 

[ 103 ] 



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Ramblers at Oakland 

Nature, the old nurse, took 
_ The child upon her knee 
And said, “Here is a wonderful story-book 
Thy father has written for thee.” 
And he wandered away and away 
_ With Nature, the dear old nutse, 
And she sang to him, night and day, 
The rhymes of the universe; 
And whenever the way seemed long, 
And his heart was beginning to fail, 
She would sing a more wonderful song 
Or tell a more marvelous tale. 

HE Paterson Rambling Club, accompanied by a 
number of invited guests, went by Susquehanna 

Railroad, Sunday, June 9th, 1907, to Oakland. 
aG°K,| Arriving at the station they were met by Amos 
W. Hopper, the mayor, with a number of the resi- 
dents of the Borough of Oakland, who accompanied the 
Club on its ramble. 

It may be of interest to recall that Oakland was 
formerly known as ‘““The Ponds.”’ ‘The old stone church 
which nestles so picturesquely at the fork of the roads at 
the upper end of the village was first erected in the year 
1710. It, therefore, lacks three years of having reached 
the two century mark as a place of worship. It still 
bears the name of the Pond’s Church, having taken its 
title from the three sheets of water—Franklin Lake, 
Crooked and Ryerson Ponds—which lie a mile or so apart 

[ 105 J Sec. 8 


in the western section of Bergen County. The latter 
pond is now merely a running stream. At the time that 
the Susquehanna Railroad went into operation (1868) it 
passed through lands belonging to a Mr. Burke, who, for 
a period of many years, acted as the station agent, and 
for the first year or two, in the absence of any railway 
station, the road being too poor to build one, he sold pas- 
senger tickets from one of the windows of his residence, 
and for some time the station, from the force of circum- 
stances, was called Burke’s Crossing, and later it was 
known as Bushville. Some of the residents were not 
partial to the latter name, its significance not being clear 
as to whether it perpetuated the name of a person or a 
certain clump of bushes, when a public meeting was called 
and the name of Oakland was adopted as the future name 
of the place, said name being suggested by the dwarfed 
oak trees which stood near the location of the railway 

It will be remembered by many Patersonians that a 
Mr. Porter, who had resided in California for a number 
of years, searched for many months for a spring of water 
suitable for trout hatching, and in the end the great 
bubbling ‘‘Kanouse’’ spring, on the western slope of the 
mountain, on the south side of the Ramapo River, at 
Oakland, was selected for his experiments. The business 
of trout hatching was successful from a scientific stand- 
point, but it proved to be unremunerative, however, and 
the Porter residence having been destroyed by fire, that 
gentleman returned to California where he has since re- 
sided, if the writer has been correctly informed, in the 
town of the same name as that of his former New Jersey 
residence. The Kanouse spring, however, has been 
further developed and shipments of its water are made 
every day to New York City. The dwarfed oaks, like 

[ 106 ] 


one of the three ponds, have in great part disappeared, 
but let us hope that the name changers, so numerous in 
Northern New Jersey, will not make this a pretext for a 
new name, but permit that of Oakland to continue, as 
the postmark of the pretty village which lies so restful 
and inviting in the valley of the Ramapo. 

West Oakland lies on the west side of the Ramapo 
River at the foot of the mountain of the same name, 
where there are a number of houses, one of them, 
“Shadowmont,” being the summer home of Mr. and Mrs. 
H. M. Carman, of this city. 

The winding roadway from the station to the river, 
a distance of nearly a mile, affords magnificent views of 
the surrounding country, and when the bridge which 
spans the clear waters of the river was reached, their inter- 
secting valleys, were reflected in the leisurely flow of the 
tranquil waters, exemplifying in many ways the meaning 
of old Bergen County’s name, ‘“The place of many hills.”’ 

Leaving the bridge, the roadway winds through a 
dense woodland, which has the fascinating adjunct of a 
lively brook, the waters of which run from one stone to 
another, murmuring a never-ceasing song, which one of 
our members interpreted as— 

From yonder hills I always run, 

I think I do tt just for fun; 

At times I’m weak and then I’m strong, 
But still I sing the selfsame song; 

I ramble, too, as you may know 

To help fill up the Ramapo; 

But after that I’m all at sea, 

Lost in the mains of East Jersey. 

A short distance further on ““Shadowmont”’ and the 
Morrison cottage were reached, where the Ramblers were 

[ 107 J] 


greeted by Mrs. H. M. Carman and Miss Margaret E. 
Morrison. The views from these cottages baffle a descrip- 
tion, both in extent and diversity, and the only way to 
get a full conception of their beauty is to take a ramble 
some pleasant day through the Ramapo valley at West 
Oakland. In the artistically arranged Morrison cottage 
the thirty-eight Ramblers sat down to eat their lunch and 
drink their tea. What a lot of cheer there is in a cup 
of good tea to a weary Rambler, especially when it is 
served in such generous quantities by such gracious ladies 
as Mrs. Carman and Miss Morrison. Extending a vote 
of thanks to the ladies for their generous hospitality, the 
ramble was continued to the residence of Frank Henn, 
who has charge of the Pliny Fink estate, and after 
pleasant greetings at this place were exchanged the walk 
was resumed up a most picturesque winding mountain 
roadway. About half way up the mountain there is an 
opening in the forest growth which affords a magnificent 
view of Pompton, with its church spires and pleasant 
places of residence, as well as a great variety of the sur- 
rounding scenery, with many mountain peaks in the 

Near this point the old Cannon Ball Road is inter- 
cepted until the top of the mountain is reached, when Le 
Grand Lake appears in view. Looking down on this 
sheet of water, which lies in a rocky, tree-fringed basin 
on top of the mountain, many exclamations were heard of 
“Isn't it grand?’”” when one of the Ramblers less esthetic, 
perhaps, than the others, exclaimed, ‘‘Rotten.’’ No in- 
sinuation was meant, however, as the sheet of water on 
that part of the mountain was long known as ‘‘Rotten 
Pond.”’ | 

There has long been a supposition that the name of 
“Rotten’’ was given to the pond many years ago by an 

[ 108 ] 

Lhe ahA NY OP YP eaysp s 

English geologist, who is said to have found the soil on 
certain approaches to it of such a porous or rotten nature 
that it was unsafe to venture on it. That characteristic 
however, if it had an existence, ceased to prevail when 
the late Jacob S.. Rogers raised the dam several feet higher, 
when the porous ground became part of the bed of the 
lake. | 1GRD 

Another and probably more authentic version of 
how the name of “‘Rotten’”’ came to be bestowed upon the 
pond is that in the early days when the Hollanders settled 
in that part. of Bergen County they trapped many ani- 
mals, among which were many muskrats, which had their 
haunts at the pond. In the Holland language the word 
“tat” in the singular, is spelled the same as in English, 
but in the plural it is spelled ‘“‘ratten.’’. They went ratten 
to the pond, hence the corruption of the word into 
rotten. “‘Pond”’ is undoubtedly English, as the Holland 
language does not appear to have any word which fully 
interprets the English word ‘‘pond.’’ Its newer name, 
that of Le Grand Lake, will in all probability become as 
fixed in time as those of Greenwood Lake and Lake 
Hopatcong, which were long known, the former Long 
Pond and the latter as Brooklyn Pond. 

From the lake the Ramblers strolled some distance 
further on the historical Cannon Ball Road on which 
cannon balls were carted by mule and ox teams from the 
foundries at Pompton and Ringwood to the Hudson 
River, and though these days have long since passed into 
the yesterdays of time, yet an inspiration of those trying 
days which made this nation a free and independent 
people, lingers in the old. ruts of this crude mountain 
roadway—lingers and lives to that extent that it inspired 
one of the Ramblers to pitch the key, in which all present 
joined in singing: 

[ 109 ] 


“My country ‘tis of thee 
Sweet land of liberty, 
Of thee I sing.”’ 

From the old roadway the party was led for a mile 
and a half through a rocky wilderness of forest to a cluster 
of overhanging rocks where thirty-seven years ago the 
three Wyble children wandered from their home on a 
‘Thanksgiving day, and becoming lost, they perished in 
the mountain. Many of our older people will remember 
the wide-spread interest which attached to this sad event, 
the bodies of the children not being found until the latter 
part of the following January, and some will probably 
recall the heroism displayed in that tragedy, the oldest boy 
being found in his shirt sleeves, having taken the coat 
from his own shivering body to wrap it around that of 
his youngest and more tender brother. And surrounded 
by the shadows and the silence which are such marked 
features in the higher portions of this mountain range, 
these children passed into the shadow and silence of the 
sleep of death. Many years have passed away since that 
pathetic incident happened, and in the intervening years 
many equally sad, and in many instances, far greater 
fatalities have occurred, not only to shock, but to arouse 
the sympathies of our entire nation, yet in our inner hearts 
there arises at such times that instinctive murmur, that 
never-failing faith in the wisdom of an all-wise Provi- 
dence, which prompts us to articulate: 

“Darkness be over me, 
So by my woes to be, 
Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
Nearer to Thee.’’ 

And standing beside the rock where these children 



perished through the double tragedy of hunger and ex- 
posure, the Ramblers, with uncovered heads, sang most 
impressively, the hymn, “‘Nearer, My God, to Thee,”’ and 
in all probability it was the first time that that, or the 
intonation of any other hymn had been rendered at that 
memorable rock. A quarter of a mile or so away a flat 
rock was pointed out, where the bodies of the children 
were placed to await their removal from the mountain. 
The afternoon was waning and the shadows of the great 
mountain had fallen on West Oakland when the Ramblers 
passed through many charming woodland and mountain 
scenes to the station. 


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Historic Old Stone Church 

at Paramus 

N SUNDAY, June 16th, 1907, the Paterson 
AWK) Rambling Club, with a number of invited guests, 
45| went by the Erie Railroad to Undercliffe, to visit 
Kae | the historic old stone church at Paramus. ‘The 
———! railway being much higher than the Saddle River 
Paley. the views from the station at Undercliffe are very 

The entire valley of the Saddle River, of which 
Paramus forms a conspicuous part, is a most pleasing 
landscape, and the writer well remembers a conversation 
held with a former resident of the place, the late beloved 
Joseph Jefferson, who claimed that it resembles in many 
essential parts the world-famous Yosemite National. Park, 
and like that valley, though on a much smaller scale, that 
of the Saddle River is wonderfully rich in the beauty of 
its diversified scenery, and of which valley a local writer 
has chronicled: 

When earth was formed, and master hand was hewing 
High mountain peaks, with intersecting seams, 

There came the valleys with their lavish strewing, 
Of rolling fields, woods, dells and running streams. 

Looking across the valley, the hills of Wearimus 
loom up in the distance, and at the foot of the hills the 
Saddle River winds. its course through the ever-varying 
fields, swirling here and there around some: wooded knoll, 
where the eye catches gleams of its silvery waters flowing 
on and on in leisurely fulfillment of their destinies, 

[113 ] 

COUN TRY Wellton s 

And scattered round are landmarks, mutely telling, 
That each has claim to some historic tie! 

And in this vale, so famed and so excelling, 
The restful plains of old Paramus lie. 

In the foreground are the fertile fields, irregularly 
shaped, and with their newly upturned surfaces of dif- 
ferent colored soils, their green grass and their fields of 
waving grain they suggest, through their colors and 
shapes, an immense crazy quilt mantling the entire valley, 
and these fields, with their newly planted and maturing 
crops, compel one to acknowledge that from the soil comes 
every element of sustenance which enters into our exist- 
ence, and which thought is so truthfully expressed in an 
old poem, entitled, ‘‘Song of the Soil’: 

I start the bulb of the beautiful flower, 

And feed the bloom of the wild-wood bower! 

I rear the blade of the tender herb, 

Aind the trunk of the stalwart oak I curb! 

I force the sap of the mountain pine, 

And curl the tendrils of the vine! 

I robe the forest and clothe the plain 

With the ripest of fruits and the richest of grain. 

* ok *K * * > 

For I am the sole and mighty source, 

Whence flows the tide of man’s boasted force— 
Whatever his right, and whoever he be, 

His pomp and dominion must come from me. 

In this same foreground is the great elm tree near 
the Mansion House at Ho-Ho-Kus. Symmetrical in form 
and with the wonderful root formation at the foot of its 
huge trunk, it has long been a landmark of the place, and 
some of the Ramblers who stood beneath its great spread- 



ing branches for the first time, recalled Mrs. Sigourney’s 
tribute to the old elm on the common at Cambridge, under 
which tree Washington first drew his sword as com- 
mander-in-chief of the American army, 

Words! Words, old tree, thou hast an aspect fatr, 
A vigorous heart, a heaven-aspiting crest! 

And sleepless memories of the days that were, 
Lodge in thy branches, like the songbird’s nest. 

And under this historic tree a monument has been 
erected, bearing the inscription: 

This Boulder Marks the Route of 
General Washington 
and His Troops, Between Fort Lee and 
the Post, at Ramapough, 
During the Revolution, 1776-1781. 
Erected by Ramapo Valley Chapter, 
Daughters of the Revolution, 1913. 

Further on in the foreground are many beautiful 
homes nestling in the shade of grand old trees, while 
nearer the banks of the purling river there stands the old 
Paramus church, its ivy-covered walls mingling their 
shadows with those of the numerous shade trees which 
have stood as sentinels on the church lawn for so many, 
many years. 

Yon tall spire, a pencil on the sky, 

Tracing silently life’s changeful story; 
So familiar to my dim old eye, 

Points me to many that are now in glory, 
There on high; } 

Yon tall spire, a pencil on the sky. 

[115 ] 


Here are the harvests reaped, once sown in tears, 
Here ts the rest by minstrelsy enhanced; 
-. The bridal palace of the Prince of Peace, 
The Holiest of Holies—God is here. . 

Close by the church is the Valleau cemetery, an ever- 
increasing city of ‘“‘memorial tablets,’’ where lie so many 
who have severed all earthly affiliation with family and 
friends, and which cemetery at this time of the year is 
strikingly beautiful through the profuse distribution of 
its carpeting with the prolific and various colored blooms 
of the mountain or May pink. And, looking across the 
flower-covered graves, the lines of the first stanza of Lin- 
coln’s favorite poem were vividly recalled: 

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud, 
Ltke a fast-fleeting meteor, a fast-fleeting cloud, 
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, 
Man passeth from life, to his rest in the grave. 

Fluttering on many graves were bright new flags, 
placed there in loving remembrance by the living remnant 
of those who stood shoulder to shoulder with them in the 
great rebellion, and may we not quote the dying words 
of the Confederate general, Stonewall Jackson: 

‘They have crossed the river to rest in the shade of 
the trees.” 

Under the sod and the dew, 
Waiting the judgment day,. 

Love and tears for the Blue, 
Tears and love for the Gray. 

That the sons of Bergen County were loyal to this 
country during that great siege of strife needs no fuller 

(116 ], 


attest than the flags which their comrades placed over their 
numerous graves in this cemetery only a few days ago. 

On fame’s eternal camping ground 
Their silent tents are spread; 

But glory guards with solemn round 
The bivouac of the dead. © 

Many of the old farms have been divided into build- 
ing plots or smaller farms, and civilization, like the great 
elm tree noted at Ho-Ho-Kus, is ever branching out and 
extending its blessings to humanity. In primitive: times 
wild turkeys were the chief attractions of the Saddle River 
country. The cleared and fertile fields one looks. upon 
today were at one time heavily wooded, and long before 
the Hollanders had settled in Bergen County the Paramus 
tribe of Indians had full sway in the valley. When they 
took occupation of the virgin forests is not recorded, and 
one can only say: 

Here came the red men, ere the earth was aging, 
To build their huts and hunt for fish and game; 
And when they passed from scenes of their engaging, 
They left to these fair fields their tribal name. 

In Colonial days it was the custom in the Saddle 
River country for all the family to work from daylight 
until dark. The women toiled not only at the spinning 
wheel-and their household chores, but often in the fields. 
These Bergen County settlers were industrious and frugal 
in every respect, and the wealth stored away in many an 
old stocking in those days, together with the far greater 
inheritance, that of sterling character, is the benediction 
bestowed upon their descendants, many of whom still 
live in the valley, and who, through the practices of hee 
frugality, say, with their ancestors: 



Give me a wife that’s on the watch 
For every little rent or scratch, 
And cures tt with a timely patch 
Before you know it— 
For she’s a woman fit to match 
A lord or poet. 

Having passed along the pleasant roadways and the 
cemetery already alluded to, the Ramblers reached the 
old church. The edifice was first erected in the year 1755. 
The society is said to have been organized from the still 
older Reformed church at Hackensack, which was first 
erected in the year 1698. The present Paramus church 
was built in 1800. Methods of erection in those days 
were much different from those of today. They took 
more leisure in each department of construction, and it 
must be said that they builded well, even the fifty- 
foot ladder which was improvised to assist in building 
the church steeple is still in existence, ‘‘biding its time,” 
in the still older barn at the Wessell’s place on Paramus 
Road. In architectural lines the exterior of the church 
has a dignified simplicity, while its perspective com- 
pares favorably with those of recent erection. Its in- 
terior arrangements, with its pipe organ, leaded glass 
windows, cushioned seats, steam heat and electric lights, 
afford all the comforts of a city church. Of the long list 
of pastors who have occupied its pulpit for the past 172 
years, it can be said in all truthfulness, that while some 
of them may have failed to attain that popular reputa- 
tion which attaches to some metropolitan preachers, yet 
in faithfulness and zeal they were excelled by none. 

Within its sacred walls the last sad funeral rites have 
been performed ‘‘O’er many scores of sainted dead.”” On 
heads all whitened with the weight of years, and who 

[118 ] 


occupied some of its seats Sunday, the ordinance of infant 
baptism was administered three or more score years ago. 

Some of those who occupied its seats last Sunday were 
joined in wedlock within its honored walls, and, with the 
knowledge that their parents plighted their vows at the 
same altar in a remoter past. And among the members 
of that old church there are those who can say not only 
truthfully, but reverently: 

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, 
Guided thither by an angel mother. 
Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod, 

Sire and sisters and an only brother, 
Gone to God. 

Aaron Burr—who was born in the city of Newark, 
this State, in the year 1766, and who was Vice-President 
of the United States from 1801 to 1805, and whose rest- 
less and varied career is so vividly recalled through the 
unveiling of a statue of his slain opponent in front of the 
City Hall a few days ago, was married in this church to 
Theodosia Provost, the widow of an English officer. 

In the old churchyard are many ancient graves with 
quaint epitaphs on some of the numerous tombstones, one 
of which is as follows: 

Twenty-three years I was a virgin, 
Eleven months I was a wife, 
Twelve days I was a mother, 
Then I was called to Christ. 

We met a man there with kindly expression of face, 
and with seemingly respectful manner, who had followed 
the Rambling Club into the churchyard, and he most feel- 
ingly expressed a regret that the author of the epitaph 
quoted had not been “‘called’’ at the same time. 

[119 ] 


Here is another epitaph in the Holland language. 
Being in that tongue, it is ‘‘all Dutch’’ to many who pass 
by, and therefore, it has little or no attraction: 

Er ts een vredevolle rust, 

Voor treurenden en verwonden! 
Een vreugde voor de ziele smatt, 
Een balsam voor ’t verwonde ’hatt, 
In den hemel wordt ’t gevonden. 

But when some Holland friend translated it for the 
writer, it was found not only beautifully thythmic in its 
construction, but divinely sweet in the consoling senti- 
ment it expresses, for, is not all human kind ‘‘trending 
thither?’’ | 

‘Translation of Holland epitaph: 

There ts an hour of peaceful rest, 
To mourning wanderers given! | 
There ts a joy for souls distressed, 
A balm for every wounded breast, 
‘Tis found above in heaven. 

The location of the church near the picturesque little 
river, the windings of which form the outlines of a saddle, 
from which it derives its name, with the physical con- 
struction of the landscape, tend to make it a charming 
spot, while its associations extending back to a period be- 
fore the Revolutionary War recalls the times of long past 
days, and one experiences a feeling that, 

The old stone church with steeple still up-pointing; 
Graves mack the confines of the camping grounds; 
And in its shade with seal of death’s anointing, 
Lie many sires beneath its sacred mounds. 

[ 120 ] 

‘90080 “A ‘MOLIeqQIeg UYOL ‘SII PUB “IJ ‘SsuoSoy oluuy SSTJ ‘S1o.d0Y OIVSIVI, SSTI 
’ ‘aspny “IJ ‘STAB ‘SU pu “I ‘UBSG souler ‘sdulIpAy Ydesor—: peysinsuljsiq 9g UBD dnoay uy 



In the restrospect of nearly 200 years, one can accept 
the oft repeated statement, that the early settlers of Bergen 
County knew a good thing when they saw it, for: 

The soil gave quick response to each entreating, 
And bins and cribs o’erflowed with harvest yield, 
While flocks of sheep in shearing pens were bleating, 

And herds of cattle grazed on many a field. 

They wove their cloth from threads of homespun reeling, 
And through the measures of their sweet content, 
Their toil was linked with deep religious feeling, 
Which brought the fruits that tell of lives well spent. 

And that deep religious feeling would seem to still 
prevail throughout the valley, judging by the great num- 
ber of vehicles which it takes to carry the members to and 
from the church every Sabbath day. 

It has been said that ‘“‘times and conditions change,” 
yet, are we not lingering in the steps where others have 
trod, and to a large extent 

We are the same things that our fathers have been. 
We see the same sights our fathers have seen, 

We dtink the same stream and feel the same sun, 
And we run the same course our fathers have run. 

After which the Ramblers visited points of interest 
along the Saddle River, near which stream portions of the 
Revolutionary army were encamped. While no decisive 
battles were fought at Paramus, yet there is much of 
revolutionary lore attaching to the place, much more than 
the limits of the present account of the club’s ramble will 

Much interest was manifested by some of the 

[ 1211 are 


Ramblers in an old stone house near the river, an account 
of which was given by a guest of the Club—given with 
great reluctance, however, lest he might be placed in the 
same category as the author of the epitaph first quoted. 

Near by a mill, at foot of hill, 
There stands an old stone house; 
With weather taint, and all so quaint, 

Without a trick or chouse. 

The stones were wrought, and then were brought, 
So the old legends say, 

By Tunis Ham, from Slaughter dam, 
A dozen miles away. 

And then the fields were searched for yields, 
Of red and sticky mud; 

When ev’ry stone, placed in its zone, 
Would stand a quake, or flood. 

For clay well mixed, and rightly fixed, 
Would hold the walls right smatt, 

While others said the clayey bed, 
Would keep the stones apatt. 

In those old days they had their ways 
Of making known a vow, 

Of playing dove and making love, 
The same as we do now. 

“Will you be mine,” with voice benign, 
A lover said to Sorch, 

(That's Dutch for Sal), a pretty gal, 
Who sat on the front porch. 

[ 122 ] 


“T will,” said she, “‘that’s good,’ quoth he, 
But wherefore tell it all; 

The bans were tied and sanctified 
Late in the coming fall. 

And from that day the legends say, 
The settlers made great gains, 

A hundred score and thousands more 
Came to Paramus plains. 

The Ramblers returned to Paterson by way of Ridge- 
wood, and at the latter place, while looking back over 
the beautiful valley through which they had passed, each 
one of the party felt the inspiration of that muse who 
penned the lines, 

Continual songs arise 
From universal nature—birds and streams 
Mingle their voices, and the glad earth seems 

A second paradise! 
Thrice blessed Vale, thou bearest gifts divine, 
Sunshine, and song, and fragrance—all are thine. 

The services at the church were very impressive. 
The pastor, Rev. Henry D. Cook, preached a most elo- 
quent sermon on “‘Paul Urging the Brethren of the Church 
at Philippi to Press Onward to the Goal.’’ The music 
was exceptionally fine, the two solos being rendered with 
much expression. 

After the services at the church, the Ramblers, with 
many of the congregation, lingered on the shady and 
spacious church lawn for a considerable time in pleasant 
interchange of courtesies. 

A bronze tablet on the church wall near the prin- 
cipal entrance reads: 

[ 123 ] 



Near This House of God Encamped 
General Washington and His 
Army in 1778. 

In grateful tribute to the memory of the patriots 
who sleep in the adjacent church yard, and to the men 
and women of this community who assisted so valiantly 
in the establishment of American independence. 

This tablet was placed by the New Jersey Society, 
Sons of the American Revolution, July 4th, 1914. 

[ 124 ] 

Springtime Journey to the 
Glacial Rock 

HE Ramblers went last Sunday to Glacial Rock, 
and viewed again the marvelous relic of the great 
ice age which was formed in the frozen North and 
which was gripped by the moving glacier and 
transported from the North until the rays of the 
sun beamed on the enfolding iceberg and melted it, 
thereby setting its stony prisoner free, and allowing it 
to drop to the bottom of the sea, which at that time 
covered Northern New Jersey even to a depth which con- 
cealed the tops of our highest. mountains. The water 
afterwards subsided. Our relic standing alone in the 
valley near Singac is left to tell the reflective student its 
wonderful, though silent, story. The boulder is bare, 
and vegetation hesitates to intrude upon it. Even the 
saxifrage, which loves to settle on rocks and split them 
in fractions, seems to avoid this Singac boulder, as if the 
reverence that such a memorial of ancient days ought to 
inspire had even affected the otherwise insensitive saxi- 
frage. Yes, reader, if you have not yet seen the Glacial 
Rock, do so at the first opportunity; if the wonderful 
work of God inspires you with reverence and awe, and 
think, after all, how little is man. John Mcnab once 
told the Ramblers that this boulder first moved the author 
ef “Rock of Ages’’ with the sacred inspiration which 
brought out from him the ever popular hymn. Tradi- 
tion says that the author while on a visit to America came 
to this rock, and although it is disputed, still it is a 
venerable tradition and we will let it remain. But the 
genus homo is often devoid of reverence, and the Ramblers 

[ 125 ] 


no sooner get to the rock than the venturesome among 
the younger members are climbing it, like so many goats, 
and the venerable old fellow even seems to laugh and 
tolerate the assault upon his dignity, perhaps conscious 
that this is the first really warm and jovial day of spring. 
And the Paterson Ramblers are not alone: a larger crowd 
of youthful merrymakers have come from Little Falls, 
and though baseball, ‘‘ring-around-the-rosy,’”’ and pussy 
wants a corner, were unknown in the geologic age, the 
Glacial Rock may see how the games are played today. 

The trolley car which brought us from Paterson was 
crowded. Every boy and girl who could coax the re- 
quired nickel from the parental treasury, seemed to have 
come on that trolley for a May walk, but how to recon- 
cile May walking with trolley-riding was a mystery. The 
youngsters permitted the older people to occupy the seats 
and they themselves grabbed hold of the straps. They 
screamed with laughter when the car gave a lurch, and 
banged into each other continuously as the unsteady move- 
ment produced the concussion. 

The old Little Falls turnpike itself seemed happy, 
and seemed to rejoice in its new name of McBride Avenue. 
The flower gardens on its sides were in full vernal bloom. 
The flowering almond was a mass of efflorescence and 
the forsythia was radiant with its blossoms of gold, and 
the lilacs, which the cold weather had kept back seemed 
to be making up for lost time. The corner of every in- 
tersecting street carried the sign of McBride Avenue, and 
on the beautiful day how appropriate did appear the 
name of a worthy city officer who during his mayoralty 
had done so much to make flowers grow and grass to 
spring in unsightly places where refuse and old-forgotten 
graves had held their ghoulish Sway. 

Idlewild Park! Do people still remember how it 

[ 126 ] 


first obtained its name? Do folks remember how James 
A. Morrissee, who donated it to the public, sought a name 
for it, and offered a prize for the best suggestion. Some 
suggested Morrissee park, but the donor declined a per- 
sonal recognition, but someone thought of Idlewild and 
won the prize, and the name has remained. 

Every street in or near Paterson has its pleasure and 
its sad memories, for me. Here, under the elm trees a 
cousin and I one bright summer day sat and quenched our 
thirst with spruce beer. It was an American drink, en- 
tirely new to me, but my cousin, who had just come from 
England, did not like it. He left Paterson soon after and 
went to live in Auburn, N. Y., having got a position in the 
silk mill there. Always fond of life and sport, he went 
out on an ice yacht, and the gale came on with such fury 
over the frozen lake that George was driven on the shore 
and killed with the falling spars of the yacht. 

Ryle Park! The place is memorable to me, as it 
was on such a day as this that I, along with a crowd of 
Englishmen, came here to celebrate the Queen’s jubilee. 
There were various amusements, and genial Harry Diefen- 
thaler conducted a free Punch and Judy show, and how 
happy was he, and how happy was everybody there, be- 
fore unhappy discord arose between Briton and German; 
when an Anglo-German Queen reigned over England, 
and before two kindred nations began to grab each other 
by the throat. We pass the spot near the High Bridge, 
which was at one time sacred to Holy Rollers on one side 
of the road and to Gypsies on the other. Approaching 
the canal bridge I notice that the water is being turned 
in again, and I am glad to see it, glad to see that the 
sprightly minnows and sunfish can pretend to nibble on 
the angler’s worm, and then dart suddenly away. Glad 
to see that the graceful canoe can float another season on 



the smooth surface, and that the bullfrog may make the 
sides of the old waterway resound once more with his 
melodious trumpet of basso profundo. 

But while deep in such reflection the car has carried 
me to the carpet mill. ‘“‘Ramblers all out,’”’ is the slogan, 
and in a few minutes we are walking in the direction of 
the mountains. 

We walk along the road which leads in an easterly 
direction, and often turn to admire the exquisite gardens 
on the right hand side. What a glorious display of 
flowers de luxe! What exquisite tulips, and what charm- 
ing hyacinths! Some of the most beautiful flowers are 
strangers to us, and we try to draw the gardener’s atten- 
tion so that we may learn something about the flowers, 
but he is too busy to lift up his head, so we pass on. 

A short walk brings us to Pompton Avenue, and 
a short cut through the wood and we come to the foot 
of the hill, where a mountain path leads up to the Glacial 
Rock. The path shifts and turns about with the erratic 
charm which makes the mountain trail so pleasing to the 
lover of nature. At times we have to look out for the 
barbed wire fence, but otherwise the upland ramble is 
enchanting. We saunter along through groves of oak, 
and maple, and hickory, and the hickory is just coming 
in leaf, and we notice the little palmate leaves that re- 
mind one of the soft hands of little babies, and so near 
is the resemblance that we take hold of them and almost 
feel as if they should be wrapped in baby linen. 
Thoreau, the naturalist, often watched the hickory leaves 
unfold and never failed to take hold of these delicate 
palmate leaves and note the infantile association. 

Here we catch the first sight of the Glacial Rock, 
so grand and so still, and at the first glance it seems as if 
some monstrous elephant had suddenly appeared in the 

[ 128 ] 


wood, for the rock is of the same gray color that the 
skin of an elephant exhibits. The young folks from 
Little Falls climb up the steep sides of the boulder, and 
are soon waving their hands at the people who have re- 
mained below and have no aspiration to rise higher than 
the blossoms at the foot. 

Here is a large ant hill, and, of course, we must 
examine it, so that we can consider the ant’s ways and be 
wise. ‘Ihe insects rush around and go in and out of 
their nests as if they were at their wits’ end. Well, it 
is too bad that all the trouble and anxiety should be 
given to the little creatures, and for no other object than 
just to see how the inhabitants of this stricken city con- 
duct themselves when what must seem an earthquake 
assails them. We note the workers carrying chips and frac- 
tions of dead leaves to line the underground nests. And 
these lively little nurses how terribly excited they are! 
How they hasten to get their baby charges out of the way 
of the earthquake shock! Well, the volcanic shock came 
so suddenly, when the boy poked his stick in the mound, 
but those precious babies must be saved at any cost. Hasten, 
then little mother, and get thy precious infant in security in 
the nest below. ‘‘Mother?’’ did you say? No, only a 
foster mother; the little nurse and guardian never knew 
the pleasures of maternity, the baby is not hers, but was 
born of a mother who did not care a farthing for it, and 
left it to be attended to by these neutral nursery maids, 
thus preserving the species. 

Another earthquake! This time the boy above has 
thrown a stone on the heap. Don’t bother, little ladies. 
in fussing over those little gray objects that do not ex- 
hibit a spark of life. Throw him away, or let the 
volcano bury them. Why should you worry, ladies? 
Well, it is simply a question of duty. The nursemaids 

[ 129 ] 


have to do it, they know not why. but some occult 
authority has laid the burden upon them, and future ant 
communities will exist and thrive that these bustling little 
nursery maids have no conception of. 

“Consider her ways and be wise.’ Well, hardly. 
Where is the wisdom of working sometimes for ten hours 
at a stretch, Sunday and weekday alike, to lay up pro- 
visions for children you will never even see? And all this 
slavish labor, making houses and galleries of wondrous 
construction for owners who will neither pay you nor 
thank you! A revolution is needed. Is there no Emma 
Goldman in the community to start the movement? Is 
there no Mother Jones or Gurley-Flynn to urge the servile 
workers to make a kick for shorter hours and better pay? 
No? Well, then, boy, poke another stick in the mass; 
pile another stone on the senseless community. Give 
them a few more earthquakes until these silly workers 
learn to stick up for their rights. 

{ 130 ] 

Spring Flowers Greet Ramblers 

at Sicomac 

HE Ramblers spent the greater part of last Sun- 
day in Sicomac. This reminds me of a dear old 
friend in England, who would never believe that 
there were places where ‘‘gradeley’’ folk lived, that 
bore such outrageous names as these, and he said 
that when Bob Bierley talked to him of having been to 
Manayunk, he, my friend, always thought that Bob was 
“putting it on,’’ and trying to make people believe that he 
had been further in the world than he really had been. 

But if the reader learns that the Ramblers have been 
to Sicomac, he must not think that there is any attempt 
at “‘putting on,’ for we really were there last Sunday. 
It is an Indian name, but apart from the name itself, there 
was nothing of an aboriginal nature to be found there— 
not even an arrow point or a potsherd. ‘The cheering 
May sunshine illumined mile upon mile of fresh green- 
sward and acres upon acres of growing crops, but the 
Redskin had nothing to do with their cultivation. The 
inhabitants seemed happy with their humble lot in Sico- 
mac, but they were plain, white country folks, and 
cheerful, smiling white faces greeted us over the garden 
fences and waved to us from the lawn, but we saw no 
squaws and no papooses. 

The ramble started from the hospitable cottage of 
Frederick Neuberger, at Wyckoff, where the Paterson 
Rambling Club had been invited by its ever genial host, 
upon whose honest countenance the cheerful mental sun 
is ever smiling, whether the material sun chooses to come 
out or sulk behind a cloud. Mr. Neuberger, knowing the 

[131 ] 


Ramblers’ desire for peregrination, had made due pro- 
vision in advance. He had arranged for his son, a Boy 
Scout, to lead us. So under the guidance of a brown 
uniform we started off. The helmet of brown was our 
“‘oriflamme,’’ as was the helmet of Navarre to Henry the 

And if my standard bearer fall, 
As fall full well he may, 
For never saw I promise yet 
Of such a bloody fray, 
Press where ye see my white plume shine 
Amid the ranks of war, 
And be your oriflamme today 
The helmet of Navarre. 

Amid the dark cedar groves, along lonely mountain 
paths, through dust-blinding highways, our own special 
brown helmet of Navarre led the way last Sunday. 

But—Great Scott!—how these Boy Scouts can 
walk! ‘The Ramblers can foot it, but they do not even 
begin to compare with the scouts. It was well that the 
attraction of flowers on the way compelled us to pause 
in a very unmilitary sort of manner, or the effort might 
have proved too much for us. But, by the way, what 
sort of marching soldiers would nature students make? 
Why, the enemy would be upon them while they were 
investigating a robin’s nest, or trying to find out how 
this or that squirrel managed to escape so suddenly within 
its ambuscade! The scout, therefore, had to exercise 
great patience when his followers sat down or stopped to 
get flowers by the way. The Ramblers will submit to 
be led when it suits their purpose, as it did last Sunday. 
They remind one of Sir Peter Teazle, who said: ‘‘No 

[ 132 ] 


one is more easily led when I have my own way. Iam 
compliance itself if I am not thwarted.” 

We saw the ruins of an old tobacco factory out in 
the woods. Such walls! They must have been built on 
the supposition that every army in the world wanted that 
particular brand of tobacco and was prepared to assault 
the building and carry their wishes, by storm! It was a 
weird looking spot. An old well occupied the center, 
built also of stone. It seemed stagnant, and one won- 
dered whether, if its queer water were probed, some tell- 
tale relic of tragedy and crime might not be brought to 

One weaver did suggest that the depth should be 
sounded, but there was no ‘“‘card-lacing’’ in all the pockets 
even to begin such a ponderous task, so the project was 
abandoned. In spite of its gruesome suggestions the place 
was interesting. The Virginia creeper festooned itself 
over its grey thick walls and the poison vine never looks 
so well as when it tries to cover the saddened relics, where 
man’s destructive instinct would otherwise procure deso- 

While the Ramblers were exploring the ruins, the 
scout had scaled the fortress and was contemplating the 
Palisades from his elevation, when the rest of the com- 
pany called him to renew his leadership. He would have 
jumped from the wall, but, to oblige the ladies, he con- 
descended to slide gently down, and roots of ivy and 
little protruding bits of stone assisting in modifying the 

The woods in this neighborhood were whitened by 
the flowers of the dogwood, the pale yellow blossoms of 
the sassafras were just opening, and the gardens were 
smiling with the flowers of the lilac trees, but the most 
conspicuous flower was the common dandelion. It made 

[ 133 J 


the ground in some places seem as though it were covered 
with a cloth of gold. It is evident that the Italian house- 
wife, with her knife, does not come here to gather dande- 
lions, or this immense abundance, of what she searches 
for under the name of cicoria, would not exist in such 
profusion. Poor dandelion; in its English home, before 
it came hither, how we did despise it, and English readers 
will remember well the vulgar name we gave it on account 
of its supposed inconvenient diuretic properties. Few poets 
have honored it, but Bryant gives it a fair tribute of 
praise. | | 
The ways of flowers are ‘‘past finding out.’”’ While 
on this walk a fellow Rambler wants me to point out to 
him the Claytonia Virginica. I consent and begin at 
once to look around for the flower, but not a trace of it 
is to be found. It seems not to grow in Sicomac. I 
would approach just such spots as it revels in at this time 
of the year, but not a single specimen of the spring beauty 
showed itself. 

I was amazed, knowing that Rogers’ wood, even 
now was covered with them in many places. Then it 
occurred to me to see if other Spring flowers were miss- 
ing, and I was astonished at the discovery that not a dog’s 
tooth violet was to be seen, not a jack-in-the-pulpit, and 
not a single houstonia. Strange! In Passaic County 
they could have been gathered by the thousand. One 
member told me that she had not found any sweet fern 
on the Sicomac hills. And yet all these spots seem the 
ideal habitation of these particular plants. What can be 
the reason? Well, perhaps they may have lived here once, 
but the desire to clean away every spot which is not pro- 
ductive of material gain may have given its quietus to 
these early flowers of the year. Except in the church- 
yard I did not see the mountain pink, though in the 

[ 134 ] 


church-yard some of the graves were one mass of pink 
blossoms, telling us that the flower has been driven from 
the hills and only depended today on cultivation. ‘The 
Sicomac swamps were also void of the marsh marigold, 
and I think if a search were made that many of the old 
Spring favorites would be found wanting. 

But it is wrong to blame the people who pluck the 
flowers entirely, because the flowers themselves are often 
arbitrary and contrary. They are ‘Sot in their way,” 
and seem to have a will of their own. Very likely any 
attempt to restore them to the woods of Sicomac might 
prove a failure. The best plan is to leave them un- 
molested where they are. It is foolish to gather them 
indiscriminately. Wild flowers are easily destroyed, and 
garden flowers never look so pretty as they do in the 
garden, and the desire to gather them should be linked 
with a little discrimination. The poor lilac tree is just 
now in its glory, and its blossoms are almost forced 
upon people by their inconsiderate owners, but all this 
is foolish. Leave the trees alone. If any visitor cannot 
enjoy the flowers in the garden, what pleasure can he or 
she have in seeing them wilting and dying off the parent 
stem? In Massachusetts the arbutus is fast disappearing, 
and, except in very remote woods, it has almost gone from 
New Jersey. I knew one very secluded spot where the 
blood root still blossomed on Garret Mountain, but re- 
cent attempts to find it have all been in vain. ‘The 
Dicentra is still found there, but the place of its abode will 
never be revealed by me. 

A crowd of men, women and children, marching 
along the highway generally attract notice, and it did so 
last Sunday. The house and grounds at the corner of 
the lane were handsome, and, being invited, the Ramblers 
went in and sang on the lawn. But whether they were 

[ 135 ] 


entertaining the family or acting a comedy remains not 
known. Some thought that the invitation was sincere, 
while others had their doubts. Of course, except you who 
are prepared to cultivate the soil, or to study what outside 
nature has to teach, life in the country must be a little 
monotonous, and you will naturally be relieved when 
anything unexpected comes along, be it a Gypsy cavalcade, 
a Salvation Army band, or a Rambling club. We stayed 
here for a short time, and before the last strains of the 
Ramblers’ song had died out the helmet of Navarre was 
calling us on. 

But the walk was long and after a few miles when 
we reached Mr. Neuberger’s home again, we were all tired 
and in good receptive mood for the coffee and other re- 
freshments that the lady of the mansion had so generously 

On the way the principal scout had been joined by 
two other scouts, and they were not so fatigued as ‘‘the 
lazy sons of peace.” They even started a wrestling 
match on the lawn. 

But though fatiguing for the time, the sunshine and 
breezes of Sicomac had contributed health, and my article 
which usually takes a day, has been written in a few hours, 
thanks to a force gathered yesterday on the hills of Sicomac 
and along the breezy Wyckoff plains under the helmet of 

One little incident must not be omitted. There 
came among us a resident of Wyckoff, eighty-two years 
old. He had scarcely a wrinkle on his face and was as 
straight as a telegraph pole. He was a native of Coventry, 
and worked at one time as a ribbon weaver for Willjam 
Strange. Arthur Cliffe knew him and told us how he 
had left Mr. Strange, along with two others, rather than 
submit to vaccination. The incident recalled the small- 

[ 136 ] 


pox scare when the whole. of Elm Street was quarantined. 
Mr. Strange had himself been a sufferer from the terrible 
disease, and he ordained that his employes should be pro- 
tected at any cost, but this Wyckoff resident considered 
that the remedy was worse than the disease, and so he 
left the Strange establishment. His subsequent health 
may have benefited or not by the decision, but every 
Rambler who followed the scout yesterday will admit that 
the hygienic properties of Wyckoff air have contributed 
largely to this blessed result. Good for Wyckoff! Good 
for Sicomac, and good for the whole of Franklin 

[ 137 ] Sec. 10 

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Rambling Club At Glen Rock 

HE Paterson Rambling Club spent Sunday in Glen 
Rock. They met at 9 o'clock at the City Hall 
and journeyed thence by trolley to North Pater- 
son. The weather at first was not very promising, 
but as the day wore on it became evident that the 
rain, if it should come at all, would not be so excessive as 
to spoil the pleasure of the party, and the Ramblers did 
get just a sprinkling, just enough “‘to lay the dust,’’ and 
that was all. At Glen Rock they came across a dealer in 
real estate who wanted them to boom the borough, but 
it is no part of the Ramblers’ programme to boom any 
place, still, if nature and art will join together to make a 
place attractive the Ramblers will notice it, for it has never 
been their habit to shut their eyes, and in describing any 
such locality whatever incidental booming may result the 
inhabitants of the place are welcome thereto. 

And it would have been only the very blindest of 
the blind who could have been with the party last Sun- 
day and not have become cognizant of the beauty of Glen 
Rock. It is ‘building up,’’ but such a circumstance does 
not add to the Paterson Ramblers’ admiration, but quite 
the reverse, as they seek spots where Nature lives alone, 
where, as Byron says, they can enjoy ‘‘the pleasure of the 
pathless woods,’ and the sight of the big snapping box 
turtle which one of the boys found in the nearby forest, 
was to the lover of Nature a greater attraction than would 
have been the finest specimen of architecture. So much 
for the booming capacity of the Rambling Club. Still, 
Glen Rock is delightful, and whatever it may be in Winter 
time, on Sunday last it was a paradise. 

It is impossible to recall it without a mental vision 

[ 139 ] 

COM NP Ravan iis 

of forest and field birds so kindly treated by: the inhabit- 
ants that they sang for the Ramblers as if they had never 
known fear; a wood-peewee on the branch of a sassafras 
tree allowed the crowd to pass it without moving a feather, 
just as if it were conscious, sitting for its photograph. | 
The wild flowers were enchanting. Nowhere had 
the pinxter blossom ever been found in such beautiful 
abundance before. Another flower somewhat rare in 
most places was found to be very plentiful in the adjoin- 
ing woods. I refer to the deergrass, rhexia virginica. 
To many of the botanical Ramblers the plant was new 
and some took it at first sight for its near relative, the 
mountain pink, but the difference is the foliage and the 
larger flowers soon convinced them of the mistake. 
Passing along the road the party came upon an old 
farmhouse where its owner, much older than the house 
itself, sat in the farmyard. He greeted the Ramblers 
as they approached. He was very talkative, though his 
accent showed that he was a Hollander by birth. He 
came here in 1861, he said. He was a fine specimen of 
vigorous old age acquired by temperate habits and hard 
work. He showed his hands, which were as hard as 
sole leather, and he defied the Ramblers to pinch the 
palms. Several Ramblers tried, but it would have been 
just as easy to pinch the skin of an alligator. He re- 
joiced in his strength, but like other old men he imagined 
himself possessed of greater vigor than he could possibly 
have had, and some of the party smiled when he boasted 
of his ability to walk from there to the center of Pater- 
son in half an hour. “I go quicker than the trolley,” 
he said, but of course the claim was not allowed. Still 
he was evidently a wonderful old man. His hair was 
long, and possibly in reading his Bible he had taken 
warning from the fate of Samson and had seen to it that 

[ 140 J 


no barber or treacherous. Delilah should cut it, for it 
reached in disheveled tresses. over his shoulders. He re- 
minded one of Adam in ‘‘As You Like It,’’ and he might 
have said as Adam did: 

For in my youth I never did apply 

Hot and rebellious liquors to my blood, 
Nor did, with unbashful forehead, woo 
The means of weakness and debility; 
Therefore mine age ts as a lusty Winter— 
Frosty, but kindly. 

After leaving the old veteran, a short walk brought 
the Ramblers to the pleasant farm of George Berdan. 
Here they were welcomed by the kind hostess. The or- 
chard was white with the blossoms of the apple trees, 
and presented a very charming appearance. There were 
plenty of rustic seats and benches under the trees, but 
there were not sufficient to accommodate the crowd, and 
so for a time the kitchen and the parlor had to give out 
their furniture. Mrs. Berdan supplied tea and coffee, and 
the lunch boxes were opened and the feast began. It was 
an exquisite dining room; no parlor carpet could have 
been half so pleasant to the feet as the rich grass adorned 
with flowers of the dandelion, which was spread under- 
neath the tables as the noonday meal began. 

After the luncheon was over the president called the 
members to order and a hearty vote of thanks was given 
to Mrs. Berdan for her hospitality, and then the members 
separated, some to explore the woods and others to 
wander over the farm and see what Nature had provided 
for their pleasure and instruction.. The robins were sing- 
ing, and a flock of starlings showed that these newcomers 
to the Western world had reached in their migration the 
pleasant village of Glen Rock. ‘“To whee! to whee’! 
from the thicket proclaimed the arrival of the ground 

[ 141 ] 


robin and the tapping of the redheaded woodpecker on 
the trunk of the tree showed that he, in vulgar parlance, 
was already ‘“‘on the job.” 

A pretty little pond furnished some of the juveniles 
with amusement, as they chased after the frogs, and dis- 
turbed their marshy solitude. No actual cruelty took 
place, but when the boys went so far as to harness the 
creatures to a little toy boat and let them pull it across 
the pond the sympathetic members protested, and the 
frogs were set at liberty, and these undoubtedly enjoyed 
their freedom all the more after their experience of cap- 
tivity. One big old fellow escaped notice by hiding him- 
self in a secluded part of the pool among the pickerel 
weeds. Once in a while he would raise his eyes to the 
surface and see what was going on, but he was wise and 
no dangerous curiosity could induce him to make any 
acquaintance with the Rambling Club. 

During the afternoon the members were inside the 
house and sang the club songs for Mrs. Berdan, and sang 
also such popular hymns and sacred melodies as ‘“‘Rock of 
Ages’”’ and ‘My Country ’Tis of Thee.’ Their hostess 
accompanied them on the organ. 

The sun was descending as the party left the beauti- 
ful home of Mrs. George Berdan. There had been no 
tain worth speaking of, and the outing had been a most 
enjoyable one throughout. A brown thrasher perched 
on the tall branches of a maple tree as the members ap- 
proached the North Paterson station evidently wanted to 
show off his own musical ability, and he went through 
his long repertoire of brown thraser melodies in a manner 
most wonderful, imitating first one feathered vocalist and 
then another. This bird is sometimes called the Northern 
mocking bird, and the Glen Rock specimen showed how 
capable he was of maintaining the distinction. 

[ 142 ] 

Experiences Along Beaten Paths 

te] Y walk the other day was along beaten paths; 
paths which my own feet had helped to form in 
the primitive woodland. For some the primeval 
forest offers the greatest attraction, but for me the 
beaten path is the most alluring. Apart from the 
fact that it is easier to walk where others have walked 
before, there is a sort of homelike feeling that possesses 
one when one goes along the beaten track. 

In such places the very flowers and plants seem to 
greet one as old acquaintances. In our peregrination we 
may unconsciously have brought them there. If this 
marigold could tell its life history, it might begin by re- 
lating how your clothing caught the tiny seed of its 
ancestor and held it until you stopped for a moment and 
found out that you were all covered with ‘‘beggar ticks,”’ 
and in your disgust you picked them off your garments, 
and threw them on the ground. Some germinated and 
became plants, others were ‘trodden under the foot of 
man,’ but the parent of this marigold was fortunate, and 
it escaped the fate of others, and here it is ready to thank 
you for your assistance when it was young and friendless. 
How the seeds of the English plantain find their way here 
we hardly can tell, but so assiduously has it followed the 
“pale face’ in his wanderings that the Indians know it as 
“the white man’s footsteps.’’ It came with the white man 
over the sea, took root in his garden, went with him on 
his country rambles, and here it is lining this path through 
the wood and taking up soil that native American plants 
would have occupied, but for the stubborn persistence and 
impudence of the European vagrant. 

We called it plantain in England. It was the prin- 

[ 143 ] 

COWEN TERIY 2 Wek ie Rs 

cipal food supply for the rabbits that we kept, and as boys 
we gathered it by bushels. Rabbits ate it, but cows and 
horses refused it, and so ‘‘it waxed fat’’ and took up much 
ground; accompanied man in his wandering there as it 
Goes here; and when he came to America it came with him. 

Stop! What is this? It saw me before I caught a 
glance at it—a box turtle. On seeing me it starts to run, 
but realizing that my rate of locomotion is much faster 
than its own, it does what seems to its reptilian brain the 
next best thing. It stops and shuts the front door of its 
little house and locks itself within. As much as if it 
wanted to tell me that if I take it I shall have to take the 
house along with it. Oh, that is easily done. So I pick 
up the house and the tenant with it. Dear me, how firm 
are the hinges of this front door! I don’t want to injure 
the owner of the house, and the old blunt pen knife which 
I insert and try to use as a crowbar cannot come in contact 
with the reptile; but, as well try to force an entrance in a 
prison cell by using a toothpick as try to open the door 
of this reptile construction with a penknife. | give it up. 
But to carry the house and the tenant together is an easy 
task. So here the entire business goes into my pocket. 
Not wanting to burden myself with the turtle I leave it 
under the railroad arch until I come back this way, but on 
returning I find that the poor creature has found worse 
enemies than I would have been. It is dead! Its poor 
carapace is shattered in scores of pieces and the life of my 
little box turtle, as I had planned it, had vanished like a 
dream. I come across a box turtle once in a while, but 
the creatures are getting scarce. The largest I ever found 
was on Garret Rock, near Lambert’s Castle. 

On my way through the wood I come to the brook, 
and here a little semi-tragedy has just occurred. I meet 
an old man I have seen in the same place before. Noticing 

[ 144 ] 


his undergarment is missing I inquire if it is washing day. 
“Indade, sorr, I did wash me shirt this morning, but the 
blamed things have taken it.’ ‘Thinking he referred to 
boys I began a severe tirade against the youth of the neigh- 
borhood, but the old man interrupted me with: ‘‘Sure 
it was not boys at all, but cows. I put me shirt to dry 
on a fince and the cows came along and carried it ower in 
the wood beyant and ate it, sorr.’’ Business had been 
interrupted by the occurrence. The poor old fellow had 
been gathering watercress all day and was preparing to 
sell them in the morning; there were two baskets full of 
the salad, when the cows came along and stole his shirt. 
1 went home to fetch him another shirt, but when I re- 
turned the vendor of watercresses had disappeared, and his 
stock in trade along with him. He had found another 
shirt somewhere when I passed that way again. 

In years gone by this wood was a great resort for 
tramps, but now it is only on rare occasions that one can 
discern the white column of smoke from tramp “‘shinnies”’ 
rising above the foliage. None of these poor ‘‘victims of 
the greedy capitalistic system’’ remain long in this wood. 
I have met with very few this summer. One told me he 
intended to spend the Fall and Winter in and around 
Burlington, the Fall especially, as mushrooms there were 
so common. ‘Burlington people,’’ he said, ‘“‘do not eat 
them—and, troth, I could live on them, son,’’ he added, 
with evident recollection of the dainty morsel. What 
success he had in preparing the mushrooms, I cannot say, 
but it ought to be better than the meal of potatoes, cab- 
bage and corn all mixed together in the boiling pan, 
which he was cooking as the utensil hung suspended over 
a fire that took every minute of his comrade’s time to keep 
alive. I saw this comrade afterward on Broad Street, 
Newark, and he gave me a terrible account of “‘that other 

[ 145 ] 


fellow.’ He had left him for good: ‘Why, his cook- 
ing made me sick, and I could not stand the smell of it 
after having been on a drunk for a full week,” he said, 
“so I left him.”’ 

By the way, let me not cast any reflection on these 
poor “‘victims of the capitalistic system.’ This is sup- 
posed to be a ‘‘progressive age,’’ and we must do these poor 
fellows the justice of supposing that they would not live 
in those woods, cook those rough, unpalatable meals, if 
it were not for the capitalistic system. The one who had 
been on a drunk for a week was, of course, “victim,” for 
if it were not for the capitalistic system how would anyone 
ever go on a drunk? 

I found one ‘‘victim’’ who had just returned from 
Paterson, where he had worked for about two hours in 
a silk factory as a weaver. ‘‘But,’’ said he, “I could do 
nothin’ at all, at all, only pretend to be puttin’ thim 
threads in when the black looking boss came near the 
machine. The other fellows did not help me a bit, and 
when the boss saw I was new to the job he kicked me out.”’ 

I became disgusted with the man’s story when I 
thought of the number of weavers, real weavers, looking 
for a job, and of the preference given to this nomad evi- 
dently because of a slight chance of obtaining a little 
cheaper labor arose in the foreman’s mind. Whatever is 
the silk industry of this city coming to? It would have 
been a long time before my old foreman, Henry War- 
burton, would have engaged a “‘victim’” who had never 
seen a loom before, in preference to anyone else that could 
really weave. 

I must give these ‘“‘victims’’ credit for one thing—they 
can wash. It is wonderful how clean they can make their 
clothing after rubbing it with their hands and after boiling 
it in some disused water pail or empty glycerine can. 

[ 146 ] 


Such cleanliness they to understand was a necessity 
when they appeared at the “‘mission”’ or at “‘Ritchie’s” for 
a night’s ‘‘doss,”” and one can easily understand that such 
would be the case. 

I could have made my ramble more aesthetic if I had 
not brought in these “‘victims,’’ but it would not have 
been so descriptive. I write of the woods and what I find 
there. Flowers, birds and reptiles are no more a part of 
the flora and fauna of these sylvan retreats than are these 
nomadic members of the race with their cooking utensils 
and their improvised wash tubs. But though “‘victims’’ 
and all that, I really think that they enjoy this mode of 
living. The air is fresh; good, clean water can be had; 
somehow they get food—-I never ask any questions—and 
a lodging where for ten cents they can sleep at night free 
from much vermin, and this explains why they are so 
healthy looking. And there are no moralists among 
them! One man who had no companion expressed great 
indignation in regard to some who stole and got in the 
hands of the police for ‘‘batting’’ and brought disgrace by 
such means on more decent and respectable ‘‘travelers,’’ as 
he called them. This was the one who intended going 
to Burlington for his Winter quarters. 

Such is the not altogether unpleasant life of these so- 
called ‘‘victims.’”’ I have passed them so often that they 
seem part of the rural surroundings, part as do the trees 
themselves and the flowers and birds. [I am not aware 
that any American poet has yet arisen to sing of their lives, 
but a strain often heard on the other side of the ocean often 
comes to mind: 

“Of all the trades in England 
The beggat’s ts the best, 
For when a man is tired, he 
Can sit him down to rest.”’ 

[ 147] 


I leave the camp of the ‘“‘victims’ and come upon 
another camp of a different tribe, where industry is the 
word from early morn to dewy eve. It is only about 
twelve feet in circumference, but what a vast amount of 
work is going on! How they do toil and struggle, these 
little industrial workers of the ant world! What govern- 
ment, what wondrous social order and system prevails in 
the little miniature city under this whitewood tree! Ad- 
miring the labor and intelligence of these little creatures, | 
put my hand in my pocket to find some little relics of a 
picnic or rambler’s feast, but can find only a thimble full 
all told. But what a treasure! And I scatter it over the 
ground and see each particle carried away into the little 
subterranean storehouse. I can imagine the creatures re- 
joicing over the excellent prospect of a good harvest that 
such amazing bounty foreshadows. 

{ 148 ] 

The Passaic Falls Years Ago and Now 

HEN I came to this country and settled in Pater- 
son, the principal attraction to which we intro- 

Mo | Passaic Falls. “‘All right, Mr. So-and-So, but 
==! before you go away you must see our falls,” and 
we never omitted to let our friends see the wonderful 
cascade. Does anyone think of making a similar request 
nowadays? I went over the old scene about a week ago. 
Oh, how sad the experience was! The day was bright, 
and the sunlight fell with the old familiar glow on the old 
scenes, but what a difference after all. 

The descent into the valley of the rocks was along 
a shifting mass of city refuse; street sweepings that had 
been conveyed thither as to a dumping ground. You re- 
member, dear reader, the difference when you and I made 
the descent, say: about twenty years ago? You remem- 
ber the stony ledge, and the narrow path over which hung 
the saxifrage, and the festoons of mountain pinks, and 
the light green. foliage of the dicentra. “The old path 
today is buried in street scrapings, and the dicentra and 
the wild geranium know it no more. 

Fhe Cottage-on-the-Cliff, too, has gone, a few 
molding cellar walls only remain to tell where the once 
popular cafe stood. Asa prohibitionist, you will rejoice 
at its downfall; but its presence was a guarantee that the 
ground should be well kept, and if you did not care to 
patronize it, you had still the privilege of sitting under 
the trees in front, and listening to the waterfall, or join- 
ing in a conversation with some friend or neighbor who 
had come thither like yourself to spend an hour on a calm 
summer evening. But now the benches are gone, and 

[ 149 ] 


though the old trees remain, they no longer shelter the 
lovers and the aged beneath their shade. 

It was under these trees that I first heard the katydid. 
I had read of the interesting creature when I was a boy 
in England, and here I made its acquaintance. It was 
the first time that I was a listener to the old controversy 
as to whether ‘‘Katy’’ did or did not do. Some mys- 
terious thing that was attributed to her by one insect 
accuser, and as stoutly contradicted by another insect. In 
one of these trees it was asserted that ‘Katy did,’”’ and on 
another it was proclaimed that ‘Katy didn’t.” Since 
then I have listened to the controversy thousands of times, 
and it appears to be no nearer settlement now than it was 
when I first heard it under these old maple trees. 

That cottage had a charmed life. It seemed as if 
ill luck could never betide it. There were times even then 
when the city took on a spasm of reformation, and the 
cafes down below were restricted. The lid was put on 
very tightly when the Sabbath came around, but the 
cottage kept open every Sunday just the same. It was 
reported that the proprietor went on a Monday and paid 
the fine regularly. He made so much money, it was said, 
by his Sunday sales, that the fine of $11 or $12, was a 
flea-bite in comparison. So it was reported at that time, 
but I never gave myself the trouble to investigate. But 
there came a time when the prohibition was intense. 
Scores of other saloons, some of whose proprietors had 
been very defiant, decided on this occasion to shut down 
on the Sabbath day. But the cottage opened up on Sun- 
day just the same. The case came before the court, and 
the cottage won. Yes, it had indeed sold beer, but it was 
“Weiss’’ beer, and Weiss beer was just a degree below the 
alcoholic standard which beer should have to entitle it to 
rank as an intoxicating beverage. So Weiss beer was sold 

[ 150 ] 


every Sunday at the Cottage-on-the-Cliff, until the fit of 
reformation passed, and the beverage a little stronger could 
again take the old place. But the beer at the cottage 
always came so near Weiss beer in quality that it might 
almost have been regarded as a “‘soft’’ drink. It con- 
tained little alcohol and very little of anything else. It 
would have taken a fortune to get drunk on it, and the 
glasses, small as they were, were half filled with froth. 
In this way the proprietor did his best, consistent with his 
trade, to help along the efforts of the temperance re- 
formers. | 

There came a time when the Sunday concerts in the 
cottage became “‘sacred.’’ It became a custom at all the 
German beer gardens to hold ‘‘sacred concerts.’’ I at- 
tended one of these one Sunday evening at the cottage. 
The principal vocalist was a “‘lady’’ from New York. 
She came on the stage with her neck and shoulders bare 
and sang: 

If a body meet a body coming through the rye, 
If a body greet a body need a body cry? 
Every lassie has her laddie, 
None they say have I. 
_ But all the lads they love me weel 
And what the waur am I? 

And this was a sacred concert! 

Well, the “‘sacredness’’ of these concerts increased to 
such a pitch that the city could stand it no longer, and 
the municipality put down the lid tighter than ever. But, 
except when the “‘sacred’’ concerts were going, the cottage 
was a fairly good place, and scores who never thought of 
spending a nickel on drink elsewhere never scrupled to 
enter the cottage when visiting the falls. Respectable 

[151 ] 


German families would come thither on a Sunday after- 
noon, children and parents together, and friends would 
join them round the table, and rushing waiters would 
come and bring those glasses where the beer was about 
forty per cent., and the ‘‘schaum’’ sixty, and the good 
honest ‘Deutschen’? always seemed happy. And with 
such temperate beer there was little danger of suffering 
from “‘katzenjammer’’ on Monday morning. I am sorry 
the old place is gone. It was a spot where German and 
Briton knew no enmity. Faults there were, of course, 
but the prevalence of good international feeling seemed to 
cover them all. When the cottage was going, its cus- 
tomers came for the most part over the bridge that spans 
the chasm, but today an iron gate in the center forbids 
passage, and to get back to the city I must make a detour 
of several blocks. a 
But I am not yet ready to depart, so I retrace my 
steps to where the lower reservoir used to be. It is now 
as dry as the Sahara; thistles and weeds of every descrip- 
tion cover it, and blackberry brambles struggle for exist- 
ence amid rejected shoes and tomato cans. It is the 
abomination of desolation everywhere. I climb the bank 
and am glad to find that I can walk along the old parapet 
of the upper reservoir as I did twenty years ago. When 
I went back to England I took with me a photograph 
of the spot. ‘‘Bless me!’’ exclaimed Mrs. Marsh, of Bed- 
ford-Leigh, “chow it makes me think! Yes, our Jack and 
I used to go there on Sunday afternoon, and I remember 
how timid I was about going on the top of that wall, 
with the water on one side and the steep cliff on the 
other,’’ and as she gazed at the picture pleasant thoughts 
of Paterson, New Jersey, came again within her mind. 
The brave soldier stands as of old upon his pedestal. 

[ 152 ] 

tN OUNVANY SP Pe rips 

unaffected by the desolation all around. I once went to 
a Decoration day gathering in front of the monument.” 
The late Rev. Dr. Shaw addressed the multitude, and I 
remember how kind and gentle he was when speaking of 
the South. While condemning sedition, he urged his 
hearers all to remember the different ideals of civilization 
which the North and South had inherited from their re- 
spective ancestors. [he one from an aristocracy which 
taught the duty of obedience from the lower classes to 
their supposed superiors, and the other from a Puritan 
ancestry which taught that under God all men were equal, 
and that class distinctions had no divine claim or authority 
for their existence. In the termination of the Civil War 
it was the Puritan conception of civilization that 
triumphed, and the progress of mankind was appreciably 
promoted thereby. 

During the first year of my residence in America I 
used to go every Sunday afternoon to the Soldiers’ monu- 
ment, and I would look at the distant hills and wonder 
if I ever should become venturesome enough to visit such 
dangerous places, which I always supposed were infested 
by American brigands, as well as wildcats and rattlesnakes. 
One very hot day I laid myself down and fell asleep, and 
how thankful I was on awaking to find that I had not 
been murdered. Not only that, but I had not even been 
robbed, though scores of knife-carrying Yankees must 
have passed me as I lay upon the grass in helpless slumber. 
It was a silly notion, but I had formed it in England by 
reading accounts of the wild and dangerous West. What 
a blessing to me at that time such a society as the Rambling 
Club would have been. 

There was one change for the better that I must not 

*The monument alluded to is the Soldiers’ Monument now removed 
to Eastside Park. 

[ 153 ] Sec. 11 

COUN TRY @wene ks 

omit mentioning. Just above the falls there was an old 
cemetery, and like most of the burial places at that time, 
it was in a very neglected condition. On my recent visit 
I saw that it had been changed into a park, and though 
it did not show much in the way of flowers, it was pro- 
vided with benches, and people were resting there, and 
the old graveyard had taken on a new and cheerful ap- 
pearance. Here was one pleasant change at all events. 
The grass plots and the benches were far better than the 
old neglected graves, covered with weeds and thistles, and 
lying headstones that declared the dead below to be gone 
“but not forgotten,’’ when everything around showed 
that they had been forgotten for years and years. 

‘There is scarcely a drop of water going over the 
chasm. ‘The old lion’s head is still a prominent object on 
the side of the precipice. Thousands of eyes have seen 
it since the days when the Indians looked upon it, but it 
needs a little imagination to turn the brown sphinx-like 
object into a lion. The chasm, notwithstanding the 
absence of water, is very grand and interesting, but as the 
iron gate shuts off all further progress, I retrace my steps 
and find an exit around the old power house, now silent, 
where mechanical activity used to throb incessantly in 
years gone by. But the water that those old engines used 
to pump into the city conduits was a curiosity. The 
slaves of intemperance used to say that it was adulterated, 
but not adulterated enough, and they would turn to a 
brown liquid and abandon the yellow water in disgust. 
An old teetotaler friend from England once came to see 
me, and according to his custom he asked for a glass 
of water in whatever house he entered. When it was 
brought to him he always began praising it, and he did so 
even when the mulatto stuff from the Paterson hydrant 

[ 154 ] 


was handed to him. He still praised it, and expatiated 
on the benefit it would bring to the world if men would 
drink it instead of beer. The water was yellow as he 
caressed it, and the wonder was that it did not turn red 
at the thought of the unmerited laudation that he be- 
stowed upon it. Strange aquatic creatures would some- 
times find their way down those pipes; water shrimps 
were common, and sometimes a crawfish found its way 
into the wash-bowl, and once I was witness to the advent 
of a very lively black leech, a blood-sucker that was not 
satisfied with the sanguinary liquid he might get from the 
outside, but he wanted to sample the blood from the in- 
side. In those days no one thought of drinking the water 
in the dark, the feat was too dangerous. 

With the disappearance of the old waterworks and 
the passing away of the neglected graveyard there are two 
salutary changes that have taken place on the Passaic Falls, 
and my visit to the old scenes of days gone by has not 
been a sad one altogether. 

Since the above lines were written I have been to 
the falls again. It seemed a little more like it was in days 
of old, for the water was rushing again over the chasm, 
and the old stone lion in the center of the precipice seemed 
to be enjoying its shower bath. And though it could not 
roar itself, the falling waters supplied the deficiency, and 
the old familiar noise of the cascade seemed also to make 
one forget the unwelcome changes that had taken place 
since I heard the rattle of the aquatic musketry long years 

But it seems that while the agent of destruction has 
been at work in some place, the spirit of beauty has also 
been employed in an opposite direction. When the new 
electric motive power turns the force of the cascade into 
the channel of utility, fair Flora has come with her 

[ 155 ] 


treasure and beautified the once barren and repulsive rock. 
It was a modern Aladdin’s palace, and when every change 
was taken in consideration, the modern spirit seems to 
laugh in triumph over the departed phantom of the years 
gone by. 

[ 156 ] 

A Trip to High Mountain 

¢@ (@] HAVE just returned from a visit to the High 
(4%) Mountain. I went alone. A friend whom I 
had hoped would have been able to go with me 
discovered when we were on the point of start- 
ing out that he had a business engagement, and 
so your humble servant was obliged to go it alone. 
Happily, I am able to find a sort of companionship in 
buds, butterflies, and even in inanimate things, such as 
stones and flowers and trees. So that I was not lonely 
after all. 

The day was beautifully fine and the cooling breezes 
along the mountain side helped to relieve the ascent of the 
usual fatigue that accompanies it when one climbs the 
mountain in the dog days. 

It is hard for me to tell whether the present natural 
charms of the elevation or the delightful memories that 
cling to it constitute its greatest attraction. It will always 
be memorable as the place where the first outing of the 
Rambling Club took place. How wel! I remember the 
occasion! “The memory comes as a pleasant picture of 
happy faces of friends, many of whom have passed beyond 
the Great Divide. Some are with us still, and 

“Some have gone to lands far distant, 
And with strangers make their home.” 

William Buschmann was with us, and it was then 
that he suggested the beautiful words of ‘“The Ode of Wel- 
come,’ to the accompaniment of Haydn’s Emperor 
Hymn, and the words and the music have remained in- 
separable. [he music was composed to do honor to the 
Sovereign of Austria, but Francis Joseph himself could 

[157 ] 


have found no objection in hearing the glorious melody 
applied to a scene itself so glorious. 

I climbed the mountain by the woodland path which 
branches off from the Haledon Turnpike a few paces 
beyond the entrance to the old farm that has taken to it- 
self the name of “The Belvidere.” This is a classical age, 
and one cannot wonder even if an old Haledon farmstead 
should aspire to some sort of poetical embellishment, and 
one cannot criticize when the name is so appropriate as it 
is in this case, for the old white homestead on the hill- 
side, nestling among the trees, is certainly beautiful. 

The woodland path referred to almost tempts one 
to spend the day beneath its shade, so pleasant it is to 
rest awhile and watch the flickering shadows and the 
dancing sunbeams pass alternately over its sylvan floor. 
The buck-eye butterfly apparently has no desire for an- 
other place, and I watched several specimens flitting about 
from one flower to another. There mints and bergamot 
flowers, with here a taste of sweet fern and eglantine, fur- 
nish everything in the way of a banquet that the most epi- 
curean butterfly could desire. This one, the buck-eye, 
differs from all the rest of the ephemeral tribe. While 
others love the sunlight, he prefers the shade, and the 
entomologist knows just where to find him when the sun, 
as now, is fast nearing the zenith. 

Leaving the woodland shade I cross a fresh pasture 
where a young herdsman is minding some cows. I sit 
down beside him and try to enter into conversation: say 
that it is a fine morning, but this brings no response. 
“Schoener morgen” and “‘bella giornata’’ also fall on 
deaf ears, and when I speak of the magnificent canine be- 
side him, a nice dog, the youth says: “‘No,’”’ so I con- 
clude that he must belong to some nationality that my 
poor lingual powers cannot reach. When I mention the 

[ 158 J 


word, ‘‘Polish,”’ his face brightens up and he replies in the 
affirmative. One of the cows seems inclined to wander 
away, so he jumps up and leaves me to my own reflections. 

Crossing the meadow, I picked up a mushroom, the 
first I have seen this year. I never thought that they came 
out so soon, but here come two boys with tin cans hunt- 
ing for them, and I see that the lads are able to collect 
about a dozen of the delectable fungi before they leave the 

Now the path turns aside and enters again into the 
woodland. I pass through a patch of wild sunflowers, 
and their bright golden heads shine as if they were sent to 
illuminate the forest. As if in contrast here are an im- 
mense number of white everlasting flowers, perfect in 
every detail; no destructive fly or beetle has yet violated 
their immaculate petals. Where the forest trees open and 
let in a ray of sunlight, the mandrake grows in dense 
patches. This plant, so famous for its medicinal virtues, 
could only be found a few years ago along the roadside, 
but one day a stray specimen was seen at the foot of the 
mountain, and since then it has proceeded in one trium- 
phant march, climbing higher and higher every year. 

The progress of the mandrake has been intercepted, 
however, by an English flower that in some mysterious 
manner has found its way across the ocean, and like other 
English vegetable settlers, its impudence and obstrusive- 
ness are amazing. This plant, the viper’s bugler, has 
reached the mountain top. It fairly revels on the summit, 
and is fast crowding out the columbines, poor robin, 
plantain, the moss pink and other flowers that formerly 
flourished there. 

It may become a pest, as other importations have 
done, but its flowers are very pretty, and the butterflies and 
the bees have evidently taken a great delight in it, so that it 

[ 159 ] 


will probably repay the farmer by its honey for the barren 
sandy soil it seems to choose for its habitation. 

I never saw the butterflies so plentiful anywhere as 
{ find them today on the summit of this mountain. Here 
comes the tiger swallow tail, the frittilary, the painted 
lady, the admiral, the monarch, the American copper, and 
scores of others that one cannot stop to classify! 

The panorama has lost none of its charms. One 
sees the white smoke of Ridgewood rising like a thin 
column from the surrounding forest. Wyckoff, Worten- 
dyke and Ho-Ho-Kus just furnish a glimpse of their ele- 
gant homesteads, and where the long sketch of the Pali- 
sades grows faint to the vision, the town of Nyack seems 
to wave its little smoky handkerchief, as if it were bidding 
the beholder good-bye. 

A friend who is well acquainted with the topography 
informs me that the mountain is 876 feet above sea-level. 
It has a rare advantage as a point of observation, on 
account of its bare summit. Most of the New Jersey 
mountains are so crowded with trees at the top that the 
beholder can hardly get a chance to view the surrounding 

[ 160 ] 

A Ramble To Deep-Brook Glen 

EEP-BROOK GLEN! The name may inspire 
little emotion in the breast of the average Pater- 
sonian, because the place is but little known. It 
is not like Garret Mountain, or Rogers’ Wood, in 
this respect. The Ramblers have known and 
visited it for years, and its charms have been revealed at 
last to many lovers of Nature outside the Rambling Club. 

This want of popularity has been to a great extent 
an advantage. Man, may thirst for fame, but Sylvan 
Nature is a shy, retiring maiden who wants no intrusion 
on her solitude, and though the poet seems to pity the 
flower that ‘‘is born to blush unseen,’’ the flower itself 
may be supposed to rejoice in such a condition. 

These thoughts occupied the mind of one of the 
Paterson Ramblers last Sunday, as he wandered through 
the glen, and bemoaned the disappearance of the old wood- 
land favorites, which Flora had cherished and cultivated 
in this sequestered spot ever since the Red Man dwelt 
within the grove. The wintergreen plant, once so 
common here, is almost extinct, but very few specimens 
of the partridge vine were found, and the sight of only 
about three or four blossoms of the trailing arbutus re- 
warded the Rambler’s diligent search. The flower has 
become too famous. The poet, Whittier, loved it and 
sang its doubtful historical connection. The story from 
his pen of the rapture of the Pilgrim Fathers on finding it 
in the woods of New England is very charming, but it 
has been very detrimental to the plant itself. “he blossom 
has been pulled up by the roots until there has not been 
enough of it left to continue the species. 

The Puritan association is probably a poetic myth. 

[ 161 ] 

G.O;U NSTiREeYs Wr Asis 

The stern fathers had more serious work before them than 
the study of wild flowers. The problems associated with 
original sin, election and reprobation, and final persever- 
ance, were of far greater concern to them than botany or 

Of course every schoolboy knows the Whittier story, 
and wants to find the flower that the Pilgrim Fathers be- 
came enraptured over, and in this way the beautiful native 
American flower is fast becoming extinct. It grows so 
close to the earth that one can scarcely gather it without 
getting it up by the roots. A year ago, when the 
Ramblers were here, some fairly good specimens were seen: 
now, as the saying is, there is not enough left to swear by. 

The Puritans were not poetical. Milton forms the 
one grand exception that proves the rule, the rest were 
mere rhymsters. It was a very doleful and famishing 
pegasus that they bestrode, and if Whittier had left the 
fame of the Puritan Muse to rest on such sorry couplets as: 

“In Adam’s fall, 
We sinned all,’ 

it would have been better for the cause of truth, and cer- 
tainly far better for the poor trailing arbutus. 

The ramble to Deep-Brook Glen was a charming 
one, as most of the outings of the popular local society 
are, particularly when fortune favors us with such beauti- 
ful weather as we were blest with last Sunday. We took 
the car to North Paterson at 9:30, and enjoyed a pleasant 
ride through Prospect Park, and through the old village 
of Hawthorne, still famous for ‘‘its honest men and bonnie 
lassies,’’ though the old pioneers who operated the quaint 
old hand looms are for the most part under the sod. The 
glorious old elm tree in the midst of the village is still 

[ 162 ] 


standing, the Hawthorne woodman has evidently ‘‘touched 
not a single bough,” and the grass is as fresh today as if 
the smoke of a hundred factory chimneys in the nearby 
city were not darkening the blue Hawthorne sky. 

We left the car at North Paterson and passed through 
meadows watered by the sprightly little Goffle Brook, 
until we came to the beginning of the enchanting dell 
which goes by the name of Deep-Brook Glen. Here the 
Ramblers were met by Mr. Van Blarcom, who welcomed 
them and gave them full permission to wander over his 
own grounds, though, of course, he could not promise 
them access to the domain of his neighbors. 

There had been rumors of prohibition, and on reach- 
ing the most beautiful part of the ravine the Ramblers 
found that it had been fenced in with a wire railing. 
This prevented one from studying the ferns and the 
fiowers, but the birds and the butterflies could not be en- 
closed, and so the robins sang as before, the wood peewee 
warbled his pensive note, and the belted kingfisher 
screamed loud enough to give us the idea that we had 
come too near his chosen part of the brook, notwithstand- 
ing the prohibitive fence put up to protect him. 

In this way the Ramblers went on until the end of 
the ravine was reached. Here the woodland path gives 
place to the public highway. From this point the pano- 
rama is enchanting. Paterson lay in front of us with 
Passaic and Rutherford behind. Church spires and high 
towers succeeded each other until the high buildings of 
New York took up the position of the background to this 
beautiful picture, and completed the scene. The journey 
up to this point had been a continuous progress, and the 
Ramblers began to feel hungry and would have opened 
their lunch boxes, but for the thought that a kind 
invitation awaited them further on at the charm- 

[ 163 ] 


ing residence of Mr. and Mrs. John H. Bentley. Mr. 
Bentley, hearing that the club intended to visit Deep- 
Brook Glen, kindly sent an invitation to call at his house, 
and he would provide the members with coffee. A little 
rural thoroughfare which bore the name of Bentley Lane 
told the party which way to go. Following this charm- 
ing road bordered with verdure and begemmed with such 
sweet flowers as the sweet anemone and the claytonia, the 
party came to the Bentley residence, where the host and 
hostess kindly made them welcome. 

The Ramblers seated themselves on the lawn, opened 
their boxes and began their noonday repast. ‘The healthy 
appetite created by the morning walk disposed of every- 
thing in the way of eatables, and never were lunch boxes 
so depleted before. There was nothing left to feed the 
ants even, and if some poor feathered Lazarus had been 
waiting for crumbs it must have been awfully disap- 

When the meal was over, Mr. Bentley led the party 
over the grounds, and great was the astonishment at see- 
ing how every convenience of the city had been added to 
every rustic charm that nature could bestow There was 
a little electric plant which furnished illumination to the 
house, and this was run by a little gasoline engine, which 
the host, in a very interesting manner, exhibited to such 
of the members as were interested in machinery. Water 
is furnished to the house by an hydraulic ram, from a 
natural spring close by, and the force is so great that even 
the topmost story of the house is provided. It is a 
common tradition in the local textile craft that what a 
Bentley does not know is not worth knowing, and the 
extent to which the family is able to invade successfully 
provinces outside the textile domain was well illustrated 
to the Paterson Ramblers then. ‘The place was a wonder- 

[ 164 ] 


land of mechanical science, as well as a beautiful natural 

Before leaving, James Egan, the president of the 
club, called the members together and a hearty vote of 
thanks was given to their kind host and hostess. Joseph 
Rydings, in proposing the vote, mentioned the fact that 
his first ramble in this country had been taken in the 
company of John Bentley, and that the latter had really 
been the first to make him acquainted with Garret Moun- 
tain. Mr. Bentley recalled the event, some thirty years 
ago, when he and Mr. Rydings and John Evans climbed 
the mountain together. The motion was very ably 
seconded by Henry Davies and carried with great 

After bidding good-bye to their hospitable friends 
the members took to the road again, and walked through 
an old-fashioned part of the country that goes by the 
name of Sycamite. It was peaceful and charming and 
‘far from the maddening crowds’ ignoble strife.’’ Cherry 
trees, white with bloom, hung over the old-time gardens; 
sleek Jersey cattle waded contentedly through the swampy 
grass; the old oaken bucket hung over the ancient well; 
and the tired farm horse, enjoying his Sabbath repose, 
came to the gate as the Ramblers approached, and sub- 
mitted himself to be stroked and patted by the sym- 
pathetic visitor’s hand. 

The road terminated at the foot of the High Moun- 
tain, where the Ramblers took the turnpike to Haledon. 
Here the trolley car was just approaching from the city, 
and when it left a score or more of cheerful but tired 
Ramblers were among its passengers. 

[ 165 ] 




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Ramble To Squaw Brook Valley 

HE members of the Rambling Club met last Satur- 
day afternoon at the City Hall and took the 
trolley car to Haledon. From thence they pro- 
ceeded on foot along the beautiful Squaw Brook 
Valley and on to the old Sawmill Road at 
North Haledon. The walk through the budding trees 
and the verdant fields was very much enjoyed, and here 
and there some botanical member would stop and renew 
acquaintance with this or that old familiar flower, which 
the long cold winter for so many months had banished 
from its home. In this way Claytonia Virginica, better 
known as the spring beauty, was found and greeted once 
again. In the swampy pasture grew the charming yellow 
lily, which under the name of the dog’s-tooth violet shows 
to what extent a foolish misnomer may be disseminated. 
A society of budding naturalists in England once 
defined a lobster as a red fish that walks backward. 
Cuvier, the eminent naturalist, commenting on the defint- 
tion, averred that it might stand with one or two little 
amendments. In the first place, he said, a lobster was 
not a fish; in the second place, it was not red, and in the 
third place it did not walk backward. In like manner 
dog’s-tooth violet would be all right as a title for the 
little flower, only that it is not a violet but a lily, and 
has nothing about it at all resembling a dog’s tooth. 
Thoreau, the eminent naturalist of New England, was 
always disgusted with the misnomer, and he tried to get 
the flower known as the fawn lily, on account of its 
pretty green leaves, dappled with brown spots like the 
coat of a fallow deer, but it was no use; the name given 

[ 167 ] 


to the plant by its foolish sponsors stuck to it and re- 
mains with it to this day. 

When they approached near the Squaw Brook the 
attention of the Ramblers was attracted by the sweet 
fresh blossoms of the spice bush. The old herbalists 
prize it for its value as a fever medicine, but it has a little 
association with the war for American independence that 
should not be overlooked. The old patriotic house- 
Wives made its powdered berries to serve as spice when 
they wanted to season their cakes and puddings rather 
than employ the condiments of the store, on which a 
revenue tax had been laid for the benefit of Great Britain, 
and through subsequent generations the name of the spice 
bush has clung to this sweet vernal shrub, one of the very 
first to come into blossom when the early days of Spring 
arrive. The mourning cloak butterfly was out on the 
wing, and several of the early Spring birds were seen, 
notably the fox sparrow, which had passed the Winter 
in the South, and was on its way North to spend the 
Summer in its Canadian home. The fox sparrow is the 
largest and by far the handsomest of the sparrow tribe. 
The beautiful markings on its head and breast never fail 
to win admiration as the bird flits about among the way- 
side branches. The outing was much enjoyed, and being 
only a comparatively short distance from the city, some 
of the Ramblers who are not champion pedestrians were 
able to enjoy it. 

| eae 

[ 168 J 

How Joseph Rydings Spent 
a Rainy Day 

"| pieone rain, rain, and cold rain in the bargain! 
One really cannot go out on the hills or in the 
woods without running the risk of catching a cold 
or something even worse than that—though when 
the host at a German “‘Wirtschaft’’ yesterday told 
me that a man of my years should not venture out in such 
weather on account of the danger of catching cold, I re- 
plied that it was just such weather I selected usually for 
the sake of getting rid of a cold. The rule would apply 
today if the weather were dry, but by the time I got to 
the top of Garret Mountain, my overcoat, having reached 
its capacity for hydraulic absorption, would be dripping 
with water, and would be turned literally into a textile 

It is at such a time that our public library offers a 
magnificent retreat. It is a shelter from the storm. I 
have just taken refuge in the uppermost story, which is 
called the reference room, and with the enormous literary 
treasures on the shelves no man with a fair amount of in- 
telligence should fail to find himself ‘‘at home.’ Most 
certainly a naturalist should find here a congenial atmos- 
phere. Here are illustrated books on birds, on animals 
and plants, that mentally and visually “hold the mirror 
up to Nature’ in such a way that one with the greatest 
facility can recall the old rambles of the spring and sum- 
mer time. 

Here is a very rare acquaintance, Diaphormera 
femorato, but in the actual flesh I have only seen the lady 
once. It was a hot day in spring, and I lay outstretched 

[ 169 ] Secu Le 


on the grass in the meadow between the canal and the 
Delaware and Lackawanna line. All at once I saw that 
one of the blades of grass began to move. Of course I 
became all attention and watched the phenomenon closely. 
There was no doubt as to the locomotion, and when I 
examined the object again I saw that what I had taken 
for a blade of grass had really four legs, and was in fact 
an insect specially entitled to the jaw-breaking cognomen 
which I had written down, though it passes generally 
under the name of ‘‘the walking stick insect.’ It seems 
marvelous indeed that I should have noticed it, for as I 
continued to watch it the appearance of animated grass 
became even more intensified. It is a marvelous example 
of the quality of mimicry by which animals take on the 
appearance of the plants, or the stones on which they 
rest, and in this way elude the vigilance of their enemies 
on the lookout for them. 

Beside the life story of the ‘‘walking stick’’ the book 
before me has ‘“‘bugs’’ in great variety, but none so rare 
and none so interesting as Diaphormera. One day I 
found another interesting bug in the locality mentioned. 
I had seen it before in the same place. The day had been 
wet and the night set in before I could finish my ramble, 
so I took the shore of the old Morris Canal and walked 
on in the dark. But not altogether in the dark for a 
myriad of lights were burning. They were not the fire- 
flies for they kept to the ground, and evidently could not 
fly. I made an attempt to pick one up, but the creature, 
whatever it was, seemed to escape by its smallness, for I 
only picked up a few grains of sand each time I tried to 
catch the prey. When a boy, I had read of the glow- 
worm very often, and longed to see it. but our village 
had grown so fast in manufactures and forges that the 
modest glowworms had retired along with the fairies. I, 



therefore, had to come to-America to see it. Since then 
I have witnessed the same phenomenon again and again, 
but never anywhere except along the canal between Rich- 
field and South Paterson. 

From information subsequently gathered it seems 
that these little lights are love signals. The disconsolate 
chieftain in Moore’s ballad bewails: 

I looked for the lamp that she told me, 
Should shine when her pilgrim returned, 
But, though darkness began to enfold me, 
No light from the battlement burned. 

But here are a thousand lights brightly burning 
from a thousand small battlements, and the ardent insect 
lover need not despair of finding his lady love at home. 
In Cowper’s poem there is a philosophic glow-worm that 
preaches a charming little sermon to a nightingale. ‘The 
bird was about to devour the “‘bug,’”’ but the discourse 
affected him and the story ends by saying that the bird 
turned away and ‘‘found a supper somewhere else.” 

The rain is storming the windows like a battery, but 
by this time I have become oblivious, for I am now 
among the birds. Here and there are pictures almost life- 
like. There is the Baltimore oriole in its hanging nest 
surrounded with the young fruit of the apple tree, and 
here is the Maryland yellow throat, so natural that it 
almost seems as if I should hear his ‘‘whichity, whichity, 
whichity”’ if I would put my ear close to the book. I 
recall the little minstrel as I heard him in the woods with 
the Ramblers on Hoven Kopf. There, too, is the chicka- 
dee, as neighborly as when in reality he approached at 
the sound of my whistle, when Bob Howe and I found 
him digging the hole in the birch tree on Garret Rock. 



Here, too, is the yellow warbler, a good picture and 
a worthy representation of the patient, industrious yellow 
warbler that I saw feeding a young song sparrow, that, 
by some misfortune had been left an orphan. How the 
good little foster mother did struggle to find grubs enough 
to satisfy that hungry little orphan! It was the place 
where Seventeenth Avenue crosses Vreeland Avenue, but 
I think the hedge that gave shelter to the young song 
sparrow has since been taken away. 

The bird illustrations are not confined to the book. 
They ornament the shelves as well. Here is the red- 
headed woodpecker, the little rascal that gives the telegraph 
company so much trouble by digging in the telegraph 
posts with his sharp bill. The wires overhead hum with 
the wind and communicate a certain vibration to the poles, 
and the bird, imagining the noise to be made by insects, 
tries to get them for his dinner and in this way he gets 

The flowers are gone. Even the lone dandelion 
blossom must shiver under the cold rain and snow, but 
these illustrations almost make them grow again, and we 
see the entire floral train, from the marsh marigold, which 
adorns the swamps in April, to the yellow blossoms of 
the witch hazel, which light up the woods when October 
is about to depart. 

American flowers, of course, predominate, but here 
is the precious “‘herball,’’ of good old Herbalin Gerard. 
The book is very rare indeed, and probably not another 
of its kind could be found if we searched all the old book 
stores of New Jersey. 

It contains an account of the flowers and herbs of 
Great Britain, together with their medicinal virtues. 
Handle it reverently, for the volume is almost sacred. It 
was “‘imprinted’”’ in London, in 1633. It is dedicated to 



Edward Cooke in the first place, but such an honor was 
not allowed to rest on one man, and so there are 
several other dedications. Most of them were eminent 
“chirurgions.”’ Here I must pause while I go downstairs 
and look at Webster’s unabridged. ‘‘Chirurgions, a sur- 
geon.’ Well, why did the book not say this before? 
It is pronounced kirurgeon. Well, my dear reader, if 
you should need assistance, don’t go to a doctor or a 
common physician if you have the money, but find out 
some honorable and dignified chirurgeon. By the way, 
how these eminent chirurgeons would stare if they could 
come back and see our subsequent medical and surgical 
wonders. Great and mighty were they in their day, but 
knew nothing of the Roengen rays and were even ignorant 
of the circulation of the blood. It is curious to read 
some of the cures prescribed in this old “‘herball.’’ Colic 
is to be healed by the dried plants of hyacinth, ground 
into “‘pouder’’ and mixed with goat’s milk or asses’ milk. 

Cuckoo pint, which is our jack-in-the-pulpit under 
an old English name, is good for gout. It would take 
up much space to tell of all the “‘vertues’’ of these plants. 
The book is precious, and for fear that something might 
happen to it I close the venerable old volume, and hand 
it back carefully to the lady in attendance, but do not 
feel at all comfortable until it has once more been put 
under lock and key and I am relieved of all responsibility. 
What one may call the odor of antiquity seems to hang 
around the ancient book as if the thousands of readers 
who had perused it, since it was first ‘imprinted’ in 1633 
had used some of these old English herbs for book- 
markers, and each herb had added a little of its fragrance. 

The other books carried me in fancy to our New 
Jersey hills, but the mental flight started by this volume 
has been much longer. I have trodden the woods and 

[173 ] 


pastures of Lancashire before Liverpool and Manchester 
were known. I have walked along the fair Avon of 
Warwickshire and in fancy have watched Shakespeare 
bend down to gather the ‘‘daisies pied and violets blue,”’ 
and beheld him take note of the flowers that formed the 
fantastic garland of poor demented Ophelia. Peace to 
the memory of John Gerard and his interesting old 
“‘herball.’’ It has enabled me to spend a pleasant hour 
in the reference room, and allowed me to forget the sleet 
and snow except when I have turned my gaze towards 
the window. 

[ 174] 

Beauties of the Ramapos 

A |S I begin to write this article the objects which 
R| come within my natural vision are a table in the 
Public Library, walls lined with all sorts of in- 
teresting periodicals, windows which show the 
tops of Broadway dwellings and maple trees 
growing along the city streets; but if I close my eyes a 
little what a different vision comes up before me! I am 
instantly transported to the mountains which stand guard 
around Suffern like so many sentinels, and my feet almost 
feel as if they were treading the green herbage along the 
bank of the beautiful Ramapo. There is the Torn 
Mountain in front of me, the great Chieftain of the Rock- 
land range, and the Hoven Kopf lies beneath my feet. 1 
am mentally once more with the Ramblers, as I was 
bodily with them last Sunday and we had a glorious time. 

Hoven Kopf is the banner ramble of this peripatetic 
institution. Other rambles have given pleasure, but some, 
at times, have led to a little disappointment; but Hoven 
Kopf is like the proverbial hen, ‘‘it never laid away.” It 
never failed to yield to expectation the fullest measure of 
gratification ‘“‘pressed down and running over.” 

By the way, a friend informs me that the true title 
is Hogan Kopf, but the Rambling Club will admit of no 
alteration. It has been Hoven Kopf to them ever since the 
day their footsteps first trod upon its verdant slopes, and 
no matter what my archeological friend may say, such shall 
remain. He has left my presence within the last five or 
six weeks, and I am not obliged to submit now to his 
authority. In the sweetness of rebellion I raise my per- 
sonal banner, and have inscribed thereon Hoven Kopf. 
I deferred to him upon everything else. In aboriginal 

[175 ] 

CO UINFDRaveawWiationss 

lore I sung small, very small indeed: in all that concerned 
music I did not even raise a little finger in protest, even 
when he put the great Italian masters upon a level with 
little boys blowing tin horns. 

I placidly acquiesced when he declared that Wagner 
and all other German musicians stood head and shoulders 
above Verdi and the rest of “‘dago musicians.’ All this 
may be true, but while I can raise the faintest voice in 
protest the glorious mountain where the Ramblers spent 
last Sunday shall never be insulted by the name of Hogan 
Kopf. It is altogether too unpoetical. altogether too 
suggestive of Hogan’s Alley. 

The Ramblers left Paterson about 10 o’clock. Some 
went by train, but others preferred the slower, but more 
picturesque, method of going by the trolley of the new 
Ridgewood line. ‘‘What is so rare as a day in June?”’ 
Often enough the inquiry becomes a farce, but last Sun- 
day one felt like quoting the poem to its full extent. 

What so rare as a day in June? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days. 
Nature, to find the world attune, 

Close to the earth her warm ear lays. 

The walk up the mountains from Hillsdale was 
everything that the lover of nature could desire. Such 
melodious birds, such charming butterflies and such rare 
plants and flowers. There was the pale blue Veronica. 
The Catholic rambler may pick it and think in pious 
remembrance of the saint whose name it bears. The 
flower is small, an optical instrument is needed to count 
the stamens, but by sacred legend consecrated to the last 
sad but momentous ascent of the suffering Redeemer up 
Calvary. It is well to study the plants, to interest one- 

[176 ] 


self at times in the names that they bear, in the way this 
little blossom, for example, gains in poetic significance, 
and for example on this glorious Sunday morning, in these 
groves which are God’s own temples, we pluck this little 
pale blossom and add to our knowledge of biology a little 
of Christian tradition, which for hundreds of years has 
interested and edified the faithful of every land and clime. 

The old Puritans, who would have nothing to do 
with Rome or its traditions, called the flower by the name 
of the Speedwell. In this way, although Catholic associa- 
tion loses a little by the change of name, the Speed- 
well brings the Pilgrim Fathers before us. and we are re- 
minded of the ship which took the Pilgrims from Holland 
before their final departure on board the Mayflower. 
The road was steep, and if traveled alone the journey 
might have been a little tiresome, but what with the 
flowers and the birds and the cheerful fellowship of the 
Ramblers, the labor of climbing seemed to disappear as if 
by magic. 

Everyone felt by anticipation the pleasure of the 
greeting that Mr. and Mrs. Wheaton would extend to all 
when their charming little cottage should be reached, and 
everyone plodded on, over bank, bush and scar, just as 
did young Lochinvar in Scott’s thrilling lines. Mrs. 
Wheaton provided coffee for her guests, and in her in- 
teresting garden each Rambler selected his or her table. 
The soft grass by some was chosen and by others the 
rough, hard, stony ribs of the primeval granite were given 
the preference. The place was both rocky and arable, 
and where the soil afforded sustenance every sort of flower 
seemed to grow. It was a vegetable paradise. It seemed 
as if every land which had fought against another had 
sent to this spot its floral emblem. The royal lilies of 
France grew side by side with the roses of England. ‘The 



English gooseberry and the Japanese quince knew no 
rivalry, and the American vine in its chosen bower seemed 
like the peaceful owners themselves to offer a welcome to 
all. Liberty seemed the horticultural keynote. Wild 
and cultivated flowers grew together. If the wild flowers 
took a fancy to live in the garden, all right, and if the 
garden flower seemed inclined to go beyond its customary 
haunts it was at liberty to do so. There was no restric- 
tion except in the case of obnoxious weeds, and these were 
not in evidence. 

On a tree a few yards beyond the garden a brown 
thrasher was singing. Few inhabitants of New Jersey 
are aware of the marvelous vocal talent so to speak of this 
wonderful minstrel. It is a mocking bird scarcely sur- 
passed by any of the mocking birds that are found in 
the South. The Ramblers’ attention was drawn to the 
little vocalist and the wonderful mimicry of the little ven- 
triloquist was very much admired. It seemed to have a 
hundred songs but no two were alike. The bird, how- 
ever, was not singing for the Rambling Club, and after 
noticing that its minstrelsy was causing too much atten- 
tion it took flight to another tree farther away. 

Where bird and insect sang it was natural that the 
visitors should unite their voices, and so the old melodies 
of the Club were brought out and everyone joined in. 
The song composed by Philmer Eves set one thinking of 
the Club’s original founder now so many miles away. 
How he would have enjoyed the scene! How delighted 
he would have been to know Mr. and Mrs. Wheaton! 
Everything was charming, but— 

“Oh for the touch of a vanished hand 
And a word from the voice that is still!’ 

It took the company a long time to leave the spot, 

[178 ] 


which seemed like a bit of Paradise accidentally fallen to 
earth and, as Juliet said, “Parting were such sweet 
sorrow,” but there remained still a great part of the 
mountain to climb. So the leaders met together and led 
the way. The path led over a little rustic bridge made 
of unhewn logs nailed together. There was just a little 
chance that one might topple over, but the stream was 
not deep, and the bed of water fern, forget-me-nots, 
sweet flag and mint ready to receive one seemed to rob 
such an accident of its terrors. 

The rest of the journey was passed in going through 
a perfect grove of laurel. The shrubs were in full flower, 
many parts of the mountains were fairly aglow with their 
most exquisite blossom. Arriving at the summit some of 
Ramblers climbed the curious wooden construction which 
leads to the top of the huge boulder. Other Ramblers 
were content to remain at the base and view the landscape 
from that spot, as the clear day afforded an excellent 

The hills around Paterson were clearly discernible. 
Garret Rock was distinguished by the little bit of square 
structure about the size of a domino, but easily recognized 
through the glass as Lambert's tower. A big prom- 
ontory came near shutting off the view of Garret Rock 
and this was the hill above Hawthorne, where the Goffle 
range comes to a termination. AQ little nearer was our 
old friend the High Mountain, but not appearing very 
high from this viewpoint. Strange to say not near so 
high as Beech Mountain close beside it. “The wooded 
slopes of Beech Mountain were seen to perfection, and one 
sent a silent greeting to dear Mr. and Mrs. Fleming, whose 
hospitable home the Ramblers knew lay behind the Beech 

Leaving the summit after a stay of an hour or so 

[179 ] 


the Ramblers began to descend. The road was rough 
and as first one and then another seemed about to fall, 
a burst of laughter would issue from the throng, for every- 
one had put care aside, no mere barking of the skin would 
suffice to make one unhappy. Only a broken limb or a 
fractured skull would be sufficient to spoil the pleasures of 
such a glorious day. 

[ 180 ] 

The Charms of Cherry Hill 

F a map were to be found of the city and its sur- 
roundings as they were in our great-grandfathers’ 
days, it is probable that we should find a great 
change in the nomenclature of the local districts. 
How few could direct one today to Cherry Hill, 
for instance! How many are there who know. that 
such a place as Rochdale ever existed within four miles 
of Paterson? How many Englishmen know now that 
at one time the town of Oldham could be reached by a 
walk of three miles from the center of our city? ‘This is 
the way in which our local place-names change. It is my 
intention in this article to write on Cherry Hill, but very 
few people of Paterson today would be able to find its 
location from the proverbial oldest inhabitants. And 
yet the place is known: a part of Cedar Lawn cemetery 
once belonged to it, though there was no cemetery there at 
the time. The pedestrian of the past began to climb 
Cherry Hill when he ascended the elevated part of what 1s 
now Cedar Lawn, and the name then covered the district 
now lying behind the cemetery and extended to what is 
now Trenton Avenue. The old people of the past spoke 
of it as Cherry Hill, and the name is still applied occa- 
sionally, even by the younger generation, who have been 
reared in that locality. I can look at it from my window, 
for the morning sun always greets me over the top of 
Cherry Hill, and the darkening shadows at nightfall pro- 
claim to me the closing of another day on the same 

In thinking how the name may have originated, I 
am led to conclude that the numerous wild cherry trees 
that once grew there would naturally suggest the appella- 

[ 181 ] 

Cow N TRY Wen 

tion. I remember that I once went with a Swiss friend 
to gather wild cherries for his wine press; we went over 
the ground and in a very short time he filled a sack with 
wild cherries. The trees afterward were cut down or 
broken to pieces by cherry pickers, but for years it was a 
famous resort for those who went out to gather the rich 
but strong fruit of the wild cherry tree. 

Cherry Hill is becoming “‘improved.’’ Some land 
speculators have laid out several streets at its eastern base, 
with miles of concrete sidewalks, and the city has drained 
the swampy land by constructing a big sewer from Crooks 
Avenue to Market Street. This sewer has removed the last 
vestige of the old lake that formerly existed there, and 
gave to the neighborhood the name of Lakeview. It is this 
latest improvement that has been the source of great 
trouble to a couple of sandpipers which can be seen flying 
over the ground now in great distress, looking for the lake, 
and being unable to find even the small pools which re- 
mained after the lake had vanished. They cry almost 
like frightened children as they wing their way hither and 
thither. The land has become too dry for them. Cherry 
Hill has become unsuitable for sandpipers. The birds 
have come there every year, generation after generation, 
but probably the two who are to be seen there now will 
prove to be the last of the sandpiper family to inhabit the 
place, and the tribe must be continued by resorting to some 
district where land improvers are not seen, and where 
these birds, along with the bullfrogs and the turtles, can 
pass their lives in aquatic felicity. The bullfrogs disap- 
peared long ago, they went with the lake, but the sand- 
pipers kept putting up with the change, and came every 
year to enjoy the little pools that remained after the lake 
itself had disappeared. The lives of the remaining two 
are miserable. Sometimes the birds are found on the 

[ 182 ] 


ground as if they were selecting a spot to build their nest, 
but at the approach of a human being off they fly with a 
most distressful scream to search for a homesite some 
place else. 

The last of a tribe is always interesting, whether it be 
the “Last Minstrel’ of Sir Walter Scott, or Cooper’s ‘‘Last 
of the Mohicans,’’ and some poetic bird lover might find a 
congenial theme in the last of the sandpipers of old Cherry 

The birds are pretty, and it is amazing how fast they 
can walk along the grass. Their wings are long, so that in 
the air they might easily be mistaken for pigeons, although 
the body of the bird is scarcely larger than that of a 
sparrow. Poor sandpipers! The drained land, the 
cemented sidewalks, the absence of pool and brooklet, 
distress them most pitifully. They will probably not be 
found here again after the present season. 

The improvers, however, have not carried away 
every bit'of streamlet from the neighborhood. The little 
brooklet still runs near Trenton Avenue, and though most 
of the trees have been chopped down that fringed its 
banks, there are sufficient still remaining to serve the re- 
quirements of the robins and other birds who find their 
pleasure independent of semi-submerged land. Several 
weeks ago I became interested in a little drama enacted by 
a couple of red-headed woodpeckers and a male wood- 
pecker who strove to outrival the bird who ultimately be- 
came the successful suitor in the little bird drama on this 
little woodland stage. It was amusing to see Juliet’s evi- 
dent delight in keeping both rivals ‘‘on the string.’’ She 
would fly and pretend to be in doubt as to whether she 
should take Romeo or the rival. The wooing lasted a 
week, and Romeo would no sooner appear on the tree 
where Juliet was than the rival would appear also. The 

[ 183 ] 


suit was most ardent, but finally the rival must have given 
up in disgust, for at last Juliet made her selection, and the 
grove saw no more of Romeo’s rival. What became of 
him, I wonder? Did he find ‘‘other fishes in the sea’”’ 
every bit as attractive as Juliet, or did he mope in despair 
and commit suicide like the tomtit in the ‘“‘Mikado’’? 
Anyhow, the rival disappeared, and Romeo and Juliet 
were left alone. Since then Romeo’s affection seems to 
have moderated just a little. Juliet and he may now be 
seen at times on separate trees, though undoubtedly they 
are still happy in each other’s presence, and no doubt, in 
some round hole in the trunk of ash or maple which 
Romeo’s sharp bill has made, a little house will be made 
and a family of young woodpeckers reared to bless the 
lives of the ‘“‘high holder’ from Cherry Hill and his sweet 
little wife. 

It would be well for the two sandpipers if their 
domestic life could wind up half so happily. This morn- 
ing I saw them again, still screaming and still searching 
for the lake that will never return, the lost paradise that 
will be their’s no more. What is left of the once beautiful 
neighborhood has given itself up to speculators! Every 
Sunday there are land sales, and on the barren lots where 
scanty grass still grows, visionary buyers see visions of 
houses and factories, stores and warehouses arising. One 
Italian dealer the other day was trying to convince a pros+ 
pective purchaser that in a few years Wabash Avenue 
would be the principal thoroughfare in Paterson! He 
founded his claim on that fact that if a line were strung 
from Passaic to Paterson it would pass along Wabash 
Avenue and not Main Street. The prospective customer, 
however, did not buy, and the avenue still remains unin- 
habited except by the tenants of about thirty houses. 

The flowers that bloom on Cherry Hill are charm- 

[ 184 ] 


ing. This spring the ground was begemmed with bluets, 
violets, speedwell, and in a month it will be aflame with 
the black-eyed-susan blossoms. The place is a part of 
Paterson, and it would seem to be an ideal spot for a 
school teacher and her pupils out for a ramble or a picnic. 
It can be reached by the White Line or the Cedar Lawn 
car, but advantage should be taken before the improvers 
have got hold of it and cut down its trees, turned its rural 
footpaths into cemented sidewalks and removed every 
vestige of the natural beauty that still clings to it and gives 
it the title of Cherry Hill; for when poor, humble Wabash 
Avenue has become ambitious and has developed into the 
principal street of Paterson, what will become of Cherry 


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Ramblers At Green Pond 

HE Rambling Club spent Sunday at Green Pond. 
Of course they were enchanted. Everybody with 
one grain of sentiment or with only an infinitesi- 
mal love of nature could not fail in this respect. 
As Artemus Ward said of Niagara: “It is a 
success’; ““Ihe place is what a poetic Italian would call 
a ‘paradiso.’”’ Several had been there before, but to the 
writer it was a ‘‘new found land.” 

I, with about a dozen more, left Paterson on the 
milk train at 4 a.m. It required a tremendous effort to 
shake off dull sloth before the earliest robin had begun to 
clear his throat, and before the family tomcat on the 
garden wall had even thought of bidding his lady-love 
good-bye, but the feat was accomplished and the reward 
Was great. 

Soon after 4 we were steaming out of Broadway 
station. To our astonishment there were two ladies wait- 
ing for the train. Militant suffragists they might have 
been when one reflected on the amount of militancy called 
into play to deal with Old Morpheus at an hour so early, 
but, no, a more tender influence had guided one of them, 
for, with a very sympathetic auditor waiting at the New- 
foundland station, she took the road a little ahead of the 
Ramblers, and the latter, remembering that two are com- 
pany, etc., kept a pace or two behind. 

The dew was still on the mountain flowers as we 
began to climb the hill. Flowers seldom seen by any but 
an enthusiastic botanist were there to be found. There 
was the Philadelphia lily to be seen here and there, its 
brilliant petals apparently trying to outshine the sun itself. 
The birds were singing, all but the drowsy woodpecker, 

[ 187 ] 


who found more profitable occupation in beating the 
hollow trees for insects, or in digging the foundation of 
his nest in the elm tree before he invited the lady of his 
choice to come in and share his lot. 

We begin to feel tired and are almost inclined to 
‘cuss’ when a finger-post informs us that we have only 
come two miles, and that another mile must be accom- 
plished before we get to Green Pond. Those New Jersey 
finger-posts! I have seen them before. Well, about the 
judgment day, when men begin to consider that common 
veracity should have a little regard paid to it, there may 
arise a Jersey topographer who will duly measure the dis- 
tance and set up a finger-post that will tell the truth, 
and nothing but the truth. We reach the lake at last 
and find ourselves warmly welcomed within the hos- 
pitable confines of ‘“The Beeches,” where our excellent 
hostess, Mrs. Davies, and her household have prepared 
a most appetizing breakfast for us. We soon forget 
all the troubles of the morning, the steep ascent of the 
road, the lying finger-post, the struggle with Morpheus 
and everything else. The members made various plans 
for the morning, but as for me I decided to stretch my- 
self out under one of those ancient pine trees, and for- 
get all the trouble of the world as I gazed on the glorious 
lake which now begins to reflect the rays of the morning 
sun. How tame the wild birds are? Here is a little red- 
Start, that forages for insects in the branch above me, and 
returns to the naked twig after catching a fly at least 
twenty times before it takes flight elsewhere. That little 
indigo bunting in the next tree might have known me all 
its life. A blue swallow-tail butterfly comes repeatedly 
to within a few inches of the water; sips a little morsel 
from the liquid that has percolated through the fine grains 
of sand, and then flies away, only to return again and 

[ 188 ] 


repeat the same action. A song-sparrow comes to take a 
little shower bath, and as the extremity of each wave ap- 
proaches the limit, the bird steps in and shakes the crystal 
drops all over its plumage. It has not had enough, so it 
allows itself to be drenched when the next wave comes, 
and emerges shaking its wet feathers and begins to dry 
and arrange its plumage on the sand. But, it must be 
bathing time for the entire feathered tribe. There comes 
a robin for a dip, then a catbird, then a wood-pewee. 
Strange that the birds do not seem to disturb the blue 
swallow-tail butterfly. It has never left the strand since 
I came here. 

By this time several of my friends of the Rambling 
Club have gone in bathing. How comical some of them 
look in those unfamiliar habiliments, so different from the 
demure robes that gave them dignity in the meetings of 
the Rambling Club. No, dear President and Vice-Presi- 
dent, you might hammer the table and call to order for 
an hour, but :no obedience would follow if you dressed as 
you do now. All the wise reflections of old Teufelsdrach 
come to mind, when the philosopher contemplates the 
vision of a judge and jury, dispensing justice without 
clothes. “‘My dear fellow, dress does certainly make a 
difference,’ as Bob Acres said when he saw in the mirror 
his reflection, all rigged out for the county ball. Some of 
the ladies swim well, and the waters of the lake have no 
more terrors for them than the sea has for a dolphin, but 
one or two have not practiced much, and one lady has 
brought not only her bathing suit but her inflated ‘‘wings’’ 
as well, a mode of learning to swim that must have been in 
vogue when Shakespeare was alive. 

“T have ventured like little wanton boys, that swim 
on bladders, these many summets in a sea of glory.”” The 
writer did not tempt Providence by venturing in the 

[ 189 ] 


depths. All my swimming is done by proxy. I found 
a safer occupation in picking huckleberries, but soon got 
tired of this. The berries seemed plentiful enough in the 
grove near by, but what a long time it would take me to 
fill even this tomato can, so slowly did the tiny spheres, 
when dropped in the receptacle one by one, take up the 
vacant space. ‘The game is too slow, and life is too short. 

I was taken to see the bungalows of several of my 
fellow citizens, which places were distinguished by such 
titles as ‘“The Lazy Hour,” ‘The Tramp’s Hang-out,”’ 
‘The Hobo’s Paradise,” or titles of a similar nature, as 
far as I remember. 

About half-past 1 the rest of the Ramblers arrived, 
who had traveled in the automobile wagon. ‘These 
crowded into ‘“The Beeches’? and would have put their 
capacity for hospitality to a severe strain, had it not been 
so marvelously elastic. However, unlike the lady who 
lived in a shoe, Mrs. Davis was not dismayed at the num- 
ber of her “‘children,’”’ but seemed to become happier as 
each new contingent arrived. It meant a little more 
work, but with her own brave sons and daughters ready 
to roll up their sleeves and buckle in, the labor of enter- 
taining was made easier. 

After eating their lunch the new arrivals set them- 
selves to enjoy the pleasures of the lake as the others had 
done. Some set out for a walk along the shore; some 
went sailing on the lake, and some engaged as passengers 
on the little steamer that makes a circuit of the beautiful 
pond, and time passed pleasantly away. Ata given time 
in the afternoon all outdoor sports were stopped. It was 
then that divine service began at the little chapel near the 
beach. Service is held every Sunday during the summer 
months, and the pulpit is supplied by various ministers of 
different creeds, all in harmony with each other. How 

[ 190 ] 


could it be otherwise in a scene where God has made 
the earth so beautiful and harmonious? How badly the 
natrow spirit of bigotry would accord in such a place! 
If men are inclined to damn each other for differences of 
theological opinion, let them do it, but not here. Let 
them seek some narrow, badly ventilated conventicle in 
some dark city street. But here, where everything is so 
peaceful, let no narrow sectarianism be found. 

The approach to ‘“The Beeches’ and on to the hotel 
is for foot passengers only, but sometimes an automobile 
driver would come on the scene and try to reach the hotel 
in spite of the various obstacles in the way. One poor 
fellow attempted it and was stuck in the sand for one 
hour. He excited one’s pity as he tried to extricate his 
machine from the sandy prison in which he had driven it. 
In a similar way Alice and the carpenter had been dis- 
mayed at the prevalence of sand on their walk along the 
sea beach, and the sandy beach at Green Pond was a source 
of similar discomfiture to this unlucky automobilist. 

“If seven maids with seven brooms, 
Swept it for half a year, 

Do you believe,” the walrus sard, 
“That they could get it clear?” 

“I doubt it,’’ said the carpenter, 
And shed a bitter tear. 

The driver and his machine finally extricated them- 
selves, but not until the tires were torn and rendered 
“caput’’ as the Germans call it. 

About 5 o'clock the Rambling Club started off on 
their homeward way. Some even of those who had not 
come by motor truck went back to the station by that 
machine, just to try it. Considering how steep the road 



was the vehicle traveled finely, but in the very nature of 
things it lurched a little at times, but no one was really 
frightened, although some of the ladies pretended to be. 
But the strongest were glad when the downward slide had 
been passed and the machine was rolling on level ground 
once more. We left Newfoundland as the sun began to 
set, coming by various trains as suited each member's 
pleasure or convenience, after the motor truck, with the 
bulk of the Ramblers, had gone on the road home. 

The outing had been most delightful, and amid the 
hum and bustle of daily life and employment many will 
enjoy the charming recollections of Green Pond. And 
the beauty of ‘‘The Beeches,” embosomed in its grove of 
Sweet pepper bush and buttonbal] shrubs, will remain 
among the pleasantest memories of the Rambling Club. 

[ 192 ] 

Another Old Paterson Landmark 
To Go 

RT_| EGOTIATIONS are pending for the purchase by 
Al;| the city of the old factory belonging to John 
Jones, on Oak Street. It abuts on the cemetery 
that is now being turned into a public park, and 
the park commissioners think they could round 
out the property to better advantage if the factory and 
the residence of Mr. Jones were bought and pulled down. 

In writing this article I have no commercial interest 
either way. The place is full of pleasant personal remi- 
niscences to me, but they do not add as much as two 
inches of land would add to the commercial value of the 
place. If the factory should disappear, and there is no 
reason why it should not, as Mr. Jones is a conscientious 
and fair dealer—at least I always found him so—and 
though corporations are not supposed to have souls, the 
Paterson Municipal Corporation is an exception to the 
rule, and would not wish to deprive any owner of fair 
compensation when the necessity arose for taking the 
property for public purposes. 

Therefore, the end of the old factory may be con- 
sidered as in sight. Another old Paterson landmark will 
probably soon pass away. 

I have worked there, sometimes at warp binding for 
Mr. Jones, and sometimes at weaving a little on my own 
account, and Mr. Jones would very kindly instruct me in 
either process. He put me through all the intricacies of 
warp binding, showed me how to find the place for a miss- 
ing thread when the binder came to be woven, and no 
thread was permitted to be absent, if Mr. Jones could have 
his way. He took great pride in having his work perfect. 

[ 193 ] 

CO UNI RYoewWsA Los 

“Go slow if you will, but by all means make the 
work good,’’ was his invariable rule. Many a time have 
we rolled a warp back for seven or eight yards in order to 
find the place where a thread had broken, so that we could 
piece another one to it until the missing thread itself began 
to appear upon the beam. 

His work was in great demand and would be today 
if the rushing, slipshod mode of manufacturing had not 
taken the place of steady and conscientious production. 

He manufactured on commission, and was com- 
petent to do so, for I have often said that, as an all-round 
textile expert, no person I knew could approach Mr. Jones. 
He could handle silk, cotton, wool, linen, and even ramie 
with equal facility and produce what was called for, 
whether it was a coarse woolen blanket or a fine silk 
grenadine. He taught me how to tie woolen warps in- 
stead of twisting them when a warp was finished, and it 
became necessary to put a fresh one in the loom. It was 
a tedious process to learn, but my instructor was insistent 
and would not let me deviate from the old serviceable 
method of tying in by one hairs-breadth. 

I was working there when the first colony of English 
starlings came to Paterson. One of the first of the nests 
they built was in an empty knot hole in the wall of the 
factory. My friend, Jones, and I were equally interested. 
For a time we could not tell what the newcomers were, 
but after watching them come and go and studying their 
habits we both recognized them as our old English bird 
neighbors, who had dwelt with us in the cottages beyond 
the sea. We boys in Lancashire called them shepsters, and 
the name originated probably from a habit they had of 
alighting on the back of sheep in nesting time and pluck- 
ing therefrom a little wool wherewith to line the nest of 

[ 194 ] 


grass or straw with a softer and warmer substance than 
the articles mentioned could afford. 

The first pair built its nest, reared its young, taught 
the latter to fly, sent them out in the world and then the 
parent birds began at once to prepare for another brood. 
I think that about three different broods from the same 
parents were hatched during the spring and summer when 
the birds found out how convenient for starling purposes 
the old knot hole in the factory really was. 

Mr. Jones, as I said, manufactured at times on com- 
mission, but perhaps the hardest task he ever had was one 
I gave him to weave a number of woolen shawls for a lady 
in Dublin, N. H. She kept a farm and raised sheep and 
was very desirous of having some shawls woven from the 
wool. She wrote me that she could get it done in the 
woolen mills of New York State, but would not feel 
sure that her own wool had been applied, and that no 
other wool had been substituted. She wrote me that she 
could trust me if I would get the task done for her. 

I inquired among the Bergen county farmers to find 
out if there might exist some old dame still competent to 
handle the spinning wheel and the distaff, but I might as 
well have inquired for a musician who could still play on 
the sackbut and other curious old Hebrew musical instru- 
ments that delighted Nebuchadnezzar. 

Finally I got a friend in Pennsylvania to undertake 
the job. He gave it to a neighbor who, he assured me, 
would conscientiously see that I got the original wool 
back in the form of yarn. 

The yarn was dyed in certain proportionate colors 
to imitate a shawl that had been in the lady’s family for 
a century or more. Of course many of the colors were 
faded, but a friendly Paterson dyer undertook to imitate 
them as far as possible. In this way the dyeing was 

[195 ] 


accomplished, and Jones made the warp and wove the 
shawls. He had to put the warp in the loom in two sec- 
tions, had to see to it that both beams were evenly 
weighted, and had other difficulties to encounter, but 
finally the shawls were made and sent to New Hampshire. 

The lady was delighted with the result, and the 
shawls, about forty in number, were distributed as Christ- 
mas presents to her cousins, who were delighted to get such 
an acceptable souvenir of the grandmother’s old plaided 
shawl, as near the original as human perseverance, patience 
and skill could possibly make them. The lady sent us a 
photograph of the sheep and told us what interesting 
creatures they were. They were so tame that they would 
come and warm themselves by the kitchen fire and take 
scraps of table food from the hand, just as a favorite dog 
would do. 

The photograph of Miss Page’s sheep still hangs in 
the old workship where their fleece was woven, but I must 
get it, for whatever the city may get from Mr. Jones in 
the purchase, it must not have an interesting relic such as 
that is, of perhaps the most curious textile undertaking 
that was ever enacted in the City of Paterson. The lady 
always took an interest in Paterson after that. At the 
time of our calamities she wrote to inquire whether I and 
Jones had escaped the flood, the fire and the riots, as each 
calamity occurred. We had good news to report, for 
even the cyclone which did such fearful damage in the 
neighborhood of the old factory, left the four walls of 
the old building as firm as ever, and the next day the old 
hand-loom shuttles were singing as merrily as they had 
ever done before. 

It was a lonesome place to work in on a late winter 
night when the wind was rattling the timbers and the 
bark of the house dog was the only other sound that smote 

[ 196 ] 


the ear. It was then one remembered that we were in the 
midst of a cemetery. The dead were quiet enough, of 
course, but there were strange accounts in literature of 
their reappearance, and I was not superstitious, of course 
not, but still when Charles Kent or Jimmy Ingram had 
twisting to do at such times their company always felt 
very acceptable. We did not believe in ghosts, but—-what 
was that? A weight rope slipping. Nothing more, 
and that curious ticking? Oh, one of the starling birds 
pecking at the woodwork. That is all. And that other 
sound? Well, just the coal sliding down the stove as the 
last embers die away. Afraid? Of course not, but— 
yes, Charley, we will go home. It is getting late. So 
Charley and I would put on our jackets and go home, he 
without the least thought of ghosts, but I, 

Like one who on a lonesome road 
Doth often turn his head, 

As if he thought some notsome fiend 
Did close behind him tread. 

It seemed fitting that the old factory should go with 
the dead who have surrounded it so long. It is a remi- 
miscence of the old palmy days of hand-loom weaving, 
when more money was earned within its narrow four walls 
than is now earned in many a big establishment. 

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[197 ] 

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LT oe "ed Via ee laH y Pe ties A a’) 

A Ramble Over the Haledon 


=] HE Paterson Rambling Club spent Sunday at the 
home of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Fleming, which is 
situated in the heart of the Preakness Mountains. 
The day was beautiful, a more perfect day never 
came from heaven. The party took the trolley 
to Haledon, and after climbing the hill they pursued 
the old Pompton Turnpike as far as Green Brook Farm. 
The once familiar homestead presented a weird aspect. 
Few of its walls were standing, but Nature was doing her 
best to remedy and hide the calamitous relics of the fire, 
and fair trellises of autumnal vinery were climbing up the 
battered and decaying walls, and one English Rambler re- 
marked that the scene was very suggestive of an old ruined 
abbey or castle, such as are to be found in his native land. 
Here the Ramblers were glad to leave the dusty road and 
the smell of gasoline and wander where the air was pure 
and where they could admire the charms of Nature with- 
out the danger of being run over. The path at times was 
almost obliterated, so seldom does anyone pass along it. 
It was lined on each side with such old botanical attrac- 
tions as the partridge vine, the mountain speedwell, 
pinsissiwa, poor robin, plantain, bergamot, pennyroyal, 
Saint John’s wort and scented everlasting flowers. It was 
the Indian Summer and the woods were aflame with color; 
oak, beech, hickory, elm, ash and maple seemed to vie with 
each other as to which could display the more glorious 
apparel. Here and there the Virginia creeper had covered 
some neighboring rock or tree with its brilliant crimson 
foliage, while its companion, the poor, despised poison 

[ 199 ] 

Co.UN TRY Wrote 

vine, seemed in its death to compensate by its rich color 
for the evil of its reputation. The dogwood trees were 
particularly charming. Where the flowers in early spring 
had whitened the branches, now the scarlet berries had 
made the tree even more attractive than it was in the 

In shady places Jack in the Pulpit was exhibiting the 
product of his growth. He had no pulpit now to preach 
from, but the exquisite cluster of scarlet berries which he 
offered at the end of his stalk was an interesting evidence 
of the wonderful change that Nature can produce. 

One lady found some pretty flowers of the closed 
gentian, a flower that never opens, that never sees the sun, 
the very embodiment of vegetable modesty, it would seem. 
But it was not the plants alone that embellished the wood- 
land path in such beauty. The fungi were as pretty as 
the flowers, but the poisonous reputation that encumbers 
the tribe led the Ramblers to despise the entire toadstool 
family, though every member of it is not poisonous, by 
any means. 

Hog tobacco was among these mountainous flowers, 
but luckily it is at this time of year “‘as homely as a mud 
fence.” In one place the group halted suddenly and gazed 
with a little feeling of tremor on a large specimen of the 
black racer snake. The reptile was dead, however, so 
there was no danger. It measured about five feet all told. 

The witch hazel trees were in flower and the peculiar 
pale yellow blossoms did their own special part in making 
the Autumn grove attractive, but how few think of 
associating these fair blossoms with anything so prosaic 
as a remedy for sores, but if the hamammelis could speak 
it might lecture its botanical neighbors on the folly of 
wasting all their expenditure on dress and not being able 

{ 200 ] 


to render anything more useful for the service of suffering 

Perhaps a New Jersey mountain would lose an object 
of attraction to the naturalist if it were devoid of black 
crickets. They were everywhere, and it required all their 
wonderful agility to keep themselves from being crushed 
under the Ramblers’ feet. 

The members halted by the side of the dark pool 
where the five children of a local family were drowned 
beneath the ice some thirty years ago, but it had sunk 
beyond the usual level, for the Summer in these high 
regions has been very dry, according to the farmers here- 
about. Certainly the Ramblers were able to pass dry 
shod where in other excursions the mountain swamp had 
formed a considerable impediment. One of Mr. Flem- 
ing’s wells had dried up, but the water for the visitors’ 
refreshment could happily be obtained at a little remote 
stream a few paces out in the forest. 

Not far from the source of this particular spring 
was a small pool where the horses were accustomed to 
drink, and this was occupied by about a dozen bullfrogs. 
The little fellows showed no fear when one attempted to 
scare them. Evidently they and their ancestors had found 
few enemies among the human race, and the thought of 
fear never seemed to have entered their heads. They 
kept their curious, large eyes above the surface and were 
ready to duck if any of the little sticks and acorn cups 
should happen to come near striking them, but the missiles 
went wide of the mark, and the creatures may have formed 
the conclusion that skill in markmanship among the Pater- 
son Ramblers did not attain a very high figure. 

Mrs. Fleming made her guests wetcome and regaled 
them with coffee and tea, as well as sweet milk and butter- 
milk, if desired. One portion of the company stayed and 

[201 ] SECT Ld 

COUlIN TRY OW loess 

rested under the quiet eaves of the old homestead, while 
another part, led by the president, went to visit the Butter- 
milk Falls. The latter reported that the falls and the 
stream leading up to them had almost disappeared, only 
a thin and almost invisible cascade now trickled over the 
mountain gorge. 

Few birds of any kind were seen, although the fre- 
quent scream of the bluejay would not permit one to leave 
the noisy fellow out of account. But a flock of snow- 
birds was seen near the Fleming cottage. “hey were in 
fine condition and had evidently found plenty to eat during 
their summer residence in Canada and Maine. 

The Ramblers left their hospitable hostess about 4 
o'clock and began their return journey through the woods. 
The sun was setting and the atmosphere was delightful 
and cool all the way home. As they descended through 
the Haledon woods they became cognizant of the curious 
dispute as to whether Katy did or did not perform a certain 
action. One lady said we should have frost in six weeks, 
and perhaps katydid, together with the early coming of the 
snowbird, may be taken as a warning that Winter is not 
afar off. 

[ 202 ] 

Ramblers in the Ramapo Mountains 

| HE Rambling Club spent Sunday in the wilds of 
| the Ramapo Mountains. The place is not so 
primeval as some of the great Western mountains 
are, but it comes as near to such a condition as 
the necessity of reaching trains or trolley within 
the space of three or four hours will permit. From 
the summit of the Hoven Kopf one saw faint traces of 
civilization, but they were a long way in the distance. 
Garret Rock could be seen, but Paterson might have been 
swallowed by an earthquake, so far as any visible existence 
was concerned. And Garret Rock itself had the appear- 
ance of a molehill. It was recognizable by the tower, 
which seemed about the size of a child’s little finger. And 
yet the tall buildings of New York were distinct enough. 
Thirty miles away the Metropolitan building could be 
seen, and a few other skyscrapers. And, oh, how beauti- 
ful was the intervening landscape! Hills behind hills, 
with here and there some lake or stream glistening in the 
sunlight, villages and small towns set in the surrounding 
verdure like pearls in emerald. Not all the Ramblers are 
sentimental, but the least poetical felt enchanted, and ‘‘I 
feel as if I could stay here forever’’ was a common ex- 
pression among the ladies. The High Mountain, so 
familiar to all, was visible and could be identified by its 
bare summit, but it seemed to have collected other moun- 
tains to keep it company. Beech Mountain stood beside 
it, and beyond that one knew that the famous Shelter 
Rock, Buttermilk Falls, Fleming’s farm and other famous 
rambling resorts were to be found, though now invisible. 
The monstrous stones on the top of the Hoven Kopf are 
not boulders, but huge pieces of granite torn from their 

[ 203 ] 


bed by volcanic action, so heavy one would think as to 
defy even the omnipotent powers of the glacial age to strip 
them from their moorings. 

But the flowers were gone. One little bell of the 
purple Gerardia was the sole survivor of the long floral 
train that during the months of spring and summer had 
embellished the Hoven Kopf. The birds, too, had nearly 
all migrated and but for the snowbirds and the passing 
fox sparrows not a feather would have been visible in the 
woods, though in the blue sky above one saw crows by 
the thousands passing towards the South. 

It was the land of the Jackson Whites, and these in- 
teresting mountain dwellers were seen here and _ there 
taking their Sunday rambles through the woods. It was 
the intention to visit good Mr. and Mrs. D. Groot, but 
the quaint log cabin was silent, and though interesting in 
itself the visitors would have been delighted to meet the 
kind and hospitable occupants who lived within the lone 
mountain cabin, if the old Indian track winding in and 
out among the woods could be called a lane. 

Water was a great desideratum. but the entire moun- 
tain seemed to be dry until John Barbarrow, who knows 
everything about hills and forests that is worth knowing, 
discovered one little spring and pool, which the visitors 
hailed with delight. After the fallen leaves that covered 
it were removed from its surface. 

Passing in this manner through the primitive forest, 
the Ramblers came out at last to the home of Mr. and 
Mrs. Francis Wheaton. The good couple were as kind 
and attentive as ever, and glad to see their old rambling 
friends from Paterson. A new dweller in the Wheaton 
home was introduced; a little soul left homeless and for- 
saken among the Jackson Whites had found a refuge 

[ 204 ] 


Mr. Wheaton gave some interesting accounts of the 
little girl’s introduction and the gradual change from semi- 
savagery to refinement formed an interesting tale. 

Here the Ramblers sat down and ate luncheon. 
Water from a neighboring spring served as a beverage until 
the kind host and hostess could prepare coffee. The 
ancient old schoolhouse was visited, where the Wheatons 
taught school when the mountain dwellers were practically 
as heathenish as the inhabitants of Central Africa. 
Eighteen years ago the Wheatons came here, when the 
Jackson Whites were at the lowest, and when murder and 
licentiousness ran riot all over the mountains. Today the 
place is as safe as any town in America. 

Happiness consists in contrasts, and recollection of 
the peaceful abode on the mountain top came to mind 
vividly as the Ramblers found themselves in the crowded 
trolley car on the way home. How the conductor man- 
aged to compress so much of human anatomy within that 
little space is a wonder. But the fresh air and the enjoy- 
ment that the passengers had found during the day made 
most of us good tempered. Of course there were com- 
plainings and expletives of various kinds from the “‘land 
sakes alive’ of the delicate young lady to that form of 
expression which suggested that the speaker had forgotten 
all about the Holy Name procession a week before. 

But when the car came to Broadway bridge and the 
Ramblers were transferred to another car, where an aver- 
age ground space of a foot and a half at the very least was 
allowed to each passenger, all was well. 

It was then that pleasant memories of the Hoven 
Kopf resumed their sway. One smiled at the recollection 
of the Italian woman who was carrying a considerable 
part of the forest on her head down the mountain side. 
What a head and neck it must have been for one so far 

[ 205 J 


advanced in life! One smiled, too, at the recollection of 
the party standing on the treacherous foot bridge over the 
Ramapo stream until it seemed as if the click of the camera 
might record the Rambling Club in the act of being pre- 
cipitated into the stream below, but the rickety old 
structure did hold out after all, and the Ramblers were 
photographed with dry clothes instead of like drowning 
rats. But such little perils as these only add a touch of 
zest to a Ramblers’ excursion. It was one of the most 
popular rambles the club has ever had. Fifty persons at- 
tended by actual count, not reckoning Cupid, for, to tell 
the truth, the little god that figures so largely on Valentine 
cards, had been present, though unseen. The Ramblers 
are a social crowd and keep well together, but when two 
young hearts beat as one it is only natural that a certain 
space should intervene between them and the rest of the 
crowd, and the old, old story never was more interestingly 
told than it was last Sunday on the Hoven Kopf. 

[ 206 ] 

Ramblers At Cedar Grove 

HE outing of the Rambling Club on Saturday 
afternoon was a surprise to all the strangers who 
attended it, and to many of the oldest Ramblers 
as well. It was to Cedar Grove. Most of my 
readers may know where Cedar Grove is, but 
comparatively few know what Cedar Grove is. We 
know that it lies a little west of Little Falls in a cer- 
tain direction, but very few have ever been there. And 
when the Ramblers passed through it on Saturday, many 
were astonished to find that a place so charming could be 
found within a short walk of Paterson city. 

The little streamlet that enters the Passaic at Idle- 
wild Park and laughs merrily as it seems to a poetic mind, 
‘as if it were rejoicing that it had escaped from the meshes 
of the East Jersey Water Company, is there to be found, 
and it forms the chief natural attraction of Cedar Grove. 
And how charming it is! The finest trees hang over it 
as if they loved to behold their beautiful forms in the 
mirror of its waters; old favorite flowers embellish its 
banks, and in places where architecture of wood or stone 
has crossed it, the woodland ferns grow in abundance, the 
brake fern, the anoclea, the spleenwood, the interrupted 
fern and all the rest of the beautiful tribe. 

Especially delightful is the brown stone arch where 
the railroad to Caldwell crosses the Peckman, and the 
Ramblers stopped for several minutes to gaze upon and 
admire this pretty viaduct. The outing was a pleasant 
one from start to finish, and beauty reached the climax in 
that part of the journey where the Ramblers had the Peck- 
man for a companion. Several autumnal flowers were 
found, among them the greater lobelia with its rich cluster 

{ 207 ] 


of dark blue flowers, the pretty little day flower was also 
present with its very peculiar, though attractive blossoms 
of pale sky blue. It gets its name from the circumstance 
that no flower exists for more than one day. When one 
has seen the sun rise and set it resigns its short life and 
leaves its floral successor on the same plant to tell the 
poetical story of its life the day following. 

The cottages one passed were for the most part of 
the old fashioned type, with such old time flowers adorn- 
ing the gardens as hollyhocks, sweet williams, pansies, 
larkspur and other old time favorites that our forefathers 
loved to grow in days when Sweet, contented cottagers 
were satisfied with the old garden flowers as they were 
without calling on a Burbank for the constant supply of 
new varieties. 

Apples in some gardens were lying on the ground, 
and the place had evidently yielded its store of the kindly 
fruit of the earth a few weeks earlier, though melons and 
pumpkins still cling to the vines as if they were loath to 
leave a place which had dealt so bountifully with them. 

Hanging from one tree was an oriole’s nest which in- 
terested the Ramblers as the light bough moved by pass- 
ing zephyrs rocked it to and fro. Its former occupants 
were gone of course, and one wondered whether in their 
Southern migration they had found a spot half so pleasant 
as Cedar Grove. 

Here is an insect village all made of paper and encom- 
passed within a space of twelve or fourteen inches. Its 
inhabitants are not dead, and if the youth who carries it 
away captive had found it at another season the infuri- 
ated little winged tenants might have protested violently 
against such forcible removal without even the process of 
law. Whether it was a wasp or a hornet’s nest the young 
Ramblers who carried it off could not positively decide. 

[ 208 ] 


In one place the Peckman had been caught and put 
in harness. It had been made to turn a little water wheel 
and by this was driven such a quaint and odd little factory 
that some of the Ramblers could not refrain from the 
temptation of inspecting. It was carding cotton and an 
Italian workman was engaged in feeding a carding 
machine. The visitors stayed for a while watching the 
manufacture of cotton in one of its earliest stages, but the 
rest of the party had gone on, so the party of inspection 
had to hurry through the little mill, and be off, not how- 
ever without carrying a proposal to the ladies that if the 
latter would return they should have the opportunity of 
seeing how the domestic mop was found. The invita- 
tion, however, was declined as the household mop had 
been laid aside for the week, and few ladies just then 
seemed inclined to consider its history or go back to the 
rustic old factory they had passed on the way. 

The road the Ramblers followed brought them out 
at Singac. It was a walk of about three or four miles 
along cultivated farms and little mountain ranges covered 
with the glowing leafage of departing autumn. In some 
places the waxberry tree was common and the story was 
told how the old colonists used to extract the wax from 
the berries and make candles of it, from which circum- 
Stances the tree derives its name. It was a delightful out- 
ing and everyone was pleased with Cedar Grove, and 
everyone felt that a place so charming ought to be better 
known. Long however may its quietness be undis- 
turbed by ‘‘the maddening crowd.’”’ Long may it be inno- 
cent of peanut and candy stalls! Perish the thought that 
a vendor of “‘hot dogs’’ should ever set his sacrilegious 
foot in such an Elysium! Singac has been spoiled by 
cheap and boisterous merchandise. May heaven protect 
this quiet retreat with the waters of the Peckman still free 
and uncontaminated from such a violation. 

[ 209 ] 

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Mortuary Tributes to Old Settlers 
At Wyckoff, N. J. 

HE Rambling Club went on Sunday morning by 
train to Wyckoff and visited their old friend and 
former president, Frederick Neuberger, at his 
beautiful residence near the old church. Mr. 
Neuberger received them with great hospitality 
and beamed on every one with that old familiar smile 
which, as the colonial phrase has it, “never wears off.’ 
This old Jersey village is just such a place as the 
Ramblers delight to visit, and though the threatening 
weather kept us indoors most of the time several hours 
were spent on outdoor investigation. The old church 
claimed most of our attention. Though over a century 
old, it has stood the assaults of time and the elements 
wonderfully and shows no appearance of decay. “The 
picturesque robe of Chinese ivy which covers the front 
had changed its green hue for a deep rich color of dark 
purple, and this contrasting with the gray stones of the 
building had a very charming appearance. Some of the 
Ramblers attended service and others remained outside to 
look over the venerable churchyard and read the inscrip- 
tions on the monuments where the “‘rude forefathers of 
the hamlet’ are at rest. 

The grave of Jacob Quackenbush has no obituary 
sentiment, for it has not yet become a tomb. Its pro- 
prietor still lives and keeps his grave green, and the beau- 
tiful headstone which tells of his birth in October, 1829, 
does not contain any mortuary announcement as yet, and 
some of the Ramblers who called on the old gentleman, 
and were entertained by him, are fervent in their wishes 

{ 211] 

CO UINITUR Vaan ios 

that many years may pass before the necessity of such an 
inscription may arise. They hope that he may live to 
enjoy those piscatorial pleasures, the account of which he 
gave to his listening visitors on Sunday. They were not 
‘fish stories’ of the usual type, one of the Ramblers de- 
clared, they were genuine records, for the old gentleman 
had stuffed and mounted the big fellows that had taken 
his bait, and in this way he had visual evidence to offer 
almost as good as if the monsters were still gasping and 
rolling within his basket. The time spent in calling on 
Mr. Quackenbush passed pleasantly away, and though 
the writer was not among the callers, he heard such in- 
teresting accounts of the visit that he readily coincided 
with the verdict of others that a real ‘‘treat’’ had been 

May the venerable and respected gentleman live long, 
and, beautiful as his chosen prospective resting place is, 
may it long remain without a tenant. May the wild 
birds warble there and the flowers grow undisturbed for 
many happy years. The old churchyard has somehow 
an English appearance and it reminded me of the little 
parish churchyards on the other side. There was a simi- 
larity in most of the inscriptions and one wondered who 
was the original author of some of these quaint and long 
familar epitaphs. Who was it that first conceived the 
thought of assuming the last garb of mortality; of cover- 
ing himself mentally with the shroud and descending into 
the tomb so that he could lie down and tell “‘those that 
come his grave to see’; that 

As you are now, so once was I, 
As I am now, so you must be, 
Prepare yourselves to follow me. 

The lines-are very old. I have read them on grave- 

[ 212] 


stones in England three hundred years old. Probably 
the Puritans brought them over. It is remarkable how 
their popularity has survived through all these long years 
while thousands of mortuary tributes of far greater literary 
merit have passed into oblivion. These epitaphs are 
generally accompanied by the sculptural forms of fat 
cherubs with monstrous wings; blowing trumpets some- 
times, but I did not find any of these in this churchyard. 
They may have been originally on the old brown sand- 
stone monuments, but time and weather may have obliter- 
ated these repulsive memorials. 
The inscription on the grave of a young girl ran: 

I went in the country to see my mother, 
Death took me instead of another. 

_ Presumably, as in Longfellow’s poem, it was be- 
cause the old reaper wanted some flower more attractive 
than the bearded grain and plucked the beautiful blossom 
on a visit to her mother in the country. There is noth- 
ing lugubrious about such an epitaph; though death 1s 
mentioned the tone suggests vitality. It reminds one of 
the reply of the old country sage to his friends who asked 
where they must bury him. ‘The spot was indicated, but 
the old believer in immortality added “‘that is if you can 
catch me.”’ | 

There is another headstone, which in a quaint and 
simple manner records the passing of poor Jim. It tells 
how his last dying words were: 

I am sorry of my ways 
And how I spent my days. 

It then relates how as far as his friends could see, 

[ 213 ] 


James knew when his end would be, 

And then James prayed 

And when he stopped 

He said ’twas hard, but fair. 

And then he shook hands with us 

And said goodbye father, mother and sister, 

And then he died, pleased, contented and satisfied. 

He ended by saying that he was all right and that we 
would all meet again in Heaven. 

The loving historian then makes no further attempt 
in rhyme, but touchingly concludes in plain but fervent 
prose: “Lord, let Jim rest, always and forever. Amen!” 

Poor Jim! It hardly seems right that we should 
know that he was not as good a boy as he might have 
been, but we are none of us perfect. And if we are not 
sorry for our ways, we ought to be. However, it is some. 
comfort to know that James was ‘“‘all right’? when his 
final departure came. We will suppress all desire to know 
what poor Jim’s ‘“‘ways’’ might have been. Time obliter- 
ates everything, and probably Jim’s worst enemies have 
long since forgiven him. Probably the minds even of his 
dearest friends have been occupied with other considera- 
tions, and instead of thinking of his ‘dying words’’ they 
may have wondered how this or that potato field would 
turn out, or they may have wondered how the war of the 
rebellion would end, or whether Garfield or Hancock 
would capture the presidency, or whether the local elec- 
tion would fall to the Democrats or the Republicans. 
Poor Jim’s friends need not have told us so much about 
his last hours on earth, for to tell the truth they really do 
not concern us. ‘There is, however, one thing that we 
must admire—the plain spoken truth. Most epitaphs 
flatter their subjects beyond reason. Not so does Jim’s. 

[ 214 ] 


We know that Lord Byron, cynical and ungallant, re- 
garded it as the highest point of credulity to “‘believe a 
woman or an epitaph,” so that it is quite refeshing to find 
one epitaph in this old graveyard which may really be 

Close by the church a neighboring beekeeper was 
engaged in gathering his honey. Was it his really or was 
he stealing it from those who had so painstakingly col- 
lected from the flowers? A burglar or a highwayman 
when he commits his depredations generally goes about 
the job armed and wearing a mask. This is just what 
the man at Wyckoff was doing. He had armed himself 
bravely with gloves and garments of leather, and had 
covered his face with a mask in the shape of a black veil, 
while a column of smoking fire further aided him in his 
depredation. Surely, from a bee’s point of view, nothing 
could be more indicative of shameful and dishonest labor! 
And all this on a Sunday when the church service was 
going on and when the commandment not to kill, and 
the injunction to keep holy the Sabbath day, the com- 
mandment not to steal and also the prohibition against 
covetousness were all being violated at the same time. 
Lucky for man that he is lord of creation, and can do 
just as he pleases, or it is terrible to think what the conse- 
quences might otherwise be. 

The Ramblers last Sunday were fortunate in having 
with them their old friend and former fellow member, 
John A. Macnab. He was fairly in his element. He 
knows Wyckoff well. In an afternoon ramble he related 
many interesting incidents concerning the place. Almost 
every road and corner had some story to tell. There was 
one house where an old lady kept summer boarders, but 
always took them on with the understanding that she was 
too old to attend to them and that they must shift for 

[ 215 ] 


themselves, which condition many of them regarded as a 
privilege rather than as a disadvantage. Who would not 
be glad to live in such a place as Wyckoff, even if he did 
wash his own dishes, make his own bed, or spend an hour 
or so cooking his own potatoes? | 

A little tradition of marital disagreement hung over 
another corner of the road. This house is placed on the 
diagonal, the front faces the corner directly, and the path 
from the front door comes out exactly where the two roads 
join together. The story goes that husband and wife could 
not agree, the wife desiring that the dwelling should front 
on one road, while her husband wished it to face the other. 
After the dispute had gone on for a while the two con- 
testants compromised. The dwelling faces the corner. 
Oh, that all disputes, domestic, national and interna- 
tional, could be so amicably adjusted! | 

It was a rare pleasure to see John A. Macnab sO 
cheerful and feeling so ‘‘smart.’”’ It would be pleasant to 
have him with us on other rambles during the season, but 
cur old friend always follows when the last of the robins 
have taken their departure to Florida. 

Before the Ramblers left the village they met again 
in the parlor of Mr. Neuberger and sang the old Rambler 
songs. ‘Then, as the sun was declining, all began to look 
after overcoats, umbrellas and hats and get ready for de- 
parture. Our pleasant host shook hands with all at part- 
ing and hoped we may visit him again. : 

The rain had not disturbed the outing much, but 
conditions were such that a “‘rural ramble by the bramble’ 
would have been unpleasant. So the usual attention to 
Nature had to be dispensed with. : 

I may add, as a sort of postscript, that I received last 
week a very interesting letter from an old friend of the 
Rambling Club, Horatio Whittaker. He is very desirious 

[ 216 ] 


to know how everybody is getting on, and he reminds me 
that he was one of the happy gathering when the 
Ramblers held their first outing on that beautiful May 
morning on the High Mountain. He is living at Ellerby, 
near Hull, in East Yorkshire, England, and is living very 
happily in that interesting old village, which seems from 
his description to be a veritable English Wyckoff, but his 
pleasure is enhanced by the charming recollection of the 
Rambling Club and of the dear city of Paterson, where he 
made so many friends while on a visit to our hospitable 
American shores. 

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A Ramble By Squaw Brook 

HE outing of the Rambling Club last Sunday was 
a successful one, although the wind was cold and 
the sun was hidden for most of the time behind 
clouds that were very suggestive of a snowstorm. 
The top of the High Mountain is certainly the 
last place one would think of selecting as a refuge from a 
snowstorm, and when the Ramblers reached the summit 
there was a unanimous disposition to seek the valley again 
and try to find some sheltered spot where the camp fire 
could be lighted and where there was water to use in the 
preparation of hot coffee. In this they were successful. 

A deep cleft in one of the rocks furnished the desired 
fireplace, and from one side to the other of the divided 
rock a pole was laid and on it were hung two of those 
familiar domestic articles which are known to the vulgar 
and the bibulous by the name of “‘growlers.”” “They were 
filled from a clear mountain spring close by, the coffee was 
put in and in a very short time the fragrant steaming odor 
of boiling coffee was excelling even that of the spruce and 
the hemlock from the rocky ledge close by. “The deep 
glen was closed almost at the western side, and the cold 
wind blowing from that direction could find no entrance, 
and the place was as snug and cosy as a kitchen or a parlor. 

Among the boulders and upon the fallen trees, the 
Ramblers sat and ate their luncheon, while the thick mat- 
ting of the fallen leaves felt as warm and as pleasant to 
the feet as a rug or a Turkish carpet. No one felt any 
disposition to leave the spot, and after the meal was over 
the ‘Ode of Welcome’’ was sung, and this was followed 
by the parting song. 

One of the members spoke of the happy incidents 

[ 219 ] 

COVEN TERRA ania iene 

that had attended the Club’s rambles to High Mountain 
in past years and the memory of Philmer Eves, who 
founded the club, naturally presented itself, and it was 
proposed and carried unanimously, that the best wishes of 
the assembly be sent to Mr. Eves, and to his wife, who, 
as Miss Marian Henderson, was well remembered by nearly 
every one present, when she cheered the Ramblers of the 
club with her presence, or charmed them with the poetry 
that came from her graceful pen. 

Most of the trees in the glen were bare, but the hem- 
lock, Longfellow’s emblem of constancy. was still in evi- 
dence, and formed a beautiful decoration to this impro- 
vised dining room half-way up the mountain. Wherever 
it was found it was adorned with the delicate light brown 
cones that serve to indicate the season when the hemlock 
is at its best. Several of the ladies carried small branches 
of the tree home with them, and with the addition of the 
scarlet and golden berries of the bitter-sweet, the selected 
bouquet was such as the most costly of flowers of the con- 
servatory could not have surpassed. 

Oh, hemlock tree! Oh, hemlock tree! 
How faithful are thy branches! 

Green not alone in summer time, 

But in the winter’s frost and rime— 
How faithful are thy branches! 

The old German song which supplied the poet 
Longfellow with his theme contrasts the constancy of the 
hemlock with the inconstancy of womankind, but as the 
records of the Rambling Club contain no evidence of such 
inconstancy, it is not necessary to quote the poet’s words 
in this particular. 

The ascent of the mountain was invigorating, but 

[ 220 ] 


when movement stopped one’s blood began to chill, and 
when the summit was reached and the members had rested 
a few minutes, the desire to be moving again took possession 
of all, and as the path lay downwards, one then began to 
realize that the old Roman proverb that descent is easy is 
not always applicable. Everything seemed to slide and 
give way under one’s foot, even the settled rock seemed 
to lose its hold of its firm base and become itself a rambler, 
while pebbles, shales, bits of sandstone covered with a 
layer of fallen leaves seemed as if they conspired to bring 
about the pedestrian’s downfall. Though ice and snow 
were absent it was more of a slide than a walk down that 
mountain. To one it occurred that there might be snakes 
on the mountains, but the suggestion was set aside as un- 
important. To get down without breaking a limb was 
‘more important than even facing a rattlesnake. But no 
mishaps occurred, and when the road was reached all the 
perils of the descent were soon forgotten. 

The Ramblers chose the old Squaw Brook road for 
the return journey to Haledon. The choice was a happy 
one. [here were fewer motor cars to encounter. The 
old Squaw Brook road winds in and out as it always did 
since it was a cowpath through the forest for the first 
settlers. [he spirit of the old thoroughfare has scorned 
the interference of the land surveyor, and defied the tape 
measure and the transit to bring it into conformity. It 
is just such a road as the naturalist loves, such a road as 
brings to mind the rustic country lanes of merry England. 
In this age of geometrical conformity very few such old 
fashioned thoroughfares are left. The road and the old 
Squaw Brook itself seem boon companions, and passing 
along the road one seldom loses sight of the brook or fails 
to catch the merry sound of its rippling water. 

In groups of two or more, the wanderers passed 

[ 221 ] 


along until they came to the lake, and here the sun, which 
had not shown its face for all day, just came out to gild 
the crystal surface and take a brief glance at itself in this 
attractive mirror before making its exit for the day, leav- 
ing the oncoming twilight to guide the Ramblers to their 

The flowers were gone, although one or two speci- 
mens of the blue bugloss were gathered on the mountans, 
and a few blossoms of the old familiar dandelions were 
seen fringing the wayside path with tufts of harmless gold. 

One interesting object was the sprouting of the acorns 
which had fallen from their native oaks on the mountain- 
side, and perhaps the story may be told so as to interest 
even a non-botanical reader. 

When the oak tree casts off its baby germ, and bids 
it go forth into the world and fight its own way, the old 
mother is not so cruel as to leave the little thing to perish 
for want of food, so she furnishes it with cotyledons, two 
little bags of starchy food on which the young germ 
fastens, and on which it feeds, and which last it just long 
enough to send its little root in the soil in one direction, 
and put forth a little leaf in the other when it becomes 
able to start life entirely on its own account, drawing water 
from the soil, and supplying itself with carbon from the 
air, until if no evil befalls it, it becomes in time a sturdy oak. 

Several of these sprouting acorns were picked up. 
The little wiry rootlets were coming out of the acorn and 
trying to find their way into the ground, but a Rambler’s 
foot came along and completely turned them over and up- 
set their plans. 

The world is getting more humane. We have a 
society for preventing cruelty to animals, but perhaps we 
shall never have a society for preventing cruelty to acorn 
germs. It is too much even to dream about. 

[ 222 ] 


Only two rambles now remain, when the club’s list 
will close for the winter. One next Saturday will be to 
Dundee, and one the Sunday following, will be to Lower 

[ 223 ] 


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Winter Scenes Along An 
Old Waterway 

®| FIER a spell of confinement indoors, returning 
health and right weather, such as we were favored 
with last Sunday, impelled me to seek the fresh 
air and the free open country once more. 
Bannigan’s wood was soon gained and though my 
intention was to walk the Newark track to West Nutley, 
the old charm of the Morris Canal proved too strong, and 
my feet were soon plodding along the old tow-path in- 
stead, as they had so often done before. 

An effort is now being made by a society of nature 
_lovers to preserve the old waterway as a sort of parkway 
for the public, and there are excellent reasons for such a 
course. Everyone knows how valuable such places are 
and how they are constantly being appropriated by some- 
one or other for private use, under some pretense or other, 
until the chance of taking a country ramble away from 
the dust and danger of automobiles seems as if it would 
soon disappear. The Morris Canal tow-path offers a de- 
lightful retreat for the pedestrians, and in such articles as I 
have sometimes written on the subject I have endeavored 
to portray its charms to the best of my ability, and it is 
in the hope of still further showing how interesting the 
old waterway is, that I take up my pen once more. 

I approach the tow-path at “Dads,” but the place is 
silent in its icy garment. The noise of the youngsters 
bathing here in summer time is only a memory. How 
well those boys could swim! The green frog that darted 
in the stream at your approach was the only object that 
could exceed them in their aquatic exercises. They were 

[ 225 ] 

COiund NYE Rove Wea 

poor lads and the ‘‘toggery’”’ they wore was a curiosity in 
its way. It was put on and slipped off almost in an in- 
stant. Seams and buttons were of small account. ‘The 
indulgent mother who attended to their apparel knew 
well enough that the garment would be found on the tow- 
path almost as soon as the kids had gone from her sight, 
so she wasted no unnecessary time in stitching and mend- 
ing and gave all the liberty to limb and muscle that even 
a slight regard to propriety necessitated. “The lads could 
remain under water till it seemed as if they must have 
given up all idea of ever emerging, and they played ‘‘tag,’’ 
chasing each other with as little regard to the resistance 
of the water as they paid to the air outside. Today the 
lads are gone, but their happy voices seem to mingle and 
float over the old waterway, and make the place attrac- 
tive even though the cold wind is playing on the telegraph 
wire like an aeolian harp. 

One wonders what part of the southern skies is now 
protecting that pair of sandpipers which had their nest 
near the bank opposite the switchman’s cabin. Every 
summer found them in their accustomed haunt. It was 
comical to watch them alight on the ground and see their 
long legs and thin bodies move among the reeds in search 
of grubs, while their tails moved up and down like a pump 
handle, pretty much after the style of that comical bird, 
the English wag-tail. 

I once found a big fat tramp asleep under an old 
chestnut tree. The rain was coming down fast and I 
woke him to draw his attention to the circumstance, but 
he quietly rolled over on his other side and gave me a look 
of reproach for disturbing him over a matter so trivial as 
a rain storm, and in half a minute he was snoring again. 
“A blessing on the man that invented sleep!’’ said Sancho 

[ 226 ] 


Panza, and a blessing truly, even though the couch be 
under a tow-path tree and in a storm. | 

From the next bridge I take the road to Richfield and 
leave the tow-path. I am in Little Germany. It will 
cause no confusion if you address any resident in that 
janguage. And not only the population, but the products 
of the farm have become Germanized. Cabbage has be- 
come ‘‘kohl’’ all at once and plain potatoes have become 
“‘kartoffeln.’’ I inquire at the Lutheran church and am 
told that English service will not take place before 7:30 
at night. The notices attached to the trunk of the tree 
announce some ‘‘fest’’ or other of the Schillerbund, or this 
or that Saenger Chor or Turn Verein. The family living 
in this house must have slept long this morning, for they 
are still at breakfast, and several of them come to the 
window in astonishment to see a stranger moving along 
the road before the hands of the clock have marked “‘elf 
uhr’’ on Sunday morning. Such is Richfield, and long 
may it so continue. Happy and industrious, turning out 
the product of the ground in good proportion in spite of 
caterpillars and bugs and all winged vermin and all the 
pernicious weeds that struggle to dispossess the legal 
tenants of the truck farm. And from one or two circum- 
stances I should judge that the Richfield farmers are pros- 
pering. Why, here is one who has an automobile and 
he is cleaning it up for a drive somewhere! How 
patiently it stands during the process, not like the cranky 
old mare that looked at him with a malicious eye and had 
the foot ready for kicking when the grooming process be- 
came a little too vigorous. 

The starlings have settled here, but one of the natives 
I talk with insists that they are cow birds, and as he is ap- 
parently one that ‘knows everything,” I let the ornitho- 
logical error pass. The Ramblers were here last Summer 

[ 227 ] 

C0 UNSER ¥ aw amt ks 

and they discovered several large patches of the water 
hyacinth growing along the canal. I look for them in 
vain today. Perhaps they died out with the approach of 
cold weather, and if so it would be a blessing. The plant 
in Southern rivers grows so profuse that it stops the 
current and long distant may be the day when the current 
of the “‘raging Morris’ is stopped by anything more 
permanent than a couple of coal barges or a mud scow! 
I walk on and by way of change once in a while I walk 
on the ice, but here and there one of those treacherous 
places occurs where the water oozes out and where danger 
from drowning may lurk. Of course one has to die some 
time, but I have the same objection to drowning that dis- 
tinguished honest Jack Falstaff. “‘A plague on your 
drowning! It swells a fellow up so,’ though I was not 
apprehensive as he was as to how I should look if I were 

Just as the noon hour approached I reach the old 
Change bridge. Two boys are skating on the canal, but 
the ice is too rugged and after one or two attempts they 
sit down and remove their skates and start off on foot in 
the direction of Passaic. The sun is out and the Jand- 
scape here is sublime. Out in the distance the Orange 
Mountains stand like sentinels in icy armor guarding the 
plain. The branches that hang over the canal are glitter- 
ing in their frosty jewels and this old spot becomes a fairy 
scene; beautiful in its summer verdure and still enchant- 
ing in its white robes with which old winter has enrobed 
it. No wonder that the automobilist pauses here as he 
approaches the bridge, knowing that he may spend the 
entire day and not pass through a scene so enchanting. I 
hurry on and reach Brookdale as the sun begins to leave 
the meridian and from Brookdale a short walk brings me 
to Nutley where I spend the afternoon with friends. 

[ 228 ] 


I leave the place by trolley after supper, and having 
an hour to spend in Passaic, it occurs to me to see how 
some of our neighboring citizens are passing their time in 
this famous locality. The “‘lid is off’? and there seems to 
be but little effort to conceal the fact. I pass along State 
Street and find myself in the Italian Baptist church. 

There is a congregation of six persons beside the 
minister, but what they lack in numbers they make up in 
fervor. The minister directs that a hymn book be offered 
to me, but judging from my appearance one says that | 
am “Un Americano.” So the hymn book proposition 
drops. I listen while the others sing, and then all at once 
the melody attracts me, and I borrow a book. Yes, so it 
is “‘Safe in the Arms of Jesus’ done up in Italian! What 
would its poor blind composer, Fanny Crosby, have 
thought if she could have heard her world-famous hymn 
in the beautiful linguo Italiana? AQ little parlor organ 
gave the instrumental performance and how those fellows 
did sing! It seemed to be a sort of prayer meeting, and 
very strangely interesting it was to see young men who 
were apparently outdoor laborers get up and preach their 
little sermons one after another! They shook hands with 
me at the close and were pleased to find I could talk a little 
Italian. I am not much given to church going, but the 
novelty of the service, the warmth of the audience and the 
zeal of the minister made it impossible to refuse the in- 
Vitation to come again. 

Reverting to the old canal, I may say in conclusion 
that I chose the theme in order to help the new society 
that has begun to agitate for the preservation of the old 
Morris as a parkway for the people. It would be a 
calamity if an object so worthy were to fail. It is pleasant 
to see that public opinion in Paterson, as expressed so far, 
is in favor of the retention of the old, beautiful waterway. 

[ 229 ] 

GOU INR Yeon as 

Of course, where it passes through cities it could be 
purified and improved, but no one who has seen it at 
Brookdale, for instance, or at Mountainview, would ever 
make such an ill use of language as to call it a “‘ditch.”’ 

[ 230 ] 

Camp Rusticate at Pompton Lakes 

HE Rambling Club went last Sunday to Pompton 
Lakes, where they had been invited by one of their 
members to spend an outing at his bungalow. 
The members took the 10 o'clock train from 
Straight Street station and they reached Pompton 
Lakes about 11 o’clock. There were about fifty persons 
in all, of both sexes and all ages, from the whining school- 
boy to the veteran approaching the allotted term of ‘‘three 
score years and ten.”’ But on this occasion all were young, 
and all were happy. ‘‘Begone dull care’’ was the slogan 
for everybody, and ‘‘All went merry as a marriage bell.”’ 

For a wonder the writer went to the station ahead 
of time, and not a single Rambler had turned up except 
myself. It proved that I had made a mistake, the ramble 
was not scheduled to start off before 9:50. 

The station was alive with people. There was a 
group of young fellows that drew my attention. Their 
hats were adorned with very curious trimming. Rib- 
bons which would have measured five or six yards were 
folded around their hats. 

As the color of these ribbons were red, white and 
green, I took the boys for Italians. I went up to them 
and tapped one on the shoulder and said vaya | wltalian 
He was taken by surprise, and when he had stared at 
me in silence for a few moments he said, “‘No, sir, we 
are not Italians. We are Hungarians.” I continued the 
conversation with such German as I had at my call, and 
they replied in sort of ‘Deutsch’ that I had difficulty in 
understanding. But we made each other understand after 
a lingual struggle, and I learned the reason of them being 
in Paterson. They were a company of Hungarian re- 

[ 231 ] 


servists and were going to war, after they had been to 
see some friends at Franklin Furnace. 

The event was a surprise. Here was a portion of 
Francis Joseph’s army in our city, and not a newspaper 
in the town had heralded their approach! I did my best 
to entertain them, but could only help them to get their 
tickets at the ticket office. They were very anxious to 
get some beer, but I told them that on Sunday Paterson 
was “‘Ziemlich trocken.’’ There were canteens enough 
that could be entered by such as knew “‘the ropes,’ but 
a group of patrons attired in such flaming colors would 
not be welcome: by the most accommodating saloon- 
keeper. The information was received with evident dis- 

I went out to gather some information about our 
ramble, and when I was coming back I met the Hun- 
garian reserves, who had been out to forage for beer. It 
was no use, and they settled themselves down in one 
corner of the station and waited for the train. It proved 
to be the train on which the Ramblers had to travel, and 
I pointed out the ‘Hungarian army” to my friends. I sat 
next to them and kept them awake as far as Pompton 
Lakes. Then I left them after telling them how many 
stations they would have to pass before coming to 
Franklin Furnace. I have since sometimes wondered 
curiously what might be the military effect of my kind- 
ness in “giving comfort to the enemy.’ In battle even 
a small reinforcement sometimes will turn the scale, and 
the question arose whether I had really helped to defeat 
the Allies in some future engagement by the kindness I 
had shown to these “‘soldaten.”’ Well, to tell the truth, 
my heart went out to them as I thought of their respond- 
ing to the call of duty, even when they might have stayed 
under the Stars and Stripes and fought for their side, as 

[ 232 ] 


I was doing for mine, by the weapons of innocuous ink 
and plenty of verbal “‘hot air.’’ 

But there is no time for such meditation, for here 
is our friend, Robinson, ready to meet us and act as be- 
fore in the capacity of guide, philosopher and friend. He 
led us along a footpath that the Ramblers had traveled 
before. We remembered the occasion well. We came 
near the farm where the farmer had wanted $5 of us 
before he would let us go and sit down in the farmyard 
and eat our lunch. We remembered the negotiation. 
He contended that, although he did not intend to mow 
the grass, it looked nice and we should probably damage 
it to the extent of $5 at least. There was ‘‘nothing 
doing.’ Five dollars was too much. and the Ramblers 
departed and found a place on the other side of the lake, 
where there was grass to sit on and a well to drink from, 
and no financial consideration to confront them. 

‘Today Mr. Robinson led us to the boathouse, and 
we crossed the lake in a naphtha launch that he had pro- 
vided for us. Arriving at the other side of the lake we 
took a path in the wood where a magnificent oak tree. 
turning to brown and gold, seemed to give us cordial wel- 
come, and the path up the hill was equally delightful. 
The woods were everywhere putting on their autumnal 
robes, and sassafras, staghorn, sumach, Virginia creeper 
and other shrubs seemed to rival each other in the em- 
bellishment of the path. The flowers were getting 
scarcer, but the golden rod and the purple aster were 
there to greet us before the Winter storms should come 
on. Lobelia gigantica was the most conspicuous flower, 
and we met it often during the day. Its blue blossoms 
kept company with the persicaria and the swamp sun- 
flower when we passed the brook, and even made an 

[ 233 ] Sec. 16 


effort to accompany us as we climbed the dry mountain 

‘Lobelia,’ said one, “‘is good for the nerves,’ but 
I advised to let the flower remain, as no concoction or 
decoction could equal the nerve tonic that the exhilarating 
ramble was administering. We do sometimes get accounts 
of the wonderful cures that are found in these plants 
that I only regard with admiration. One of the Ramblers 
last Sunday, for instance, told how he had been cured of 
malaria by yarrow after he had vainly tried some of the 
best doctors in Paterson. 

We came at last to the Robinson bungalow and our 
kind hostess received us with her usual cordiality. We 
sat down on the big piazza and ate our lunch, and par- 
took of the coffee that Mrs. Robinson provided for us. 
We sang the club songs and then came together for a 
short business meeting. Several communications were 
read, one from the industrial exhibition committee, sug- 
gesting that the club should walk in the forthcoming 
parade in a body, but after discussion it was found that 
so many members had promised to promenade with other 
societies that the members at liberty would be a poor 
representation of the Paterson Rambling Club. The 
Women’s Suffrage Association asked for our assistance to 
the extent of allowing one of their speakers to address 
us, and this was granted on condition that the address 
should not exceed half an hour. The discussion showed 
that the suffrage cause was advancing, and if it should 
come to a vote, the Ramblers might support it, particu- 
larly in the absence of such demonstration as the English 
Suffragettes were wont to exhibit some time ago. 

But it was hard to keep conversation from drifting 
into the European War. At one point some English 
friends were caught singing ‘“The Death of Nelson,’’ and 

[ 234 ] 


one member protested, as it was a breach of neutrality. 
But the song was nearly finished and the great admiral 
had breathed his last when the watchful objector came 
upon the scene. “The deed was done, but the suggestion 
was made that the effect might be modified by singing 
“Die Wacht am Rhein,” and this was done, and then the 
inspiring strains of ‘“The Marsellaise’’ rang out. After 
all, we were cosmopolitan and in our vocalism we gave 
the conflicting nations each a fair musical ‘‘show.”’ 

Mr. Robinson and his son, Brookes, then organized 
a ramble to the Gorge. We went through the pathless 
woods for over an hour and then came to a deep ravine 
where the wild laurel and the hemlock held undisputed 
sway. How deep the chasm was and how delightfully 
cool! The water of the rivulet might be flowing from 
some gigantic iceberg. In one place there was a cave, 
and some explorers were down to the end of it, but the 
majority preferred to stay outside and depend for reports 
on the return of the expeditionary party. Then a short 
walk brought the Ramblers to the public road, and the 
loud honking of the automobiles proclaimed that we were 
again in the region of “‘civilization.’’ Indian caves, deep 
wooded glens, and lonesome pines all vanished and ‘‘Look 
out’! “Keep on this side’! and similar exhortations be- 
came the order of the day. 

We passed several bungalows and a residence where 
Evelyn Thaw once taught school before she became cele- 
brated. We also saw the tent where the young men of 
the Christian Association came to commune with Nature 
and look from Nature up to Nature’s God. ‘Then we 
came again to the Robinson bungalow and having par- 
taken of more refreshments we began to think of going 
home. It was decided to take the 6:10 train, and we 
had nice time to catch it. 

[ 235 ] 

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Rogers’ Wands of Today 
and Yesterday 

HAVE a young friend who lives in West 
Hoboken, and who formerly lived in Paterson. 
When I go to see him he never fails to ask me 
what Rogers’ wood looks like today. In times 
gone by my friend could always be found in some 
part of the wood, in the hours that followed his release 
from the office duties and until the descending sun gave 
notice that it was time to go home. He was a lover of 
flowers—wild flowers particularly—and he knew the 
haunt of every species; knew where to gather the first 
violets and where the latest blossoms of the year, the 
closed gentian and the purple gerardia, delayed their de- 
parture until the approach of the snowbird proclaimed 
the near advent of winter. 

One would have to go a considerable distance from 
West Hoboken to find a rural spot; there is a park, which 
contains about fifteen city lots, and where about seventeen 
stunted trees, bending over a few patches of dusty grass, 
seem trying to make themselves as cheerful as possible 
under the circumstances. This is nearly all that my 
friend has to console him for the loss of Rogers’ wood. 
In answer to his inquiry I am obliged to give some very 
unsatisfactory accounts of his favorite haunting place. I 
am obliged to tell of the vast desert of city garbage and 
ashes which has covered the spot where the Maryland 
yellow-throat warbled, and where the pensive vesper 
sparrow built his nest. 

But Rogers’ wood ‘‘dies hard.’’ ‘The space between 
the lumber yard and Thirty-first Street has grown an- 

[ 237 ] 

CC ORIN WT Revo Av AIL ics 

other crop of herbage and another grove. The roots of 
the former trees were never cleared, and so from them has 
sprung a younger grove, where Nature is doing her level 
best to repair the ravages of so-called “improvement.” 
There one can still gather the steeple-bush and the spring- 
beauty, and here, though constantly becoming scarcer, the 
blue skull-cap still gladdens the heart and helps to cure 
the people afflicted with nervous disorders. I once helped 
a very anxious father to gather the plant. His little 
daughter was a victim of that distressing malady known 
as Saint Vitus Dance. I knew the plant. but knew noth- 
ing of its medical qualities, and I told the man that I 
would not be responsible for any harm that might come 
from its application. We hunted the thicket over and 
found a few specimens of the plant, which the gentleman 
carried home with much satisfaction. 

After that I immediately began to be a bit nervous 
myself. I wondered if it really could be posible that I 
had made a mistake, but no, I could not possibly mistake 
the skull-cap for any other plant, surely. But still I 
was not entirely satisfied. So I gathered more of the 
plant and went home to make a decoction of it. This I 
drank, with a determination to take my own medicine 
and run the risk of any possible consequences. After that 
I hastened to the address the gentleman had given me. 
I found him just as he was coming from the Sunday 
school. He had not made any use of the plant, and at 
my request he promised not to do so until he had seen 
“The Morning Call” the day following. I said to him: 

“If you see an account of my death, then you may 
judge what caused it; if not, then you may consider it 
safe to use the plant.”’ He laughed and said: ‘‘All right, 
I will follow your advice.’ 

I experienced no bad effects whatever, and after con- 

[ 238 ] 


cluding that the plant had been applied to its original 
purpose, I ceased to think about the matter and finally 
forgot all about it. One Sunday afternoon, however, a 
gentleman spoke to me in Lakeview avenue. He said: 

“Oh, Mr. Rydings, I have wanted to see you for a 
long time, and have desired to thank you for pointing 
out to me that skull-cap in Rogers’ wood. My little 
daughter began to improve as soon as she began taking 
it, and is now quite well.” 

The news astonished me, as I was never much of a 
believer in the medical properties of the plants and flowers 
that I knew and admired. 

“What is the good of knowing the plants if you do 
not know their qualifications?’”” many an old herbalist 
has said to me. It seems that I was destined to know the 
‘qualifications’ after all, for I never pass the pretty 
scutelaria without recalling the incident in Rogers’ wood. 
According to Oliver Wendell Holmes, one sign of the 
millennium will be the willingness of doctors to “‘take 
what they do give,’’ and surely, as an amateur doctor, I 
did, in the case of the skull-cap, take my own medicine, and 
so, to a little extent, I may claim credit for bringing that 
“blessed day’ a little nearer, it seems to me. 

A short distance from where the scutelaria was gath- 
ered stood the ancient chestnut tree. Jacob Rogers 
thought a great deal of this tree, and when its giant limbs 
came apart he had the tree sustained by an iron brace, and 
the branches welded together. In addition, he came pur- 
posely to the spot when the big sewer was being laid along 
Nineteenth avenue, and he chanted the refrain of ‘““Wood- 
man, Spare that Tree,” in language more vigorous and 
peremptory than even the author of the poem himself 
ever contemplated. 

But the old monarch has fallen after all, and the last 

[ 239 ] 

CiO.UN TER ¥ eWay ie 

time I walked in that direction its limbs and trunk lay 
scattered on the ground. The ancient landmark could 
no longer be spared. ‘To a fanciful view,” as Cowper 
says, the old fellow should have felt resigned to his doom. 
What was there to live for when his beautiful neighbor, 
the wild plum tree, had been cut down? What was exist- 
ence to him when the oriole and scarlet tanagers had de- 
serted him, and when only a few sparrows and one or two 
melancholy starlings came to lodge in his branches, and 
when instead of the sweet breath of fresh herbage, only 
the sweet breath of the garbage dump was wafted on the 

But the garbage dump has now extended almost to 
its limbs; there is little now to be filled up; a triangular 
hollow along Twenty-seventh street only remains. I 
often wonder what some future geologist will report when 
he comes to search for fossils in this conglomeration; 
some scientific student, we will say, about the time when 
Macauley’s New Zealander takes his stand on the ruins 
of London bridge and sketches what may be left of St. 

About half way between ‘Twenty-seventh street and 
Thirty-first, on Nineteenth avenue, there stood a fine old 
maple tree, which I am sorry to say, has fallen like so 
many others. For the space of two months or more it 
supplied a little gray tree toad with a dwelling place. 
The little creature never seemed to stir from its place for 
more than about an inch or so, when, by some instinct or 
other, it climbed the tree or lowered itself along the trunk, 
but the course of travel did not exceed four or fire inches. 
It clung close to the bark, and so like the bark in color 
that the two could scarcely be distinguished one from the 

I worked in the woods at the time, and had to pass 

[ 240 ] 


the little fellow every morning. I always supposed that 
someone else had seen him and carried him off as a pet, 
but his place in the little crotch of the maple tree knew 
him no more. 

This part of the wood is as yet undefiled by garbage, 
and probably if the neighboring residents would enter a 
protest, the place might be allowed to remain so. The 
ground is comparatively level and would need but little 
grading, and it would be a blessing if even so small a 
part of the wood could remain pure and undefiled. Well, 
I have heard it said that there is no intention on the part 
of the land company to fill in the wood on the east side 
of the railroad, and I hope the rumor may be true. 

But even “‘la dompa,”’ as the Italians call it, has its 
interesting reminiscences for me. It was one of the places 
where I helped to pick up the Italian language. The 
poor fellows that worked there were very patient, and 
they allowed me to practice on them. I see that nearly 
all of the original tribe are gone. Dick and Silvestro, 
Pietro and Barrone have got work elsewhere. The last- 
mentioned once gave me a very stern reproach for what 
he considered my irreverence. I shall never forget it. 
There had been the feast of the Madonna of Pompeii the 
day before, and Barrone was late that morning in coming 
to his work. Ina jocular way I suggested that he might 
have been celebrating the feast with too much festivity. 
I mentioned the name of the saint in making my sugges- 
tion, of course, not thinking that there was anything 
wrong at all, but Barrone’s face became very grave and 
he beckoned to me, so I went over to him and in Italian 
he said: 

“Listen to me a moment. When the name of the 
Madonna or of Jesus Christ is spoken, it is a good custom 
to raise the hat, thus,’’ and putting his fork in the earth, 

[ 241 ] 


he placed his left hand upon it and with the right he lifted 
his hat in great solemnity. 

I was astonished, for we had jested with each other 
so often that I could scarcely associate anything like 
gravity with Barrone, but the young fellow was as serious 
as a Methodist preacher. Was I a Christian, he wanted 
to know, and did I love God? ‘To which I replied: 

“Well, possibly not so much as I ought to do,” and 
so forth. I thought to myself, ‘‘what an unexpected 
sermon! And in sucha place!’’ Having given his little 
admonition, the young fellow took up his work again, 
but his features did not relax for several minutes. I liked 
the young fellow for his moral courage, but the others 
gathered around me as Barrone spoke, and I noticed that 
they were just as serious, though none of them spoke. 

Another time I picked up a picture of Christ from 
the garbage. It was that grand impressive face of the 
Man of Sorrows with the upturned eyes and the thorny 
crown. It is often seen and is evidently a masterpiece of 
Raphael or some other of the great painters. An Italian 
saw me do it, and he asked me if I knew who that was. 
I replied in the affirmative, and said it did not seem right 
to throw such things there. 

“You are right,’’ he said, “‘and I never do it. It is 
better to burn such objects than cast them among dirt and 
garbage, to be degraded and defiled.’’ 

He spoke good English, though I may not have 
given his exact words. In this way we came across little 
evidences of the better side of human nature, and some- 
times, as in these instances, in places where we would least 
expect to find them. The little sermon from a lowly 
“‘dago’’ in the garbage dump always comes to mind when 
I pass the spot. 

When the dump is carried beyond the railroad the 


[ 242 ] 


probability seems that- the coming summer will see the 
end of what has been a terrible nuisance. Nature is doing 
her best to hide the deformity. The common weeds 
growing there serve a good purpose, and the refuse from 
gardens is covering some parts of the ground with plants 
of a more desirable kind. In this way the sunflower has 
found a home there, the larkspur flourishes there, and 
morning glories of every conceivable hue strive to cover 
the deformity made by rejected bottles and rusty tomato 

Spring this year is late in Rogers’ wood as it is else- 
where, but the catkins of the willow are out and those of 
the alder and the hazel are shaking in the cold breeze. 
The first flower of spring has been in evidence for a long 
time. I allude to the skunk cabbage. It has not opened 
yet, however, and is waiting for a day of warm sunshine 
to open its sepals and display its curious stigma enclosed 
therein. The song sparrow is here and the mourning- 
cloak butterfly is out on the wing. But the season is late 
and I have not heard the spring peeper in the marshes, 
and until this little piping treble announces the approach 
of the vernal season it is vain to look elsewhere. 

[ 243 ] 

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A Summer’s Day Spent at 
Old Dundee Lake 

YaNa| N SATURDAY, June 26th, 1915, the Rambling 
Weis «Club went on an outing to the big swamp. The 
members met at 2 o'clock in front of the City 
Hall, but only seven members were present. One 
of these dropped off before the excursion started. 
The weather was terribly hot and sultry, and the thought 
of having to tramp along the roads that were dusty in 
places, or sticky with oil in other spots, did not form a 
very delightful vista. But the outing was down on the 
program and it must be carried out, even if Old Sol should 
heat his furnace until it approached in intensity that in 
which the Hebrew children were cast at the behest of 
Nebuchadnezzar. But it is remarkable how a short dis- 
tance out of the city will bring an improvement in mete- 
orological conditions. 

We looked out of the car windows as we rode along 
Vreeland Avenue and joyfully discovered that the leaves 
in the gardens were moving. Our spirits rose consider- 
ably, and further on there were even a few gentle zephyrs. 
When we got to Bergen County there was actually a 
breeze. This was a wonderful change, for if a silken 
thread of the finest organzine had been held aloft in front 
of the City Hall there was not force enough in the air 
to move it. It was awfully hot when we were crossing 
the bridge at Dundee Lake, and the odor emitted by the 
fermenting filth did not improve the situation. 

But what on earth is this? A surveyor’s object evi- 
dently, and inquiry elicited the fact that the Federal Gov- 
ernment had begun to survey the river at Dundee Lake. 

[ 245 ] 

COUN TiReyo Wea ks 

There was a slender post on each side of the bridge and 
a notice informing the pedestrian that the post was “‘Gov- 
ernment property,’ and that a penalty of $300 would be 
imposed on any mischievous person caught disturbing the 
said post. ‘‘Hope springs eternal from the human 
breast,’’ and one actually felt inclined to hope that the old 
dream of navigation was in the way of a possible realiza- 
tion. ‘“‘Government property’ and a fine of $300 for 
disturbing said property, surely this meant something! 
Immediately one began to see visions. Big ocean liners 
anchored at Main Street bridge, again appeared on the 
mental horizon, and the river purified by the destruction 
of the Dundee Dam, if it lies within the range of such a 
possibility to purify it, but alas! The Manchester ship 
canal did not purify the River Mersey, and the classic 
Rhine as it flows towards its outlet calls forth the poet’s 

The River Rhine, it is well known, 
Washes the city of Cologne, 

But tell me gods, what power divine 
Can ever wash the River Rhine? 

Well, something is now being done at the old dirty 
Passaic, after all. The rearing of those slender stakes on 
the bridge and the warning that the Government property 
that they cover must not be disturbed under penalty of 
$300 fine must have some significance. 

But abominably filthy as the lake is, it was not al- 
ways thus. I remember when it was a favorite resort for 
excursionists. The opposite bank near Cedar Lawn still 
shows the bare spot where Tommy Abbott and his mother 
kept their boathouse. "Tommy had great faith in Provi- 
dence, and in the efficacy of prayer, and he confidently 
assured his patrons that there was no possibility of dis- 

[ 246 ] 


aster because he never sent out one of his boats without 
going inside the house and offering a special prayer for the 
safe return of the boat and its passengers. “Thomas was 
an Englishman, and in conversation with him I found 
that he came from Manchester and had attended the Par- 
ticular Baptist Chapel in Rochdale Road. This was Old 
Gadsby’s Chapel. The preaching there was ultra-Cal- 
vinistic. My friend, Moses Berry, attended this chapel and 
imbibed copious drafts of Calvinism every Sunday until 
his naturally gloomy disposition was intensified a thou- 
sand fold. No matter how persistently he struggled to 
put off the subject the old question would come before 
him, ““Am I one of the elected?”’ 

I asked Tommy Abbott if he knew Moses Berry, 
but he replied in the negative. He was delighted to find 
that I knew someone that knew Mr. Gadsby, and he ran 
out to inform his mother, who was hanging out the 
clothes in the garden. Then the old woman came in and 
she was beaming with smiles. I had never known Mr. 
Gadsby myself, but it was something that I had known 
someone else who knew him. Then the old dame told 
me how long they had been in America and how earnestly 
they had hoped that someone would come along who 
knew the old preacher, but all was in vain. The Eng- 
lish who came to hire the boats all seemed to come from 
Macclesfield or Coventry, and not one had ever heard of 
Rev. William Gadsby. I had heard of him and had a 
friend who worshiped under him and the circumstance 
was a matter of great rejoicing. 

After crossing the bridge we went through the little 
village of Dundee Lake. I once owned a building lot 
there for which I paid $60 by installments, and what 
amazing interest I took in Dundee Lake after that! I 
visited it often to see if the lot was still there, and | 

[ 247 J 


counted every tile or shingle that was put on every new 
house that was building in the hope that I would finally 
get as wealthy as some of the land purchasers | knew, but 
the price of real estate at Dundee Lake kept going lower 
and lower. At last I heard of a man who had sold four 
lots there for $24 each. Then I began to realize that 
property at Dundee was ‘“‘not what it was cracked up 
to be.” 

I often used to read the title deed, and was proud 
to know that 25 by 100 feet, starting at Dundee Lake 
and extending to the center of the earth had been con- 
veyed to me, and it had not only been conveyed, but it 
had also been enfeoffed and also “entailed,” and not only 
had the land been conveyed to me, but all its heredita- 
ments in the bargain! What more could anyone want 
than that? All their lawyer jargon delighted me, and I 
was a Bergen County landowner for about five years, until 
the thought struck me that my money would be better in 
the bank, and when the present owner offered me a 
hundred dollars for my lot I gladly concluded the bargain, 
and I “‘enfeoffed’’ ‘‘conveyed” and ‘entailed’ it to him. 
Since then the dye works have been built, and Dundee 
Lake last Saturday was looking up. Some of the land- 
Owners are asking as much as four hundred dollars a lot, 
But that old fraudulent word ‘asking’ again! It is easy 
to ask, but what you are getting determines the value. 
I could have made myself a millionaire if asking could 
have done the trick, but 

“The real value of a thing 
Is just as much as it will bring.”’ 

The village was interesting last Saturday, and the old 
birds and butterflies were flying over it, and I could enjoy 

[ 248 ] 


them all the more because I had no money sunk in the 
earth any longer. I paid $1 a year in taxes, and the 
dollar covered poll tax, school tax, poor law tax and 
highway rate. The office of tax receiver seemed to change 
its occupant often. I went to pay the tax once in Gar- 
field, and once I went to pay it in Fair Lawn, in an old 
Dutch Colonial house that always interested me. ‘The 
tax collector told me it had been in his family for many 
generations. I have vivid recollections of the old garden 
with its old-fashioned flowers, so that my brief experience 
as a Bergen County landowner had its pleasures after all. 
The Ramblers pass on along Orchard Street and 
come to the Bergen short cut. We walk along the track 
a short space and then we come to the Jewish cemetery. 
We take a narrow woodland path, and at the end of this 
the old process of picking off ““beggar lice’’ begins. I had 
noticed that the tick trefoil was very abundant, but did 
not think it was ripe enough to cause any annoyance. 
The walk ends in Midland Avenue, and we go 
through a portion of the old swamp until we come to the 
great spring. Here we sit and refresh ourselves with the 
cool water that formerly bubbled up in a score of little 
aquatic volcanoes, each one throwing little eruptions of fine 
grey sand. It used to be one of the annual pleasures of the 
Rambling Club, this visit to the great spring. The old 
wooden gate which separated it from the road still swings 
on its old rusty hinges, but the familiar figure of Van Riper 
was absent. I inquired of the caretaker where Van Riper 
was, and he wanted to know where I had been living for 
the last four years, that I did not know that the old 
gentleman was dead. I was sorry to hear of it, for the 
familiar form of the interesting old proprietor of these 
primeval woods always seemed a part of the very solitude 

[ 249 ] Sec. 17 


itself, and one can almost imagine that Nature sighed 
when such a true-hearted lover of Nature passed away. 

The portion of the wood opposite was once the 
property of an old friend of mine, William McCullough. 
Poor Billy! He toiled every Saturday afternoon and 
Sunday to clear the stubborn bit of the primeval forest, 
attending to his work in the meantime as a weaver at the 
mill of Doherty & Wadsworth. I made his acquaintance 
one Sunday morning when he had cleared enough of the 
land to begin erecting his little domicile. Billy was un- 
fortunate, and his home in the swamp and all his ‘‘here- 
ditaments’’ passed away from him. He became a Socialist 
and scorched the capitalists for all they were worth. I 
often wondered what had become of him, and learned the 
other day that he had passed to the Great Beyond, where 
the capitalists cease from troubling and the poor pro- 
letariats are at rest. 

But all Dundee seems to be a graveyard of buried 
ambition. In Orchard Street we passed four lots that my 
French friend, Gaston, bought and cleared. He spent all 
his leisure time grubbing out those stubborn roots. 
Finally he gave up the task, and shook, not only the dust 
of Bergen County, but all that of all America off his feet 
and he went back to France. Where is he now? Pos- 
sibly those sinews which grubbed with such persistence at 
the hard tree roots have been shattered by a German shell 
and are lying imbedded in some trench of La Belle, France. 
The Ramblers numbered six when they started off from 
Paterson, but other members joined them at Cedar Lawn 
corner, and as we approached the Broadway car tracks we 
numbered about a dozen. The outing after all has been 
a pleasant one, although a few mosquitoes have exacted 
from our bodies their usual tribute paid by visitors to the 
Arcola woods. 

[ 250 ] 

A Day in the Heart of the 
Preakness Mountains 

HE Rambling Club spent Sunday, October 17th, 
1915, in the heart of the Preakness Mountains. 
They were the guests of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas 
Fleming. Nature at first seemed a little out of 
humor; perhaps, to use a homely phrase, the good 

lady had that morning “‘got out of the wrong side of the 

bed.’ ‘The sky was overcast and most of the Ramblers, 
when they met at the City Hall, had brought their um- 
brellas with them, and one had even shielded himself by 
putting ona raincoat. But as the day wore on faint sug- 
gestions of sunshine began to peep through the clouds, and 
in the afternoon the Preakness hills and the Ramapo range 
way out in the distance were radiant with golden sun- 
light. We took the car to Haledon, and arriving there 
we began to climb the Ramapo Turnpike. We stopped 
to look again at the old maple tree, and were pleased to 
see that the surgical operation it underwent a few years 
ago had proved an entire success. ‘The tree is living still, 
although its inside has been entirely removed and the 
cavity filled with concrete. We came to the crossroads at 
the top of the hill and began to plod along Pompton 

Road as we had so often done before, but the road was 

all cut up, and was in the hands of the Italian excavators. 

“We will not be annoyed by automobiles today,’’ said 

one of the Ramblers. Well, no, but the wind was a 

greater annoyance than the automobiles. However, by 

stepping carefully on the boulders trespassing occasionally 
on the wayside gardens, picking our way through the 
mud, we managed to journey along. 

[ 251 ] 


What is this? Ai little cheewink has struck the tele- 
graph wire and his little body lies helpless at our feet. 
His beautiful vesture of brown and white wins our ad- 
miration, and one begins to get indignant at the supposed 
buntsman who shot him, but no, there is not a cut or 
wound on his body. The little fellow has been electro- 
cuted. His lively call, ‘“Towee, towee,’’ from the thick 
covert of the shrubbery, will no more salute us. For a 
minute in contemplating the tragedy we almost became 
oblivious of the condition of the road. The bird prob- 
ably had been killed while flying with his fellows in a 
flock on their southern migration. Poor cheewink! 
Where the road has been deeply cut up, immense boulders 
have been exposed. One of these seems entirely of flint. 
Some are of the curious conglomerate formation which 
goes by the name of pudding stone, but with few excep- 
tions, all are a long way from home. All were carried 
hither when Pompton Road and the site of Pompton it- 
self lay underneath the glacial ice. 

We reach the ruins of the old farmhouse, and here 
we find our young fellow-rambler, John Barbarrow, Jr., 
away up in the branches of a very tall pine tree. He is 
gathering pitch, which he takes from the big pine in large 
lumps. Scores may come thither on the same errand, but 
it never occurred to them to approach so near to heaven 
in their expeditions. We enter the wood at this point 
and find ourselves in a solitude so vast that beyond our 
own voices not a sound is heard, except the occasional 
scream of a jay or the caw of a crow as it flits far up in the 
blue firmament. The air is fragrant with the odor of 
pennyroyal, and the dogwood trees glow with bright 
scarlet berries. Underneath, as if trying to outshine the 
dogwoods, are the brilliant scarlet berries of our old 
friend, Jack-in-the-Pulpit, but the pulpit iself is now no 

[ 252 ] 


more, for the little evangelist has preached his last sermon 
and the curious little blossom of early spring now is trans- 
formed into this still more curious stalk, all crowded with 
beads of the brightest coral. The evangelist is no longer 
a preacher in his curious pulpit, but has become a sport, 
and his vivid scarlet vestment outrivals that of our Eng- 
lish fox-hunter. 

But many of the flowers in the mountain solitude 
have a weird look, and remind one that we are wandering 
away from civilization. The pale, ghostlike berries of 
the bane-berry almost make one shudder, but the knowl- 
edge that they are poisonous helps to give them their ‘“‘un- 
canny’ appearance. With the same suggestion of death 
comes the little flower of the Indian pipe, which another 
of the Ramblers has found in the ravine. <A pipe sure 
enough,, if you regard only the foundation, but what 
lover of the soothing weed would ever select for his calu- 
met anything so suggestive of a morgue? In some parts 
of the country the flower goes by the name of the corpse 
plant. Yes, this pale, ghostly blossom as we handle it is 
beginning to turn black. Just look at it! Throw it away, 
Rambler, for if you carry it home the object now sug- 
gestive of dead men’s fingers will have become black as 
the skin of a mummy. And how ghoulish some of the 
fungi appear! 

‘There is no likelihood that you will venture to eat 
those pale toadstools, dwelling under the dark shadow of 
that hemlock tree, they would probably soon hasten you 
to that journey from which no travelers return. But if 
you had been here when the big fungus on this rotten 
birch tree was still young and fresh you would have found 
a fair substitute for a delicious beefsteak. But if you had 
taken it home and begun to fry it you would probably 
have thought of the corpse plant that grew so near it, and 

[ 253 ] 


you would not have eaten a morsel, before first trying it 
on the dog. Even the sweet everyday wayside blossoms 
in this solitude are very unsociable. The purple aster 
here seems to prefer to live alone, and the daisy so genial, 
here makes a hermit of itself and the tribe is represented 
by a single blossom. 

And now we come to the dark pool where the five 
children were drowned. Sad and gloomy like everything 
else, or at least it would be, if we ourselves were gloomy, 
but the sweet mountain air cheers as like new wine, and 
we walk along from one pleasantly reminiscent spot to 

Where in the world am I? I only left the Ramblers 
a few seconds ago, and here I am a helpless stranger in 
the wilderness. The white birch covered with a strange 
parasitical growth of fungus allured me to leave my com- 
panions for a moment and venture inside the wildwood, 
and here I am! Which way did my friends go? How 
must I get to the spot where I left? Well, I know that 
a straight line can be taken in many directions. How- 
ever, I think I passed that gray boulder on my way to 
the tree. Yes, I have it, and am soon at the edge of the 
forest again. But the Ramblers have gone! No, not all, 
a glimpse of a little white jacket reassures me. But as I 
move towards it how fast those blessed Ramblers move 
along! By putting on all my speed I come within hail- 
ing distance of the crowd and am soon in their cheerful 
society again. But— 

“Oh, solitude, where are the charms 
That sages have seen in thy face?’ 

Well, the forest would have been charming enough 
if I had not been all alone. The white fallen birch was 
a study in itself. “Those fungi on the trunk had killed 

[ 254 J 


it. They had drained from it every atom of vitality, and 
the brave fellow had kept upright until one windy day, 
it could hold up no longer. It snapped and fell to the 
ground. ‘The reflection on the catastrophe perhaps kept 
me a moment too long, and in this way I missed the 
Ramblers, and might have shared the fate of the babes in 
the woods. By the way, I am not the first of the 
Ramblers to get lost in this forest. When the Club was 
in its infancy two adventurous members came hither, and 
seeking the way home, they took the wrong opening in 
the forest, but they went on and on, believing it would 
come out somewhere. But they began to perspire with 
anxiety, as one labyrinth path led into another, until at 
last they came upon a camp of charcoal burners and these 
gave them a few directions, which finally brought them 
‘again in terra cognita. Only a few years ago a couple of 
hunters lost their way in these Preakness woods, and were 
almost famished when the searching party came upon 
them. So after all, we are nearer the primal wilderness 
than we are apt to imagine. Go out a few miles from 
the city, ascend some tree-clad hill, wander on a few paces 
with your mind fixed on flowers, or game, and you soon 
become a lost body, whatever may be the state of your 
soul. But who can lose John Barbarrow or Fred Camp- 
bell? Outside of New Jersey it may be possible, but 
where the Palisades skirt the horizon or where the top of 
the High Mountains show itself above the trees, there is 
no danger of death from famine in the wilderness. 

Soon we come upon the old familiar fields where we 
have to be very careful and put the base of the gate-posts 
exactly as they were, to keep the marauding cattle from 
straying, and this is Fleming’s. We feel at home at once, 
though the old homestead is on the other side of the 
meadows. We sample the apples fallen from the trees 

[ 255 ] 


and experience a touch of regret that so many of the 
melons have been overtaken by the cold storm before they 
had time to become ripe. But our old friends at the 
farm are ready to greet us, and the crop of friendship and 
good-will never fails or changes whatever the agricultural 
harvest may be. We spend the time as usual during al 
fresco from our lunch baskets and going to renew ac- 
quaintances with the farm dogs and the kine, where it 
soon became “‘Hail fellows, well met.’’ We feel like sing- 
ing the old Methodist camp meeting song, ‘“‘And are we 
yet alive, and see each other’s face?”’ 

But how fast that sun does travel toward the hori- 
zon! ‘Tam O'Shanter by the blazing ingle, and with 
the ale that was aye growing better, never felt more re- 
luctant to leave the spot than we do under this old white 
ash tree. But it would not be safe to let the sun descend 
even below the pine trees. So we sing our ‘‘Parting 
Song”’ and bid our friends good-bye, and are soon on our 
homeward way. 

We have just time to wander a short space up the 
clove and look at the shelter rock. Yes, here it is, just as 
the last relic hunter left it. It would be no use to potter 
among this heap of brown sandstone soil, for Max Schra- 
bisch has been over it, and any small arrow point or pot- 
sherd that his practical eye could not detect would cer- 
tainly be a wonder. But what is this? A book! The 
indefatigable archeologist must have sat down here and 
after eating his sandwich, had taken out his book for 
mental refreshment, or it may have fallen from his pocket. 
What is it? The Odyssey of Homer translated into 

I take it up with the intention of restoring it to its 
owner. ‘But are you sure it belongs to Mr. Schrabisch?”’ 
Why, of course, who but the human library, the walking 

[ 256 ] 


encyclopedia, would bring Homer to a solitude so remote? 
And here lies the tale of the wanderings of Ulysses after 
he left the siege of Troy. In our own wanderings how 
commonplace are the scenes we have passed in compari- 
son to the adventures of the mighty Rambler of ancient 
Greece, of whom the blind poet sang! 

Yes, Iam sure of the owner. Who but the modern 
Ulysses, the Ulysses of our New Jersey hills, would come 
here and for a moment of pleasant recreation would take 
it out and read again ‘““The Tale of Troy Divine?’’ But 
subsequent inquiry from Carl Schondorf reveals that the 
book did not belong to Mr. Schrabish after all. The 
archeologist himself found it there on his last visit and 
left it on the pile of Indian refuse. Another explorer, evi- 
dently also a German, had been to the Indian shelter rock 
to dig for relics, and by accident most likely had left the 
volume there. But, poor Homer! If the rains of ancient 
Greece ever soaked the scanty rags of the minstrel mendi- 
cant half so much as the rains of New Jersey have satu- 
rated this book of the Odyssey, the plight of the poet 
must have been deplorable. ‘The calf binding has swelled 
to twice its size and the thin leaves cling to each other as 
if life depended on their cohesion. Still with a little 
drying out, the wanderings of Ulysses may again be legible 
and entertaining to anyone who can read them in their 
German dress. 

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“Wetting” a New Estate On a 
Deiat Saturday 

T is Sunday, one of those days when the elements 
seem as if they were animate, and as if they com- 
bined to make the inhabitants of this ancient world 
as wretched and miserable as possible. I have 
been out all morning and in this blessed city, 
too, feeling just a little thankful amid all my misery for 
those kind storekeepers who have placed awnings in front 
of their establishments where a man can fold his drip- 
ping umbrella for a few seconds and view the passing 
show; trolley cars reeking with the steaming breath of 
crowding passengers, hanging for the most part to straps, 
bedraggled pedestrians hastening one wonders whither. 
Some to church perhaps, some to soil and ‘‘muss’’ the 
floor and carpets of uncomplaining friends who are 
patient enough to receive them. Some will seek refuge 
where, in spite of the law, the chance to get wet inwardly 
is considered a slight compensation for the misery of the 
outward ablution. One wonders if we shall ever get a 
real sensible Sunday which might justify one in saying: 
This is the day the Lord hath made. Let us rejoice and 
be glad, etc., etc. 

Happy for some of us that we can find a place where, 
with dry clothing, we can write, and, finding the elements 
so disagreeable, can transfer the mind to other times and 
more pleasant conditions. The writer has only to turn 
back the mental dial a little less than one day, for yester- 
day the Rambling Club went to the Great Notch, and the 
weather and other conditions were so delightful that the 

[ 259 ] 


outing was regarded as one of the most successful the mem- 
bers have ever had. 

One of the members has bought a large tract of land 
near the Notch, and he felt disposed to “wet” his new 
possession, and did so yesterday by inviting his fellow 
Ramblers and giving them a treat. In England, when I 
was a boy, you were expected to ‘‘wet’’ every new posses- 
sion before you could hope to enjoy it under the ancient 
traditional law. A new job in the factory had to be 
“wetted” by treating all to a drink, of course, as no 
milder form of beverage in those pre-temperance days 
would have been considered efficacious. 

Our fellow member, Mr. Robinson, decided to ‘‘wet”’ 
his new estate by treating his fellow Ramblers last Satur- 
day, but the beverage was non-alcoholic. In a small 
cavity where some ancient valcano had split the rock our 
entertainer had made a fire, and upon an improvised iron 
grid a coffee pot big enough for the inhabitants of 
Brobdignag had been set to boil, and this it did right 
merrily after the members had reached the spot. ‘The day 
was fine, but cold, and the hot coffee was a welcome ac- 
quisition. We had passed through a farmyard where a 
big black combination of mastiff and newfoundland 
growled at us terribly and shook his chain as if to let us 
know that only the fetters of iron protected us from cruel 
and certain death. Tied to a tree was a collie wagging 
its tail in friendship, as if it would be glad to see the 
Ramblers every day, and as if it were trying to excuse 
and make up for the inhospitable and rude behavior of its 
neighbor. A third canine was shut up in its kennel by a 
wooden door, which it tried to force, but in vain. This 
dog also barked vociferously in its efforts to get out, but 
the tone was not definite enough to enable us to decide 

[ 260 ] 


whether the animal if released would be a friend or a foe 
to the new visitors. 

The place where the coffee was dispensed was con- 
siderably elevated and commanded a splendid view of the 
mountains lying in a westerly direction. We could see 
Boonton, with its white houses halfway up in the hill, and 
the mountain chain stretched northward until it took in 
the High Mountain, the Beech Mountain, and, as some 
thought, even the distant Ramapo hills, while to the south 
Montclair and the Orange Mountains were also visible. 

The season was late and the flowers were all gone. 
Everything seemed so quiet, as if Mother Nature were en- 
joying her well deserved repose. Not a cricket gave out 
its cheerful minstrelsy, and the toads—-where were they? 
_ Deep buried in the ground or in the slime of the neighbor- 
ing pond until the warm spring sunshine shall rouse them 
from their lethargy. There were swarms of starlings, 
though other birds had flown, except a few robins that 
had decided to winter here and save the trouble of going 
to Florida. When the members had rested a short time 
and partaken of the coffee they prepared for the most 
romantic and the most difficult part of the journey. “They 
passed over the southern part of Garret Rock, near where 
it ends at the Great Notch. The night was almost upon 
us and in some places the narrow mountain trail was com- 
pletely buried by fallen leaves. This made the task of our 
guides, Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, somewhat difficult to 
accomplish. But a little touch of danger seemed to add 
zest to the proceeding. 

One or two of the oldest members were reminded of 
the fact that it was the very identical part of the moun- 
tain where our first ramble took place. The club was first 
organized on the High Mountain, but the ramble referred 
to was one just previous to the organization. It took 

[ 261 ] 


place on a Sunday and I remember it well. The ladies 
were dressed “‘in any old sort’’ of a dress or garment that 
the garret or lumber room could afford, so as to avoid 
rivalry with Dame Nature, who then was wearing her 
most charming vernal robe. As they sat in the trolley car 
coming home it was found that not a single glove could 
be shown where the fingers could not protrude, and 
scarcely a skirt was visible where the barbed fence or the 
thorny brier had not left their mark. 

The hermitage of Nicholas Murphy had just been 
vacated. ‘The old man had lived so long on the bare rock, 
sheltered only by a roof of cedar branches, that pneumonia 
at last took hold of him, and an old frying-pan, a wash- 
bowl and some tomato cans were the only relics of the 
hermit who many years before had suffered the pangs of 
mis-prized love and had retired to brood over the incon- 
stancy of woman kind in that lone wilderness. This by 
the way was the ‘hermitage’ that the poet of the 
Rambling Club had in mind when he wrote the Parting 

When the Ramblers reached the eastern ledge of the 
mountain it was dark and the lamps were lighted in all the 
towns and villages which lay before them. It seemed like 
a fairy scene and one wonders why the mountains had not 
been ascended before for the sake of beholding such a 
novel and enchanting spectacle. How wonderful is the 
fact of electrical illumination as shown from such an ele- 
vation. Richfield was the brightest, for its lamps were 
near at hand, but Passaic made a brilliant display, while 
Garfield, Harrison, Hoboken and a part of Newark seemed 
to be trying to make the landscape before us one complete 
“white way.” 

When the Ramblers had descended the rock in safety 
they no longer “‘stuck together.’’ Half of them waited 

[ 262 ] 


for the Montclair omnibus and half of them walked back 
to the city. 

The writer came back by “’bus.’’ How reminiscent 
the voyage was ofi the old omnibus of my Lancashire day! 
When I had finished my piece and was taking it back to 
Manchester I traveled by ‘‘ ’bus’-—fourpence outside and 
sixpence in; I remember the old vehicles well. A man 
named John Greenwood owned them. He was a keen 
master to work for, and though he never insulted his 
workpeople openly, he rebuked them in a stinging, caustic 
manner that left no doubt of his intention, though ap- 
parently the thrust was not intended to wound. An 
acquaintance of mine had been a warper before he engaged 
as ‘‘’bus’”’ conductor for old Johnny. He worked for Mr. 
Greenwood for years, but finally concluding that he would 
try and manufacture silk, he one day gave old Johnny 
notice that he was going to quit. 

“And what art gooin to be, lad,’’ said John. 

“I’m going to manufacture silk goods,’’ said the young 

Well, well, well!’’ said Johnny. ‘‘What a lot of trades- 
men I have started in business for sure!”’ 

“Aw’ve set up doctors and lawyers and aw don't 
know how many others and neaw it seems awm goin’ to 
set up a silk manufacturer! Well, well. well.” 

The young fellow did not make any reply, he could 
rot, for old Johnny had not directly called him a thief, 
but, what was the plain inference? 

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[ 263 ] 

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A Ramble Along the ‘Tow-path 

HEN the Paterson Ramblers took the car to Little 
Falls last Saturday afternoon they found ample 
room. ‘The season had become so late that the 
usual crowd that rushes to Singac every week-end 
and every holiday had ceased to think of that 
resort, the Ramblers with just a few country men and 
women who had been to the city to make their pur- 
chases were all the passengers that the car contained. The 
season was so late that people had begun to think it very 
unconventional, if not eccentric, to wander away from the 
city streets, but the Ramblers care little for conventionality, 
and when the appointed time arrived for meeting in front 
of the City Hall there was quite a good number present. 
It had been planned to take an outing along the shore of 
the old Morris Canal. There were no mountains to 
climb, no rivers to ford, no swamps to wade through, and 
consequently the lover of adventure had little to attract 
them, but to the lover of Nature in her quiet mood, the 
old Morris ocean is always charming. The water was as 
clear as that of a mountain stream, and in places the gray 
pebbles at the bottom were plainly visible. One of the 
oldest Ramblers pointed out the spot where he first learned 
to swim, and he told how a Negro servant of his father 
had taken him when a little boy and had thrown him in 
the canal without any ceremony and told him to swim or 
drown, and somehow in a way that he could not explain, 
he succeeded in taking the former alternative, and had 
been able to swim ever since. 

The patient mule has ceased to plant his footprints 
on the tow-path, but the feet of men have made a splendid 
little narrow track through the grass and weeds that other- 

[ 265 ] Sec. 18 


wise would have covered the tow-path, and to walk along 
this path was a pleasure indeed. There was a fine dis- 
play of autumnal plants. In one place the trellises of the 
carrion flower attracted great attention. So near in 
appearance were the dark purple berries to wild grapes 
that the youngsters were, with difficulty, persuaded not to 
taste them. Doubtless the berries afford food to the birds 
as the nectar of the malodorous flower in summer attracts 
the flies that feed on carrion, but even in its autumnal 
beauty we will not forget its past misdeeds and the stink- 
ing effluvia with which the flower assailed us in the fair 
days of June when we took it in our hands. It is the 
carrion plant still, even if in autumn it does try to appear 
like its neighbor the wild vine. 

Near to it were beautiful specimens of the clematis. 
‘The white flowers were all gone, but they had been fol- 
lowed by seeds that resembled the gray locks of old age. 
How pretty they certainly were! How many inquiries 
they elicited as to what such a strange but beautiful dweller 
of the tow-path fence could possibly be! Though the 
Saint's Day has been over for many a week there were 
found several specimens of the Michaelmas daisy to keep 
one in remembrance of the saint himself, who contended 
with Satan over the body of Moses. Why they contended 
is not known even to learned commentators, and why 
these beautiful blossoms of the flower dedicated to St. 
Michael should have delayed their departure until all their 
composite sisters had fled wou!d puzzle anyone but a poet. 
Here they are, however, helping to make this canal side 
ramble more enjoyable. 

This bayberry tree is almost stripped of its leaves so 
that this cocoon of the cecropia moth, clinging to one of 
its branches, becomes very conspicuous. We pull the 
object from its fastening and open the cover. There lies 

[ 266 J 


the dormant baby enveloped in all this warm silken 
covering, put to bed with great care by Mother Nature, 
though the baby’s actual mother never even had the 
pleasure of seeing her own offspring. And yet what a 
warm bed it would have been and how snugly the insect 
would have been protected from the fierce wintry blast if 
one of the Ramblers had not found it and had not mis- 
chievously torn the walls of its dormitory apart and taken 
the sleeping pupa from its cradle. The insect is some- 
times known as the American silk worm, and this wild 
silk has been even made into cloth, but the poor Yankee 
cecropia has had little encouragement as yet from com- 
merce. It is the old story of inability to compete with 
the silk worm of other countries. 

Insect life in the dormant state is interesting. In 
one place a Rambler found a little colony of sleeping in- 
sects, all tucked and put to bed in the finest of brown silk. 
How strong the little threads were and how they glistened 
in the sunlight as the Rambler who found this round 
spider ball tore the covering apart, took out the silk, and 
spread it in folds over the back of his hand! Possibly it 
may not always be that we shall go to China for our silk. 
Nature has been spinning it around us for many centuries. 
Some day commerce perhaps may take hold and turn these 
wild products to some use. ‘This, of course, is only a 
fancy, a rambler’s fit of imagination as he passes along the 
brink of the old Morris Canal. 

One advantage of this canal ramble is that there are 
no barb wire fences to encounter. We find sufficient 
natural objects of all kinds to engage our attention, with- 
out trespassing on the neighboring fields. Even this poor 
little garter snake, beautiful as it is, would have interested 
us had it been alive, but some one who must have regarded 
it as a near relative of the serpent that invaded Paradise 

[ 267 ] 

© -O.UIN TR Yaew iLike s 

has taken its poor innocent life away. The truth is that 
there are no snakes around Paterson in these days that one 
need destroy. “The copper head is now extremely rare and 
the rattlesnake vanished with the Indians. 

The Ramblers left the tow-path at Stony Road 
bridge and went in various directions to their homes. All 
agreed that the walk had been a pleasant one, and all spoke 
of the loss that would be felt by the club and lovers of 
Nature in general should this old waterway be abandoned, 
or turned to some commercial use that would forever de- 
stroy such pleasure as the members had enjoyed during 
this pleasant Saturday afternoon ramble. 

The next outing of the club will be to High Moun- 
tain on Sunday next. The members will meet at the 
City Hall at 9:30, and take the car to Haledon, from 
whence they will walk to the top of the mountains. 

On Wednesday, the twentieth, the annual meeting 
will take place. This will be held at Columbia College, 
Market street, and will be preceded by a supper at the 
French Restaurant on Ramapo avenue. All wishing to 
attend the supper will confer a favor by notifying the 
president, James Egan, Paterson street, before Sunday, if 

[ 268 ] 

A Trip to Garret Mountain 


URING my twenty years’ life in this city I have 
met with one or two Patersonians who have told 
me that they had never been on Garret Mountain. 
Tastes differ, of course, but to me it is inconceiv- 
able how any one in perfect health and with the 
use of his limbs, can walk the streets of this city for years 
and feel no desire to climb the noble eminence which looks 
over our city and seems to guard it as the Rock of Gib- 
raltar guards the Mediterranean. I have been up there 
scores of times alone, and in company, and the interest in 
the mountain never abates. To me it is like a beautiful 
kaleidoscope. Nature never presents the same picture 
twice together; sky, or landscape, and changing regula- 
tion always offers a new scene. It varies with the chang- 
ing season, and with the varying atmosphere; summer 
and winter, heat, cold, rain and drought are like the colors 
on the palette of the painter, and each element contributes 
something fresh; something to make the glorious pano- 
rama still more glorious. 

“Of course, you'll go up the mountain,’ was always 
my suggestion when a visitor came to see me from some 

other town, and a cheery response was always given, and 
the ramble invariably ended to our mutual satisfaction. 

I have climbed the mountain with old men for com- 
panions, and in the language of Scripture: ‘Their 
youth has been renewed like the eagle’s.”’ I have held 
innocent childhood by the hand and we have climbed the 
steep hillside merrily, and the ringing laughter of the little 
toddling pilgrims has made the rocks resound. I was up 


[ 269 ] 


there on that memorable May morning when the riot took 
place and when the peaceful scene changed so suddenly 
to one of anger and violence, and riot and bloodshed. 
At one time my friend, Andrew Donnelley, and I went 
up there every Sunday afternoon. We considered that it 
paid us, and that the renewed vigor thus gained was 
shown in the next week’s earnings; but such a thought is 
by no means new: ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the 
hills from whence cometh my strength,’’ so sang the 
Psalmist, and Byron gives expression to a_ similar 

“O’er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills 
Whereon to gaze the eye with joyance fills, 
Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place 
Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase 
And marvel men should qutt their easy chair, 
The toilsome way, and the long, long league to trace; 
Oh! there ts sweetness in the mountain air 
And life that bloated Ease can never hope to share.”’ 

Those who are familiar with the mountain are aware 
that there are several approaches to it, but the one oftenest 
taken is that where the ascent begins immediately after 
crossing the canal bridge at Stony Road. Up we go, and 
after every hundred yards or so, we may with advantage, 
turn around and look at the northern part of the city as 
it comes more and more within the view. Out in the 
distance rise the Goffle hills with the bold peak of High 
Mountain standing in their midst; and further on the 
horizon touches the Ramapo Mountains and, scattered 
here and there upon the landscape, are villages and white 
farm houses, pleasant to look upon. Our own city at 
this point adds much to the beauty of the scene—the Falls 
and Westside Park and the winding river being the chief 

[ 270 ] 


features of attraction. On we go, and are soon beneath 
the dark shade of the hemlock grove, wild and romantic. 
Who would dream that a city with a population of a 
hundred thousand or more lay within a stone’s throw of 
a spot so arcadian as this? What a transformation? 
The noise of the steam whistle has given place to the rich 
soprano of the hermit thrush. The dusty sidewalk has 
changed for a carpet formed by the fallen leaves of pine 
and hemlock, adorned with the bright green foliage and 
the red coral berries of the partridge vine. Green all the 
year round. We walk on leisurely—for few people 
would hurry through a scene so enchanting as this—and 
then we pass through a rustic site and come out in the 
open plain again. Here we get another view of the city, 
the most extensive one, ranging from the town of Passaic 
-on the right to North Paterson on the left, with the low 
flat table-land of Sandy Hill lying in front of us, where 
we can see, on bright sunny days, boys and girls and 
young men a little larger than ants or grasshoppers, at 
least so they seem. We now walk along the edge of the 
cliff and the mountain slopes down to the railroad 
through meadowland which in spring is green as emerald. 
The botanical reader will learn with interest that one of 
the rarest of our native wild flowers is found growing 
among the fragments of broken trap-rock just below this 
part of the mountain. Village doctors and herbalists call 
it blood-root, and the name is well applied. Beautiful 
blossoms are these and they almost seem animate for, if 
you pluck them they bleed, and if you are over-sensitive 
you can almost be made to feel that you have done a very 
cruel thing by robbing these delicate white bleeding 
flowers of their life. Yes, the blood will stain your 
fingers until you begin to feel like another Cain or a 
second Lady Macbeth. I found the plant here for the 

[ 271 ] 


first time last spring, having only met it once before 
in the woods along the Palisades. We continued our 
walk and soon came to the forest again. Oak, cedar, 
hemlock and birch thickly growing together began to 
embower us. In spring the ground is adorned with a 
rich variety of flowers. The rocks are draped with the 
brilliant red of the mountain pink, the nodding bells of 
the columbine embellish the groves; white anemones hide 
in the shade and the exquisite blue of hepatica adds one 
more to the floral treasures of the vernal season. Today 
the flowers are gone, and the snow covers the mountain. 
It has drifted heavily in the rocky glens and forms a 
charming background for the dark cedars and hemlock. 

After a while we come to Lambert’s tower, an ad- 
mirable landmark which takes in a view of the country 
for many miles on every side. We notice the names 
which visitors to the spot have left here. The massive 
door has been scrawled over with aspirants after im- 
mortality. One, it seems, came here from Yorkshire, 
England—brave old country of the white roses. We 
leave the tower, and in doing so we just venture to the 
edge of the cliff and look down. There is a fissure in 
the rock which venturesome youngsters used to employ 
some years ago, if they wished to descend the mountain 
from this spot. It was a dangerous passage, and by 
annexing it and closing the entrance to it, Mr. Lambert 
may take credit for saving many boys from the danger 
of breaking their necks. It used to be called the ’’Devil’s 
Staircase.’’ Having left the tower and gone about a 
hundred yards or so, the visitor may seat himself on just 
one particular spot and shout to “‘the man in the tower.” 
I have often amused little mountain climbers by getting 
them to sit down on the rock here and call to the mythi- 

[ 272 ] 


cal being, who would seem to have taken possession of 
the tower since we passed it a minute since. 

It certainly is a remarkable echo. But the “old 
fellow’ answers back so quickly that it is best to use at 
most a couple of words of one syllable: ‘‘Rats!’’ “Shut 
up!’ “Go home!’’ “Cheese it!’’ always had the best re- 
sults, and the little folks would chuckle merrily at the 
‘Sassy’? way in which “‘the old man in the tower’ would 
pay them back in their own verbal coin. Leaving alike 
the tower, the “‘Devil’s Stairway,’’ and the echo, we come 
at once to an open plain and this is where the prickly 
pears grow. ‘This cactus plant grows nowhere on the 
mountain so profusely as it does here. and it certainly is 
wonderful, for the soil on the rock is so thin it seems a 
wonder that the rain does not wash it away. Gentle 
reader, have you ever seen the cactus in flower? If not, 
it would be worth your while to come here some day in 
July and look at this rock. It would be worth the 
trouble if there was nothing else on the mountain to look 
at. But beware! Don’t attempt to gather it! Don’t 
make a mistake and think it is the large visible prickles 
you have to guard against; oh, no; it is the little spines 
so small that they are scarcely perceptible, and which are 
found in minute brown clusters in different parts of the 
plant. ‘These are ‘“‘the little foxes that spoil the vines.”’ 
Better leave the plant alone. But advice is hardly neces- 
sary. ‘hese exquisite flowers would have been gathered 
and the plant exterminated long ago but for the penalty 
attached. It is Nature’s way of protecting herself, and 
see what beneficial results! 

Watch the birds on this cold winter day, how they 
come to feed on the purple fruit, and imagine that if they 
could thank the Providence that watches over them, it 
would be for the thorns and spines of the cactus which 

[ 273 ] 


have been so instrumental in securing “‘their meat in due 

A short walk further and and we come to a glen, a 
cleft or notch in the mountain, and this is the extent of 
our ramble in a southerly direction today. 

We might leave the mountain at this place and 
descend to the Notch Road, but we will follow the glen 
in a westerly direction. A little brook runs through it, 
and on this cold winter day the valley is so well sheltered 
from the north wind that we begin to enjoy the pleasure 
of the change at once. This is where the laurel grows, 
and there is enough of it to crown all the poets and heroes 
that the world has produced from Alexander the Great to 
Admiral Dewey. It is here where the everlasting flowers 
grow. The slopes are white with them in the early part 
of September. Winter has one special vegetable charm, 
and it makes this valley glow in certain places. I allude 
to the cecrastus vine, the bright scarlet berries of which 
adorn the trees and climb the rocky cliff, and blend their 
bright colors with the whiteness of the untrodden snow. 

The valley now comes to an end and the stream 
empties itself into Barbour’s Pond, a beautiful lake when 
it is filled with water, but the element sometimes fails, 
and the place becomes a pond only in name. Today, 
however, the lake is full and frozen over, and the pictur- 
esque scene is complete. A good old couple lived in that 
humble cottage some years ago, but the house is now empty 
and apparently going to decay. It was once the scene of a 
midnight robbery. The old lady related to me and a 
friend the circumstances of that unfortunate night. A 
stranger, a well-dressed gentleman, polite and suave, had 
visited the farm the day before, and seemed anxious to 
purchase land in the neighborhood. He made several in- 
quiries, was shown over the place, and during his short 

[ 274] 


stay was treated very hospitably by the kind-hearted old 
man and his wife. In the night they were awakened out of 
their sleep, and at the point of a pistol were told to de- 
liver up their money. It was kept in a little old chest, 
and this was rifled and the scanty savings of years were 
taken away. There were two burglars, and one the old 
woman recognized, though he had changed his clothes in 
the meantime, as the polite and courtly aristocratic visitor 
whom they had entertained the day before. “The two 
men were never captured. 

I am reminded of a comical incident which hap- 
pened on the border of this lake many years ago. I had 
a cousin with me, a young man just over from England. 
We had been roaming over the mountain and he was 
several yards behind me when he cried out: ‘“‘Oh, come 
here. Here is a snake with horns!’”’ I had heard of 
curious snakes before, including the one with two heads 
that the Rev. Cotton Mather, the old New England 
founder and witch-finder, claimed to have seen in the 
woods of Massachusetts, but a “‘snake with horns’ was 
certainly a novelty. Well, there it was, sure enough, and 
more marvelous still, the horns were branched into five 
sections. We watched the creature, but it never stirred. 
Oh, it would be easy enough to capture it and doubtless 
we could get a good sum from Forepaugh or some other 
showman for a freak so wonderful as that. But,—stay, 
the horns begin to move, although the rest of the snake 
lies still! Then the mystery was cleared up. ‘here were 
two animals in one. The snake had half swallowed a 
frog. The latter creature had gone down the snake's 
throat all but the two legs which stretched out on each 
side of the head and presented the appearance of horns 
which had so puzzled my cousin and myself. The frog 
struggled hard and protested against being annexed by his 

[ 275 ] 


majesty the snake, as the cook in the yarn of the ‘‘Nancy 
Bell’’ protested against being similarly absorbed by the 
only other survivor of the shipwreck. But the frog, like 
the cook in the old sailor’s yarn, had to go. 

It was quite a tragedy while the struggle lasted, and 
we did not see the end of it, but left the frog still kicking 
as we came away. 

We soon come to the end of the lake and leave the 
mountain where a row of big cherry trees skirt the road 
opposite to an old farmstead, now burned down. A 
short walk down this old country lane and we come again 
to Stony Road, to the spot where we first started off. 

We have traveled the mountain, but after all have 
only seen a small section of it, and, in fact have only 
passed round this section, and have not traversed it in 
various directions as we might have done had time al- 
lowed. Our next ramble will be from the glen opposite 
Albion Place, along the mountain top till we come to the 

Great Notch. 


The rigor of this ‘“‘old-fashioned winter’ has been 
fierce, but it has not been continuous. There have been 
short spells when Nature seemed to hold her icy breath, 
and when we could venture out without danger of getting 
our ears frozen, even though we failed to protect them by 
drapery that made one look as if one belonged to a tribe 
of Esquimaux instead of the ordinary population of New 

It was during one of these short-temperate spells that 
the writer started out on his pilgrimage over the southern 
part of Garret Mountain—the part which our previous 
sketch left unexplored. I climbed the hillside from the 

[ 276 ] 


Notch Road at a point just opposite Albion Place, and 
rested for a short while near where the old spring used 
to be. The spring, however, has gone, and merry picnic 
parties will no longer gather beside it and pluck branches 
from the fragrant bush of sweet-briar that bent over it, 
It was never a very clear spring, and possibly it may have 
been abandoned for sanitary reasons. ‘There is a fine view 
of the southern and western parts of the city from here, 
and on a clear day we can catch a glimpse of Staten Island 
and can see the Statue of Liberty and the towers of 
Brooklyn Bridge, and many of the big skyscrapers of New 
York. Very conspicuous, too, are the graceful spires of 
St. Patrick’s Cathedral when the sun is preparing to go 
down, and when the eastern skies are clear. 

Having climbed thus far and recovered my breath, 
I started out again to ascend the most difficult part of 
the mountain. It is not only steep, but if one should 
lose his hold and slip down it is not a bed of roses that 
would receive one; the sharp, ragged points of these pieces 
of broken trap rock upon which we should fall are not 
very inviting. But, though the ground slips at times 
from beneath my feet, the branches of the shrubs and trees 
are tough, and help one along considerably. Even the 
young shoots of hickory in its first year’s growth afford 
me wonderful assistance, although in trepidation I keep 
mentally repeating: 

“Beware the pine-tree’s withered branch, 
Beware the awful avalanche!”’ 

At last I reached a spot where the shrubbery ceased, 
and where nothing but the smooth surface of half-frozen 
snow intervened between myself and the mountain top. 
It would be foolish to attempt this in an upright position, 

[ 277] 


so I went down on all fours like Nebuchadnezzar and 
scrambled up to my desired haven. A curious object met 
my gaze, and made me halt for a time when | was about 
half way up. Plainly imprinted on the frozen snow was 
a footstep, a footstep like that of a man, only that the 
fore-part was cloven in two pointed sections! Oh, horri- 
ble! If my pious ancestors had seen it they would have 
said their prayers and turned back instantly. It was there 
sure enough, and | mentally ejaculated with Edgar Allan 
“Thing of evil 
Bird or devil?’ 

But it was neither, as I afterward found out. I 
saw the same snow-prints after I had reached the moun- 
tain top, and the weird mystery became clear. A rabbit 
had been foraging and where its hind portion had touched 
the ground the imaginary heel had been formed, and in 
the act of springing it had pushed its forefeet through 
the snow, and the marks thus made suggested the curious 
diabolical appearance that first drew my attention. On 
the mountain top the impressions had been recently made, 
and there was no connection between the prints of the 
forefeet and the impression which looked like a heel; but 
on the mountain side the snow had melted a little, and a 
small stream of water had run from the impression of the 
forefeet to the supposed heel, thus forming an imaginary 
instep, and thus the “‘uncanny’’ object was complete. A 
harmless rabbit assisted by snow and frost and thaw had 
been the cause of all the mystery, and so conscience re- 
sumed its slumber, and what might have been a solemn 
call to repentance passed unheeded. 

It was well that nothing of a diabolical nature 
should mar a spot so beautiful as this, even though it be 

[ 278 J 


so hard to climb. It is the place in early spring where 
Dutchman’s breeches grow. The visitor to these moun- 
tains can never have realized their full charm unless he 
has come here in May and seen how bewitching these deli- 
cate pale yellow blossoms of the dicentra nestle in the 
crevices formed by the broken pieces of rock. The 
common name is very appropriate. Turn the blossom 
upside down and you have a fair representation of those 
wide bag-shaped pantaloons that the old Dutch colonial 
settlers used to wear; such as the sapient Wouter Van 
Twiller arrayed his nether limbs in, when he dispensed 
his rare judgment to contending litigants in the settle- 
ment of New Amsterdam; and such as might have 
adorned the limbs of Anthony, the trumpeter, when he 
sallied forth on his patriotic but fatal mission to arouse 
the faithful burghers of the New Netherlands to a sense 
of impending danger and warn them to prepare and arm 
themselves against the invading Yankees. 

Now that I have climbed the mountain successfully, 
I can “‘take mine ease’ like Sir John Falstaff in his 
tavern and look around. What a glorious panorama! 
To the north the eye takes in the Goffle range and the 
Ramapo mountains beyond. To the south the prospect 
stretches until it reaches to where Bayonne and Elizabeth- 
port settle down in front of Staten Island. In the east 
the dark grey ridge of the Palisades appear against the 
sky, while towards the west one range of hills arise be- 
hind another until we see the spot where the white towers 
and spires of Boonton seem to touch the horizon. 

I pass on and soon come to a part of the mountain 
which is very much frequented by chickadees, but singular 
to say, I cannot see a single one today. The flock may 
be feeding by the side of some neighboring brook where 
winter food is more plentiful than it is here. It is in- 

[ 279 ] 

CoO UNITIR Yoew A kes 

teresting to come here in summer time and see these 
sprightly little fellows in their favorite haunt. My 
friend, Robert Howe, was with me once and I astonished 
him by showing him how we could whistle for the 
chickadees and get them to come at our call. We both 
began to whistle and it was curious to see how the birds 
gradually left their feeding places and came to the trees 
in front of us until there must have been a considerable 
flock of them in the bushes around us. There were no 
chickadees here today, but a flock of snowbirds had taken 
their places. These birds are not responsive to the human 
whistle and they take flight at my approach. 

I continue my way and come to what is perhaps the 
wildest and most romantic part of Garret Mountain. It 
is known locally as Washington’s Rock. There is a faint 
tradition that George Washington came here and used it 
for a point of observation when his army was in retreat 
through Jersey. Of course the idea is scouted by some, 
but the place is remarkable, even if it has never been 
honored by a visit from Washington. The chief feature 
is a monstrous cliff so high that one’s neck must be 
stretched to an uncomfortable pitch before the eye looking 
from the base can discern the cedar-crowned summit. It 
is made up of Plutonic rock, but here the volcanic forces 
must have been particularly active. Just think of the 
vast energy shown by this old world of ours in some 
remote geologic period when the thick sandstone rock 
forming the surrounding plain was rent asunder and this 
huge cliff then a mass of lava was belched from the earth’s 
interior until it cooled and crystalized into the majestic 
eminence that we now so much admire! What fire has 
done frost has tried to undo,, so the valley underneath 
the cliff is strewn with segments of trap which have been 
piling here for ages. Winter after winter the frost king 

[ 280 ] 


bas come hither and with his silent hammer has been 
chipping away at this mountain until, magnificent as it 
is today it may only be a pigmy in comparison to its size 
when the giant forces of Nature first moulded it. 

I follow the valley which curves round the side of 
the cliff and am soon in the dense woods once more. 
How intense the solitude becomes! The snow reveals the 
fact that two men and a dog came here at Christmas time. 
‘The men cut down a cedar tree and dragged it down the 
hill for a Christmas tree and the trail of the cedar follows 
the men’s footsteps. The dog must have had a taste for 
exploration, and it went further in the wood than the 
men had gone, but all of a sudden it turned back; prob- 
ably the day was bitter cold, and it may have occurred to 
the canine intelligence that there was no place like home 
even for a dog. With the disappearance of the dog’s 
footprints every trace of animal existence vanishes. Not 
even a crow spreads its wings beneath the firmament, and 
the solitude becomes intense. 

After a while I come upon an Italian, an old man, 
who is chopping down a cedar tree. He starts at my ap- 
proach, and we regard each other as Robinson Crusoe and 
Friday must have done when they came face to face. The 
old man seems to think that I am the owner of the wood. 
“Ees eet all right?’’ he asks humbly, glancing down at 
the fallen trees. I answered that it was all right—and so 
it was as far as I was concerned. He smiled contentedly 
and began to chop away again. I watched him for a 
minute or two and then noticing that the sun was be- 
ginning to go down, I bade my new companion good- 
bye and plunged into the wood again. 

‘The snow had obliterated everything in the way of a 
path, and I could only conjecture the right way by fol- 
lowing the way where the trees seemed to stand a little 

[ 281 J Sec 19 


distance from each other and thus form a narrow avenue, 
but after a while even this would come to an end and I 
had to brush aside the brambles and make my own path. 
At length I came to the reservoir, and here the ground 
became familiar. There were notices warning off tres- 
passers under penalty of law and all that, but surely the 
water company would never mean such an innocent tres- 
passer as myself who had come to take a look at the 
beautiful lake they had created in these mountain solitudes, 
and admire the magnificent dam by means of which the 
waters were locked up and preserved for the service of 

I came here when the reservoir was being constructed 
and when a little army of Italian laborers were employed 
on the job. Their village of rudely constructed shanties 
covered the valley below, and today about half a dozen 
of these tenements remain. I could not tell whether they 
were occupied or not—some of them seemed empty, but 
one could not judge by the absence of visible furniture, for 
these industrious and frugal Italians never incommoded 
themselves with furniture to a great extent. Leaving the 
reservoir by a path that runs by the brook, I crossed over 
the Newark pipe line and came out on the road which 
leads through the Notch to Little Falls. Here Garret 
Mountain comes to an end, and here my humble sketch 
likewise comes to a termination. 

2 aah 

[ 282 ] 

From Jitneys to Old Indian Trails 

AG| CCEPTING the kind invitation of their fellow 
4{ members, the Rambling Club visited Pompton 
Lakes last Sunday. They went by jitney and 
filled two buses as they started from the City Hall 
at 10 o’clock in the morning. The ride for the 
most part was a delightful one. The road chosen by 
someone—whoever it might have been—-was somewhat 
indirect, and we passed through several townships which 
we could have avoided, but we felt disposed to believe that 
as the day was so delightful a decision had been arrived 
at that the Ramblers should get plenty of “‘landscape’’ for 
their money. 

We passed for eee the old church at Preakness. 
Singular to say, when we have put down Preakness church 
on our list of rambles, the rain has come down in torrents 
and the outing has had to be abandoned, but today as we 
pass the venerable sanctuary not a drop of rain is falling, 
and the sun is shining brilliantly over all. Plain, grim 
old edifice, a monument and a reminder of the stern Cal- 
vinists that built it, in days when Puritanism ruled the 
faith and the life of the industrious farmers who came to 
worship within its venerable walls, in days untroubled 
by modern theology and philosophic doubt, in days when 
Jonathan Edwards and Timothy Dwight were pillars of 
the church, and when men still read and were interested in 
the Rev. Cotton Mather’s wonderful Magnolia Christi. 

But the jitney moves by so quickly that little oppor- 
tunity offers itself for rumination. “That we should move 
quickly away from the scene is advisable. For one thing 
we are breaking the Sabbath as those ancient Puritans 
considered it, and though we can hardly imagine that they 

[ 283 ] 


will rise from their solemn beds and protest against us, 
still it is best to take no chances. 

We pass beautiful farmsteads where every domestic 
care has been employed to make the house presentable on 
this, the quiet and holy Sabbath morn. An occasional 
farmer is seen working around, but he is probably a new- 
comer unfamiliar with the cherished traditions of the 
Sabbath-keeping spot. His ungodly children do not 
mind our sacrilege, and even come to the gate to cheer 
cur flying car, and wave their salutations as we pass. 

The road seems to cut through one sand bank after 
another, relics of a bygone age when this fair plain had 
its existence at the bottom of the primal Lake Passaic. 
When the mastodon and the woolly elephant came to 
quench their thirst, and the primal dragons in the slime 
fought and tore each other until the gray sand was 
reddened with their blood. 

We speed along and across an interesting field we 
catch sight of the hospitable roof of the Good Times 
Outing Club, and beyond that we see the charming sum- 
mer abode of our friend, George Rear, and we would be 
ungrateful indeed if pleasant and thankful recollection 
of these fair halting places in our Club’s pilgrimage did 
not rise within our breasts. But how erratic our journey 
seems to be! What sudden twists and turns we make 
as we come to the end of every lane! Well, we must 
have patience. If the final halting place should be the 
bungalow by the lake of our friend, Robinson, what does 
it matter how many turns we made in the meantime, and 
what does it signify if we pass through every village in 
this part of the State? Therefore, we enjoy the shift- 
ing and turning until we come to a spot where a preced- 
ing automobile has stopped because the exploring driver 
could really go no further. 

[ 284 ] 

LN aMAANY Vb ber p’s 

‘The automobile referred to is not damaged, but just 
stranded. It had gone along this unfrequented road 
until it could go no further, so the passengers philosophi- 
cally made the best of it. They lit a camp fire and 
brought out from the mysterious interior of the car a 
{frying pan and kettle, and the odor of. beefsteak and 
onions is beginning to permeate the grove. But our ex- 
pedition must find a way out. 

An old rustic lane is found on our left, and after 
the drivers of the two buses have been consulted they 
think they can make this unfrequented thoroughfare, so 
off we go, but very slowly. The road is split up in 
three ruts and these are very deep, the farmer’s cart has 
made them at some time in the world’s history, but it is 
hard to say when. However, they fit into the wheels of 
our jitney and we move along, but very slowly. All 
thought of speed has utterly vanished from our mind, 
and we are concerned only over our safety. We look at 
the accompanying forest and wonder whether we shall 
have to be thrown, in spite of all the driver’s care, among 
the woodland thicket. We love the woods and have often 
sung their praises, especially at this time when they are 
changing to such radiant and gorgeous colors, but we 
shudder at the thought of being thrown among them 
through the windows of an overturned jitney. Still 
those two drivers were heroes, and no captain on the 
raging sea ever held his ship so steadily as our drivers 
held those jitney cars under their care. But still it was 
finally decided that the Ramblers had better get out and 
walk the rest of the way. Mr. Robinson said the dis- 
tance was not far, and so we took to the woods. 

Curious to know in what part of the globe we were 
stranded, I inquired of Mr. Robinson, and he said it was 
Indian Road. I was not surprised. Indian Road or 

[ 285 ] 


Aboriginal Avenue fitted well with our surroundings. 
When we began to follow our friend through the forest 
we left the two jitneys standing on the road, and they 
were to be at Pompton Lakes to receive us when we came 
home, but how they emerged from Indian Road is a 
miracle. I would not suggest that Indian Road be 

An old neighbor of mine once lived near a road in 
Boston, where more carts were wrecked and stranded 
than on any other road, but when anybody suggested 
that the thoroughfare should be repaired the old man 
became indignant. “The road is past mending, “‘it’s 
done,” he would say. 

“Say, James, how can any road be done,” an 
objector would say, but the old man would not stand 
for any argument, and always contended that the road 
was ‘‘done.’’ And if he had seen Indian Road he would 
have insisted that it was also ‘‘done,’’ as if a road, like an 
old shoe, could be picked up and thrown in the garbage 
when it was ‘‘done.’’ Indian Road was certainly “‘done’’ 
for fair. We came out of it ultimately without even a 
broken limb, thanks to the care and skilful guidance of 
our two drivers. 

And when the period of Indian Road had passed 
and we could walk along it and admire the beautiful 
Autumn scene that it presented, we began to think we 
might possibly visit it again. It is all right, but not 
for jitneys. 

After about two miles of a ramble through the forest 
we came upon the Robinson bungalow, and here we 
began to light our camp fire. “There was quite a strong 
gale blowing and we became apprehensive as to forest 
fires, but instead of building the fire on the top of the 
ridge we started it where a little grove of cedars shut off 

[ 286 ] 


more of the gale, and little by little one damp piece of 
firewood yielded to the flames after another, until finally 
the entire heap caught fire. “hen it was found that our 
crossbar which held the kettle was being consumed. We 
had to remove it and substitute the limb of a green tree, 
and then everything was all right. The coffee was made 
and served, and considering that we had to get on as well 
as we could without the presence of Mrs. Robinson, who 
was still in Boston, the Ramblers performed their task 
very wonderfully. One lesson we have learned, and that 
is to use green wood for a crossbar when we build a camp 
fire, and as we make everybody welcome to our knowl- 
edge, any of my readers addicted to camp fires will remem- 
ber always to use green wood instead of dry for a cross- 
bar to hold the kettle. 

In the afternoon we took a ramble to the canon. 
Yes, it is not necessary to go West to seea canon. ‘There 
is one even here in New Jersey. The lover of the sublime 
in Nature finds here as much as his soul can absorb. 
Such a pure crystal stream meandering along at the bot- 
tom of the dark ravine, and the magnificent natural wall 
of the chasm, made by the constant wearing away of its 
brown sandstone for thousands and perhaps millions of 
years. The herbage is scant, for except at high noon not 
a ray of sunlight penetrates the forest gloom. Mosses 
and ferns abound, but the very rare flowers are stunted 
for want of light. Even the hardy valeria gigantica 
puts forth only a couple of blossoms on each stem. 
Sheltered from the winds the hemlock trees grow to 
magnificent proportions. We visited the bear’s cave—at 
least our young explorers did. “They crept through the 
entrance on their hands and knees and went inside. One 
of them said he went the entire length, and Mr. Robin- 

{ 287 ] 


son told us that the cave was thirty feet long and about 
twelve feet wide. 

As we began to approach the end of the ravine we 
were actually pleased to hear the sound of Klaxons. We 
began to sigh again for civilization, and so even the snorting 
of the motor cars took on a welcome aspect. It had been 
arranged for the jitneys to pick us up on the road at the 
end of the canon, of course, providing they had escaped 
from the perils of Indian Road, where we left them. 
Well, it seems that “‘some sweet little cherub who sits up 
aloft’ had kept both them and their drivers from all 
harm, and we were glad to climb into them again, and as 
their drivers kept to the straight and smooth Pompton 
toad, we rushed on contented, and after a little experience 
how brave we began to feel. Even the canal bridge at 
Mountainview, which rises to such a marvelous height, 
had no terrors for us, and we “‘made’’ it comfortably, 
while Charley Brierley sang, “If You Don’t Like Uncle 
Sammy.” ‘The rest of the journey to Paterson was with- 
out incident. 

[ 288 ] 

The Canal Tow-path in the 


T WAS a miserable day. Just such a day as com- 
46] pels ordinary sensible folk to keep round the stove, 
but such weather often has an opposite effect on 
the nature-lover, and as the drizzling rain fell and 
froze as it touched the ground, I experienced a 
strange longing to see how the old tow-path looked 
from Little Falls to Paterson; and I took the trolley and 
issued forth. “There was a margin of withered grass 
on each side of the path, and this led me to think that 
‘I could walk the entire length without slipping, but 
as the tow-path got nearer to Paterson this safe margin 
gradually disappeared and the beaten path widened and 
finally shut out the grassy margin altogether. Then it 
was that one had to crawl instead of walk, but I accom- 
plished the task with great care, and came off victorious 
over the mischievous. machinations of Jack Frost. 
I was not thirsty but, following my usual custom, 
I stopped to get a drink at the well in the farm-yard near 
the canal bridge. Luckily the well yielded its usual 
supply, but the platform on which I had to stand to 
turn the crank was one mass of ice, and although Shake- 
speare somewhere says that “honest water never laid a man 
by the heels,’’ it seemed as I steadied myself at that well 
that honest water might any moment lay me as prostrate 
as drink ever did the worst drunkard. However, with 
difficulty, the task was accomplished, and I gave back the 
cup to the lady at the house, and came away more com- 
petent to proceed along the icy tow-path than I might 

[ 289 ] 


have been had I put what is technically known as a 
“‘stick’’ in the water. 

But in spite of frost and the difficulty of ‘‘naviga- 
tion,’ I soon began to enjoy the walk, and the old 
familiar objects began to assume their customary attrac- 
tion. The office of the Little Falls Eagle was on my 
left, and I began to marvel at the enterprise that could 
think of publishing a newspaper for a community so 
small as that of Little Falls. I once asked a boy living 
near if I could get a copy, and he replied that I could if 
I would come on a Saturday. But I have never seen the 
Eagle yet, though the greeting on the sign above the 
printing office tells me of its existence, and I hope that the 
bird may flourish and that its owners may live to bless 
the day when they decided to settle on the banks of the 
“raging Morris,’’ and enlighten the natives of Little Falls. 

Here is a bird’s nest in the space where three branches 
of this wild cherry tree divide. It seems foolish to leave 
the safe margin of the towpath and run the risk of slid- 
ing down the bank, but the little deserted home of so 
much love, so much parental care and anxiety, is worthy 
of a moment's inspection. Oh, how beautiful it is! As 
the poet says: 

“Mack it well, within, without, 
No tool had he that wrought, 

No knife to cut, no glue to join, 
No bodkin to insert 

As little beak was all 

And yet how neatly finished?” 

Well, it certainly is wonderful all this folding and 
interfolding—all the weaving under and over—this lacing 
and interlacing of horsehair, dried moss and feathers, and 
thistle down, and for one season only. Perhaps in the 

[ 290 j 


warm sunshine of Florida these little builders are at it 

Peckman’s Brook is roaring and dashing along as lively 
as ever. Jack Frost has just caught it on the sides and 
adorned its marginal stones with glassy crystals, but the 
stream in the center dashes on in all its freedom. I once 
went with two boys to fish in the Peckman. The canal 
had proved unsatisfactory. We had, like the fishermen 
in Scripture, toiled all day and caught nothing, but the 
Peckman looked just the spot where a speckled trout might 
love to hide among the weeds, so the lads hastened down 
to the brook and I went with them, but instead of fishes 
in the stream there were two snakes. ‘The reptiles were 
under water and I told my little friends that they must 
be dead. So the lads threw in their lines and waited for 
the fishes. But all of a sudden they rushed back to the 
bank in great trepidation, and I wondered what could be 
the matter when I observed the two “‘dead’’ snakes come 
to life again and begin to wriggle down the stream. 
‘They were about two feet long, but they lengthened with 
each successive narration until when the lads got home the 
two Peckman snakes had become as portentous as the 
monster that came out of the sea, and coiled its folds 
around the Greek hero and his two sons. ‘Today the 
bridge under which the Peckman runs is encased in ice, 
and I have to creep like a snail to cross over it in safety. 
But if I should need help, the old man who lives in the 
nearby cabin would no doubt render me assistance. But 
the cabin is locked up and deserted except for a dog, 
which barked as he heard me, and let me know that 
though the owner of No. 1 First Avenue, is absent from 
home, it would be very unsafe for any burglar with 
covetous desires for the frying pan, the tin washboard, 
the broken chair, and the straw bed, to begin any 

[ 291 ] 

C.O U NITIR-YoURW, Aa ees 

marauding there. ‘The old gentleman seems happy and 
is always ready when I pass to greet me and pass the time 
of day. How he came to call his place of abode No. 1 
First Avenue I cannot imagine, but he must have found 
the white metallic letters on the blue background some- 
where and put them near his lonely door to make the place 
more friendly and more citified. He generally has a 
newspaper with which to pass his time, but it is some- 
times a week old. Far from the maddening crowd’s 
ignoble strife, what need has the old gentleman for the 
latest news? What does it matter to him whether stocks 
rise or fall, whether President Wilson in his latest utter- 
ance talks warlike or coos like a dove. What does it 
matter to him what Lloyd George thinks or does, or 
whether the Germans in Flanders have won or lost a few 
trenches? Along the cool, sequestered vale of life he 
keeps the even tenor of his way. And when his weekly 
wash, which consists of a towel, a shirt, and an under- 
shirt, is drying on the line, why should he envy the rich 
man who lives in the modern and well-equipped house 
on the other side of the canal? Lulled by the soothing 
sound of the trees he sleeps well in his narrow cabin, 
while thousands supposed to be better fixed toss to and 
fro in anxiety. 

Among the underbrush as I walk along there are a 
few song sparrows that have not yet begun to sing, and 
they keep near the ground diligently searching for the 
cocoons of small insects, and in one tree four crows have 
settled, but when disturbed by my approach they take 
flight, and in doing so seem much larger than their usual 
size, which is, I suppose, a sort of optical delusion. 
Poor, black rascals, it must be hard for them to get their 
food in such weather as this. 

The old July “‘swimming hole’ comes next in ob- 

[ 292 ] 


servation, but it looks lone and deserted today. Every 
sign of life has disappeared, and the closest scrutiny in the 
clear waters fails to reveal even a “‘killey’’ or a minnow. 

What is the trouble at the bridge? Well, ‘‘a horse 
is a vain thing for safety,’’ and a vain thing for reliance 
as well. Here are “‘Joe’’ and “‘Jim,’’ who have pulled 
this wagon load of household furniture from Nutley, and 
have decided that they cannot go one step up the slight 
incline which approaches the bridge. The colored driver 
urges them and coaxes them with all the flattering terms 
that Negro horsemanship has at command, but Joe and 
Jim will not move. Every approaching wagon is hailed 
and the request made for the loan of the teams, but all 
in vain, for all the drivers with one accord begin to make 
excuses. [he difficulty was overcome by the aid of a 
farmer on the other side of the bridge who came with 
two fine horses which were put in the shafts after Joe 
and Jim had been taken out. I suggested to the Negro 
that the load was too heavy, but he maintains that there 
were not more than twelve hundred pounds in the entire 
load, and that it was simply the innate cussedness of Joe 
and Jim that had caused all the trouble. The horses that 
came to relieve the stalled wagon were brought from the 
farm where the frame house, once belonging to Mr. Booth, 
now stands. he residents of Broadway well remem- 
ber the Booth mansion at the corner of Broadway where 
the Public Library now stands. It has been transported 
to the farm nearby, and although the observer may miss 
the iron dog and the stag that stood to guard it, the 
house is here, and in it lives the kindly farmer who 
proved a friend in need to the owners of Joe and Jim, 
and relieved them of very great anxiety. 

The Italian settlement on the eastern side of the 
canal does not show much activity today. Probably 

[ 293 ] 

©.0 UANVERY (6W. BAL eS 

most of the dwellers after reading the newspapers have 
taken a soothing draft of ‘‘vino’’ and fallen asleep. 
There must be “‘vino’’ in abundance there, for in the fall 
wagons came so heavily laden with grapes that they had 
to be left on the towpath side of the canal while the 
burden was removed piecemeal to the settlement. It was 
not deemed safe to carry so much of a vintage all at 
once over that frail canal bridge. If the structure should 
collapse what would become of the ‘‘vino?’’ This was 
the situation as explained to me by a nearby resident. 

And here is the old mulberry tree which generations 
of Paterson boys have climbed since it was first planted. 
Just look how its poor bark has been scratched and 
scraped by the nailed shoes of all those youngsters, and 
with all this adversity the tree is apparently stronger to- 
day than it ever was. Its fruit has fed the wild birds 
for many years, and left an abundance to reward the 
scaling vagabonds in the bargain. 

It now behooves me to consider my ways, for here 
I find myself in a municipality. West Park has become 
a borough, and the freedom that surrounds me up to this 
spot is now necessarily curtailed, and being a lover of 
law and order, I do not wish to give offence to the civic 
authority of the important borough of West Park. Long 
may it flourish and may the dove of peace begin to settle 
among its vigorous, but somewhat conflicting inhabitants. 
May its goats find abundant pasture along the old canal 
towpath, and may its Italian residents become real Ameri- 
cani and prove worthy of the land that offers them the 
blessings of freedom, as far as it can be enjoyed with due 
regard to the honor and dignity of the Borough of West 


[ 294 ] 

Reminiscences of a Popular Orchestra 

| a “rare treat.’’ He and a number of musical 
friends have combined and by their united talent 
the orchestra is conducted. He and a few other 
genial souls, some years ago, did conduct an orchestra, in 
one of the cottages in Mechanic Street, as it was then, 
though subsequently it has blossomed out into Sixteenth 

I often went to hear the performances. The per- 
formers were mostly English, and though “‘music, sphere- 
descended maid,’’ occupied the floor, it was not to the 
exclusion of other attractions. Many a good old English 
story was told, and the humble table was often set in a 
roar by the volume of laughter which ensued. On cold 
winter nights the orchestra was particularly attractive. 
The good old lady who presided over the domestic estab- 
lishment always saw to it that the stove should be kept 
alive, and that suitable warmth should penetrate every 
part of the room. 

We also took great interest in the little clock that 
added its continuous ticking to the melody, and by its 
regularity seemed to admonish every new performer to 
keep good time. It was made in Connecticut. The 
owner always spoke of it as if it were animated. He 
maintained that there was constant rivalry between it and 
the 6 o'clock trains on the Susquehanna track behind the 
house. One tried to beat the other on the six-hour point. 
Sometimes the train, and sometimes the clock, would win, 
and when the clock got ahead of the train the owner 
maintained that it gave an audible chuckle of delight 

[ 295 ] 


and triumph. It was, indeed, a merry little machine like 
the famous grandfather clock, and had none of the dole- 
ful solemnity that characterizes Longfellow’s ‘“‘Old Clock 
on the Stairs.” Its action was lively and seemed to 
accord with the jocularity of the scene, and it needed but 
a touch of imagination to conceive the little rascal as 
joining in the laughter when a story more mirthful than 
ordinary had been told. 

Death came upon the scene and the old lady was 
called away from her kitchen stove, and the event broke 
up the household. The heart of the householder was 
so saddened that the concert could no longer be per- 
formed. The violins were consigned in sympathy to 
their green coverings, and to most of us it seemed as if 
music herself were dead. The performers were separated, 
some to different localities, and varied occupations claimed 
the attention that harmony had shared before. 

It was a string orchestra. We sought no accompani- 
ment from the “‘sounding brass or the tinkling cymbal.” 
The melody was made, as an unpoetical wretch once 
said, ‘“‘by the friction of horsehair on catgut.” 

The performers followed the art for its own benefit 
and delight, and not one had any idea of making money 
by the performance. Other musicians have arisen since 
they left the old Mechanic Street stage, and the latter in 
the chase for wealth and popularity have left the humble 
fiddlers of this orchestra far behind. Perhaps the great 
masters can be better interpreted, but not to my unclassi- 
cal ear, and the recollection of Mozart, Shubert, Meyer- 
beer and Beethoven as rendered over that old cottage table 
are more charming than any subsequent rendition. 

Who invented the violin? I will give it up. Evo- 
lution is brought in to explain many things, but can 
it explain anything about the fiddle? We learn how the 

[ 296 ] 


Sone Seer 

Haledon Hill 


Beggs, Mr. 


—Mr. and Mrs. Harry E. Davis; Mr. 



In Group Can Be Dist 





s Ann 


Carl Schondorf, Mr. Rutan, Max Schrabisch, Miss Emma Searr, 



= % 
: / 




horse was evolved by gradual stages from a five-toed 
quadruped, but the violin shows no similar evolution, 
and a fiddle seems always to have been a fiddle. ‘The 
type seems never to have changed. What a marvelous 
invention it was! The centuries have not improved it, 
and practically the youngest violinist of today just plays 
with the same instrument that Amati played on centuries 
ago. Mr. Gladstone often took delight in confounding 
the reasoning of men who gave unlimited praise to the 
great inventors of modern times, and he would point to 
the violin which is made today exactly as it was made 
centuries ago and has never been improved upon, while 
every modern invention is so far from perfection that 
people set about to improve upon it as soon as it is 
patented. To Mr. Gladstone the violin seemed an in- 
spiration, and those who first conceived it must have ob- 
tained the idea from heaven. 

There is a passage in the ‘‘Autocrat,’’ which for 
sublimity exceeds all that the gifted author ever wrote. 
It speaks of old violins ‘‘played on by the old maestros 
until the bow hand lost its power and the flying fingers 
stiffened. Bequeathed to the passionate young enthusiast 
who made it whisper his hidden love and cry his inarticu- 
late longings and scream his untold agonies and wail his 
monotonous despair. Passed from his dying hand to the 
cold virtuoso, who let it slumber in its case for a genera- 
tion till when his hoard was broken up it came forth 
once more and rode the stormy symphonies of royal 
orchestras beneath the rushing bow of their lord and 
leader. Into lonely prisons with improvident artists; 
into convents from which arose day and night the holy 
hymns with which its tones were blended; and back again 
to orgies in which it learned to howl and laugh as if a 
legion of devils were shut up in it; then again to the 

[ 297 ] Sec 20 


gentle dilettante, who calmed it down with easy melodies 
until it answered him softly as in the days of the old 
maestros. And so given in our hands, its pores are full 
of music; stained like the meerschaum through and 
through, with the concentrated hue and sweetness of all 
the harmonies which have kindled and faded on its 

It was beyond my ability to take part in our humble 
orchestra. When very young a brother persuaded me 
to take a few lessons on the violin, but I lacked patience 
to continue the task and gave it up as thousands beside 
me have done. I found I was torturing myself, and 
from the woeful sounds that the instrument gave out it 
seemed clear that I was tormenting the poor fiddle. Since 
then I have left the violin severely alone. 

But at times I was invited to give some poem or 
some other literary effusion on the violin, and my audi- 
tors were often enchanted with the genial ‘‘Autocrat’s’ 
sublime dissertation. A little bit from old Lancashire 
often proved acceptable. The poet tells of the varied 
tastes and occupations that possessed the several members 
of his family, and among them was: 

“My Uncle Sam’s a fiddler 
And aw fain would yer him play; 
Fro’ set of sun, ’till winter neet 
Had melted into day. 
For, eh, sich glee, sich tenderness 
Through every changing patt, 
It’s th’ heart that stirs his fiddle 
And his fiddle stirs the heatt. 

[ 298 ] 


“When th’ owd brid touches th’ trembling string 
That knows his thoughts so weel, 
It seems as if an angel tried 
To tell what angels feel. 
And sometimes th’ wayter in his ee, « 
That fun has taught to flow, 
Is hardly rowlt away before 
It’s washed wit’ drops o’ woe.” 

I pass the old house on Sixteenth Avenue some- 
times, and can almost imagine that the immortal strains 
of Beethoven or Handel are coming through the old case- 
ment, but really it is not so. The sparrows chirp, and 
in early morning a robin from a neighboring tree gives 
voice to a song that is older than any that an instrument 
of man’s creation can supply. 

I promised my friend that I would go and hear his 
new orchestra, but I warned him that as a musical critic 
I should be worthless. I am not so unappreciative as 

Dr. Johnson, who replied to a lady who asked him if 
he liked music: ‘“Well, yes, madam, of all noises I sup- 

pose that music is the most tolerable.’ But anything 
just above ragtime pleases me best. An old melody, very 
plain and simple, which children and grown-up children 
love to hear is more to me than all that Wagner ever 
composed. I cannot tell a nocturne from a sonata. ‘‘So 
what is the use?’’ I asked my friend. ‘‘Oh, come,’ he 
replied, “‘and give us the Lancashire poem about the old 
fiddler and we shall be satisfied.”’ 

Before closing, a little violin fragment of literature 
comes to mind. It was in the days of the great Paganini, 
and all London was wild over the artist who, it was 
reported, could play better on one string than any one 
else could play on all four. He commanded an enormous 

[ 299 ] 

G.O-U NiTIRNY wWoAll kes 

price for entrance to his concerts, and some enthusiasts 
willingly paid it, but they fell under the lash of the 
literary humorist who wrote: 

“Who are they who pay two guineas 
To hear a tune of Paganini’s? 
Echo answers: ‘Pack o’ ninnies.’ 


[ 300 J 

Prehistoric Paterson, Passaic Valley and 
the Remains of a Vanished Race 

“So green is the grass, so clear is the stream, 
So mild ts the mist and so rich is the beam, 
That beauty should never to other lands roam, 
But make on the banks of our river it’s home.’’ 

OLLING time back two centuries or more, the 
imagination pictures the City of Paterson a 
primeval wilderness. The Passaic River is in its 
full glory, winding about as if it did not know 
what to do with itself, as if it had found one of 
the prettiest spots in Jersey and was in no hurry to de- 
part elsewhere. 

In the region of Paterson, the river seems to cut 
through one sand bank after another, relics of a bygone 
age when the fair plain had its existence at the bottom of 
primal Lake Passaic, when the mastodon and the woolly 
elephant came to quench their thirst, and the primal 
dragons in the slime fought and tore each other until 
the grey sands were reddened with their blood. At the 
Passaic Falls the river courses down the rocky bed and 
emits that ever enchanting melody of which the sympa- 
thetic ear never tires, the cascade keeps up a musical tink- 
ling, a divine sonata of falling waters, intermixed with 
the melody of birds. In the valley above standing like 
a sentinel on guard is Garret Rock, a conspicuous land- 
mark. Garret Rock cut down to a depth of more than 
100 feet, has existed undisturbed since the primal days 
when as molten lava the geological forces shot it forth 

[ 301 ] 


from the cooling globe. Superimposed on the volcanic 
rock are several boulders which tell their story of icebergs 
in succeeding geological ages. 

The pioneers were in the midst of a virgin forest, 
threading their way through the maze in the direction of 
Paterson. It was a mountain trail, and the soil showed 
the markings of well-defined Indian paths leading through 
enchanting groves, along murmuring cascades. ‘The 
ground was covered with leaves of oak and hickory, the 
somber brown of their texture contrasting with the vivid 
green of the ferns and the trailing vine along the way. 
Spring flowers salute them on every side, the red bud, the 
hawthorne, and the dogwood in full bloom checkered the 
hills, displaying their beautiful colors of rose and lily. 
Birds of various species and of every hue were flitting 
from tree to tree, and the newcomers imagine they had 
actually set foot on the Elysian fields. Wending their 
way along the narrow Indian path, the pioneers go 
through a portion of a swamp until they come to a great 
spring. Here they sit and refresh themselves with the 
cool water that bubbles up in a score of little aquatic 
volcanoes, each one throwing eruptions of fine grey sand. 
The newcomers follow the forest trail and many times 
they stop to pause in pleased astonishment, admiring the 
lovely scenery met with at every turn in the path. 

Through the picturesque gully at Garret Rock, the 
trail led upwards, the woods obscuring the distance from 
the foot to its summit. Mother Nature was singing her 
song of encouragement, over the rocky surface the pioneers 
ascended the crest of the hill until the summit was reached. 
‘The climb up the mountain side was enchanting. Nature 
was at her loveliest. The pinxter blossom was in its 
glory. ‘They saw the Maryland yellowthroat in a copse 

[ 302 ] 


as they climbed the hill and floating leisurely in the blue 
ether was a magnificent specimen of an eagle. 

At Garret Rock the eyes of the pioneers rested upon 
far different scenes than those that greet our eyes today. 
High mountain and the Goffle range clothed to their sum- 
mits in green are seen through the intervening forests 
as the setting sun illumes their wooded heights. Upward 
curls the smoke of the Indian wigwams. In the distance 
dimly visible between the trees the curling smoke is seen 
denoting the lodge and village of the Lenape Indian en- 
camped upon the shores of the river. The amphitheater 
of the distant mountains and the neighboring hills formed 
a splendid panorama. ‘The enchanting river and the ad- 
joining woods, and the Indian wigwams along the shore 
added its quota to the delightful scene. In the valley 
below the red men in their village were discussing the 
strange pale-faces and watching the newcomers with eager 
interest. He understood Nature, her ways, methods and 
moods. ‘The white man did not. They scoffed at the 
spirits in the forest and cut the trees down. They feared 
not the thunder and lightning of the angry spirits of the 
sky! ‘They were strange and hard to understand, except 
one, he who spoke in beads and tokens and carried no 
firearms. [he noble Penn beloved of all Indians. 

The pioneers descended the crest of the hill through 
a romantic ravine, the passage led through, where the 
solid rock forms mural cliffs and the ancient path was 
worn deep by the passage of countless soft-shod feet, and 
standing under the shade of the primeval beeches, they 
expected at any moment to see a half-clad troop of Lenape 
step noiselessly along its course. So ended the pioneers 
first visit to the famous promontory, Garret Rock, where 
the glorious panorama of the Preakness hills and the 
Ramapo range first came upon their vision. In the gully 

[ 303 ] 


at Garret Rock several traces of the red men have been 
found by my whilom friend, Max Schrabisch, archeologist 
and historian. Garret Rock has therefore, not only natu- 
ral charms, but historical and archeological as well. 

“They waste us—ay—like April snow, 
In the warm noon we shrink away, 
And fast they follow as we go 
Towards the setting day— 

Till they fill the land and we 
Are driven into the western sea.’’ 

Long before the coming of the whites when the 
state of New Jersey was nothing but illimitable wilder- 
ness, the city of Paterson was inhabited by a tribe of 
Indians belonging to the Unami division of the Delaware 
or, more properly speaking, the Lenni-Lenape, who in 
turn were an offshoot of the great Algonquin stock. 

One of the favorite descents of the Indians was down 
the gully at Garret Rock. In primeval times it was a 
wild romantic ravine full of caverns and grottoes clothed 
with dark evergreens of the hemlock and cedar and opened 
a direct course to their village. When the pioneers 
arrived upon the scene, the ground was covered with may- 
apple, blood-root, ginseng, violets and a great variety of 
herbs and flowers, the beautiful red-bird made the woods 
vocal with its melody, now might be heard the plaintive 
wail of the dove, here might be seen the clumsy bear 
doggedly moving off or urged by pursuit into a laboring 
gallop, retreating to his citadel on the top of some lofty 
tree, or when approached, suddenly raising himself erect in 
an attitude of defense, facing his enemy and Waiting his ap- 
proach. It seemed an earthly paradise, but for the appre- 
hension of the wily copperhead who lay silently coiled 

[ 304 ] 


among the leaves or beneath the plants waiting to strike 
its victim; or the horrid rattlesnake who more chivalrous, 
however, with head erect amidst its ample folds prepared 
to dart upon his foe, generously, with the loud noise of his 
rattle appraised him of danger. 

Arriving at the falls, the pioneers must have paused 
to admire the grandeur of the open chasm and the beauty 
of the rugged scenery. Below the falls tree girt banks 
cast their shadows on the pure crystal waters. Along the 
margin of the river stood several lodges of the Delaware 
ted men, wigwams composed of poles arched over and 
stuck in the ground, their framework thatched with corn 
husks and mats of bulrushes sewn together with the inner 
bark of various trees. Here the Indians would gather and 
make their tools and discuss the strange pale-faces, and 
here he was at home from the peculiar newcomers from 
over the great waters. | 

Passaic valley still offers scenery reminiscent of the 
days when the wolf and the catamount made their lair 
within the forest scenes. Such is one enchanting feature 
of Paterson, its surroundings are so entrancing. The 
pedestrian whose soles tire of promenading the city pave- 
ments may in a few moments’ time transport himself 
where the wild birds sing and where the wild flowers 
grow and where nature rules and reigns queen of all. 

I have often climbed the wooded slopes of Garret 
Mountain and turned and glanced at the factories and 
streets of Paterson which seemed to rise at my feet. The 
main attraction of the mountain is the glorious panorama 
to be seen on every side. On a clear day New York is 
plainly visible with every tower and spire showing on the 
horizon. The Palisades stretch out until the mountain 
to the north of Tappan Zee comes upon the scene. In 
the opposite direction one can catch a faint glimpse of 

[ 305 J 


the Statue of Liberty, while further westward the hills of 
Staten Island may be seen. The trees of the sycamore, 
the blue beech, silver birch and the rusty brown leaves of 
the scrub oak as well as the cedars and the hemlocks, are 
cbjects of scenic attraction. Out in the distance the 
Ramapo Mountains stand like sentinels guarding the 
plain, while the Passaic river, nestling in the valley below 
is winding its course along and glittering in the sunlight 
like a ribbon of silver; and while we admire the grandeur 
of the hills and the beauties of the river, we are not un- 
mindful of the sacrifice that was needed before freedoms’ 
holy light could shine permanently on these glorious 
mountains and present peaceful vales. 

On the wooded slopes of the Preakness hills, at 
Valley View, stands an immense boulder. The huge 
glacier is another tell-tale mark of the Indians’ former 
habitation here. Local nomenclature has named the boul- 
der Indian rock, and how appropriate is the name ap- 
plied to this ancient mountain haunt, for under its shelv- 
ing sides bits of pottery, flint, arrow-heads, bones and 
other articles of Indian manufacture have been found. 
How silently, yet eloquently the huge boulder tells us its 
life’s history, how millions of years have passed since the 
icy barge which carried it from regions far remote finally 
dropped it in this forest, how wild monstrous creatures, 
for centuries extinct, were alive then, how they flew over 
it and how they climbed its sides with their monstrous 
paws, the primal dragons in their slime of whom nothing 
today remains but a few bones exhibiting beneath the 
glass of the museum cabinet or waiting to be dug out of 
the matrix of the earth. 

I have had many pleasant outings in all seasons of 
the year. I have tramped the fields and roamed over the 
hills of Jersey invariably in quest of the remains of a 

[ 306 ] 


vanished race. In Passaic valley and in the confines of 
our own city many traces of Indian life still exist, flint 
arrow-heads and spear-heads are found on the river banks 
where they had lain since the hands of their first owners 
relinquished them. 

The month of March, the ‘‘awakening moon,” or 
crow month of the Indian, is one of stirring interest for 
me. Where warm suns have melted the snow from corn- 
fields in the upper Passaic, the red earth lies washed, each 
pebble shining. Bits of quartz, granite, mudstone, con- 
glomerate, feldspar litter the ground. The hunter of 
Indian relics walks back and forth between last year’s 
rows of corn, his eyes searching the surface. Hammer- 
stones, with which the lithic artists fractured flint nodules 
into workable flakes; pecking-tools with which they fin- 
ished the surface of stone axes, fish-net sinkers made of 
pebbles with notches on each side, flakes of chert, flint, 
silica are apt to be scattered everywhere near running 
streams and springs where the Algonquin tribes camped. 

The eye especially searches for three-cornered flat bits 
of white quartz, shining black flint, argillite and even 
neolithic limestone. Closer scrutiny may reveal any of 
these as the beautifully worked and edged arrow-points 
with which the aborigines tipped their shafts for hunt- 
ing game and for war. The shanks of most arrow-heads 
are notched on each side for tying to the split shaft, but 
war arrow-points are often perfect triangles which were 
set lightly in shaft ends so they would stay in the wounds 
when the stick was withdrawn. 

The Indians of Paterson shared the same fate as 
the rest of the Delaware red men. In the end they were 
driven westward and their descendants are now dwelling 
in Oklahoma, Wisconsin and Ontario, living much in the 
same style as their white conquerors, speaking and dream- 

[ 307 ] 


ing of the olden days when they lived in this fair state 
which they called The SE of the great waters where 
daylight appears.”’ 

So ends the romance of prehistoric Paterson. Pater- 
son, ‘‘scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,’ but where can 
you find a dearer spot? Doctor Johnson used to say the 
man who was tired of London was tired of existence. 
Cut out London and put in Paterson and you about 
have it. 

[ 308 ] 

Evolution of the Warping Machine 

NE of the most attractive objects seen at the 
Textile Exposition is an immense cylindrical affair 
covered with brilliant silk. This beautiful object 
is a Sipp-Eastwood horizontal warping mill. It 
represents the process of silk manufacturing as 
far as the warper’s special knowledge and skill can con- 
duct it after it has left the winders. Like the Crompton- 
Knowles loom it represents the highest process of evolu- 
tion that human ingenuity has been able to attain in per- 
fecting the process of a particular part of the textile manu- 
facture—that of warping. The Crompton-Knowles loom 
represents the most perfect attainment in the next and 
final part of the process—that of weaving. 

It is interesting to take hold of the thread of evolu- 
tron in regard to warping and trace its rudiments through 
the ages. [he primitive warping began with the house- 
wife, when darning a rent or hole. She covered the space 
with parallel threads, and she completed her task by cross- 
ing with her needles the arrangement of parallel threads 
and making the primitive cloth that supplied the place 
of that which had been worn or torn away, and in this 
way the expert needlewoman becomes both a warper and 
a weaver, though technically she may be unaware of such 

As the primitive housewife was in the way both a 
warper and a weaver, so in the initial stages of the textile 
manufacture we find that the two occupations were 
usually performed by the same craftsman. 

The native Indian today, for example, does both the 
warping and the weaving in his primitive textile process, 
and the story of the industry goes on for centuries before 


[309 ] 


the two processes become differentiated. On this account, 
though we hear of weavers in the pages of literature, we 
never hear of warpers, as for a long time both trades were 
considered identical. On this account we never hear of 
warpers, though history and literature contain many 
allusions to weavers. The rudest condition of human 
biology was sufficient to produce weavers, but it required 
ages of textile development to produce a warper. 

It is curious to examine the primitive contrivances 
that came into being when it became necessary to start 
the occupation of a warper, as distinct from that of a 
weaver. We owe to Robert Burns our knowledge of 
“Willie Wasstle Who Dwelt on Tweed.’ Willie was a 
weaver, but he made his own warps, for Burns tells us 
that he could steal a clew with anybody.’ The clew re- 
ferred to was a section of a warp, the property of his 
employer. Perfect honesty required that every section 
and every thread should be returned to its owner in the 
form of completed cloth, but one ‘‘clew’’ or section would 
never be missed if the theft was skillfully accomplished, 
and it was Willie’s ingenuity in abstracting the ‘‘clew”’ 
and manipulating the rest of the warp so as not to exhibit 
a perceptible void that gave him his fame. 

It was probably a very rudimentary warping frame 
that Willie looked upon. The Italian residents of this 
city describe such a contrivance that their workers worked 
upon in the old country. It was a number of long nails, 
or iron spikes, driven into a wall at certain distances from 
each other. Round each of these spikes the section was 
passed, the warper carrying the threads over his hand 
from the beginning of the section unto the end, and re- 
peating the process until sufficient sections had been added 
to make a full warp. The warp when completed was 
carefully removed from the wall and rolled on a beam, 

[ 310 ] 


and was then ready for the loom. As the industry ad- 
vanced it became necessary to economize space, and so 
instead of traveling with each section from one side of the 
wall to the other, some intelligence a little brighter than 
the rest conceived the idea of winding each section on a 
roller, and turning the roller in process. So in this way 
the first warping mills came into existence. 

At first this frame was perpendicular, and for hun- 
dreds of years this form of warping mill held sway, until 
it gave way to the modern horizontal warper. The 
warp which was made on the perpendicular machine was 
composed of half tiers instead of sections. These half 
tiers contained about sixty threads, and they were provided 
with a cross at the beginning, but during the rest of the 
journey round the warping mill the threads mingled with 
each other and defied the most skillful weaver to separate 
them. By the modern process each thread is kept separate, 
and when the warp is put on a roller the appearance is 
just as if it had been passed through a reed. 

Since the modern form of warping came into being 
many inventors have been at work, and improvements 
have been made, but the general process remains the same. 
The machine was invented in Scotland, and for a while 
the horizontal machine was known as the Scotch warper. 
From information gathered from a very reliable source. 
I learn that the first person to introduce it to Paterson 
was David Becket, the father of the ribbon manufacturers 
of that name. He set up the first horizontal warper in 
the mill of Ashley & Bailey, and he afterwards started the 
second one in the factory of Hamil & Booth. 

I was weaving at Naef Brothers when the ‘“‘Scotch 
warper’ was introduced to our factory, but for a long 
time the weavers did not like the warps that it made. To 
the best of my recollection there was a little gully between 

[ 311 ] 


each section, and the bordering threads would slip down 
in this gully and become slacker than the rest. This 
made section marks in the cloth, and this very objection- 
able feature prevailed for a long time. But little by little, 
the warpers acquired skill, until finally when the warp 
was beamed every trace of a section mark disappeared, 
and the cloth, as far as the warper could contribute, was 
absolutely perfect. When I saw the Sipp horizontal 
warping mill at our exposition, it seemed to smile as if 
in joy at the final victory over the tremendous obstacles 
it had been obliged to encounter before reaching its vic- 
torious termination. 

In the example which Sipp & Eastwood have set up 
at the exposition, the visitor will find a machine as per- 
fect as inventors’ skill has yet been able to make it. 

The exposition is a marvel, certainly! Such amaz- 
ing versatility! You may contemplate the wonderful 
story of silk manufacture, and then if you wish to in- 
dulge in a little frivolity you can blow bubbles. Won- 
derful spheres of water and soap, with a large exterior 
globe, and three or four little bubbles inside of it. It was 
a puzzle to George III how the apples got inside of the 
dumpling, and as I watch the process I am mystified as to 
how the small bubbles get inside of the big one, but the 
entire exposition is a series of surprises. It is not one 
Aladdin’s palace, but a full city of such wonderful edifices. 

The wonderful exhibits of dyeing and printing do 
not attract half the attention they deserve. The exhibi- 
tors who operate by machinery have a great advantage 
ever such as silently show their products. The public 
like the “‘kids’’ in ‘‘Helen’s Babies,’ ‘‘want to see the 
wheels go wound,”’ so the greatest crowds gathered where 
something was in operation, and wheels of some sort were 
going “‘wound.” But the exposition is a ‘‘success’’ 

[ 312 ] 

DNOMViA Nive b bE LDS 

beyond a doubt, and lengthy as this article is, the reader 
who may be induced by anything I can write to go and 
see “the show”’ will find as did the Queen of Sheba, after 
seeing the glory and greatness of Solomon, that ‘‘the half 
has not been told.”’ 

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Days of the Old Hand Loom and 
Bobbin-wheel Recalled 

9] F THE thousands who will visit the industrial ex- 
y}i position, few will stop to think of the lowly 
| origin from which the silk industry has sprung. 

ear the old Pept loom, the old bobbin-wheel and 
the old weaving shop of former days. And yet, but for 
the humble origin the ultimate advancement could not 
have been. But for Macclesfield there would have been 
no Paterson, as it is known at the present day. 

The old weaving garret was the necessary forerunner 
of the modern well-equipped silk factory. Let us then 
obey the Scriptural injunction and ‘‘not despise the day 
of small things.”” Let us remember the early pioneers 
of the silk industry, who labored at their ancient frames 
in the dim garret by the light of their poor flickering 
sperm oil lamps, and thus helped to lay the foundation 
of the marvelous industry which sends out its products in 
every direction. 

As one who was born and reared in these humble 
scenes, I venture to recall a small portion of the life of 
the old silk hand loom weavers. 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure: 
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, 

The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The old weavers were poor, and as is often the case 

[ 315 ] 

CrOou NTR TY Wi es 

in monarchial countries, they were in consequence much 
despised. Even the popular folklore bore witness to this 
regretable fact. Lancashire readers will remember the 
lowly animal that was found to be the only mourner 
when a weaver died. ‘‘Another wayver deeod,’ the 
scorner would never fail to ejaculate when a donkey 

The vulgar name of the craft itself was “‘poverty- 
knocking.’ Robert Burns, poet of humanity though he 
was, could not do without having a fling at ‘‘the silly 
weaver. And yet, the trade has been honored by not 
a few distinguished representatives. David Livingstone, 
the great African missionary and explorer, rose from the 
loom. It was during spare moments at the loom that he 
learned Latin and Greek, and helped to prepare himself 
for the ministry. Tannahill, the second of Scotland’s 
poets, was a weaver, and many other men of distinction 
could be named who earned their first bread by throwing 
the shuttle. 

The craft even had its representatives among the 
saints. St. Philip Neri, the great instructor of youth, 
was a weaver before he became a priest, and certainly 
there is no saint more loved and revered than good St. 
Philip Neri. 

In modern days the art and crafts movement has 
done a little to elevate the ancient industry. It has patron- 
ized and found a market for the hand loom products, as 
it has helped to restore the old artistic craft of basketry, 
which was gradually dying out with the Indians. Every 
large center in the United States and in Great Britain has 
its arts and crafts society, and our own is no exception, 
I understand. 

The great co-operative movement which has risen to 

[ 316 ] 


such gigantic proportions was first started by a few hand 
loom weavers. It began in an old basement in Rochdale, 
England, with the sale of groceries. The public passed 
by the place, just to look in, and went away sneering at 
“the weavers’ grocery.” Such was the humble beginning 
of a movement which now has its own commercial fleet 
carrying its merchandise on every sea to every part of the 

‘The old weavers, perhaps, could not be credited with 
much inventive skill, but the uses they could put an ordi- 
nary pocket knife to were somewhat amazing. The 
humble instrument served for saw, plane, axe, chisel, 
screwdriver and a thousand purposes to which a multitude 
of modern instruments are applied. The tongue may 
have assisted in the operation, or it may not, but it always 
protruded from one side of the mouth during the tackling 
process. It is a marvel how those old jacquards and 
dobbies held together under such primitive carpentry, but 
they not only did this but turned out work almost with- 
out a flaw.” 

The local grocery store furnished them with trade 
supplies, sperm oil for their lamps, and candles made extra 
thick for illumination during the weaving of black warps. 
It would certainly be a curiosity to come across one of 
these old weavers’ lamps. They bore about the same 
proportion to a modern electric light as the glimmer of a 
glow-worm does to the sun at noonday. We are apt to 
growl at the large oil companies, but what a blessing 
their appearance with their marvelous products would 
then have been, even if they had been accompanied with 
a thousand iniquities! Those were certainly in a material 
sense ‘‘the dark ages.’ 

The grocery also supplied them with glue, with bob- 

[ 317] 


bins, with quills, with nails, and with twine, and with 
pickers for their lathes. In those old grocery ‘“‘shop- 
books’ there were such curious entries as ‘“‘twine,”’ 
‘pickers,’ “‘glue,’’ ‘French chalk,’’ and ‘“‘bobbins,’’ all 
intermixed with ‘‘cheese,’’ with ‘‘candles,’’ ‘‘soap,’’ ‘‘oat- 
meal’ and “‘treacle.”’ And what a pleasure it was when 
the cloth had been delivered and paid for, and those old 
“belly Bibles,”’ as the irreverent called them, were squared 
off! If a shilling or two remained for pocket money 
how jubilant the old ‘“‘poverty-knockers’’ were! No 
wonder they felt like millionaires and strutted about ‘‘as 
pleased as a dog with two tails,’’ to use a prevalent ex- 

It was the meanest of theft to rob a poor com- 
munity like this of its earnings, but it was often done at 
the warehouse in the way of fines for the most trivial de- 
fects, and very often for no real defect at all. Ina 100- 
yard piece, if I remember rightly, about two ounces was 
allowed the weaver for waste, necessary waste, considering 
the defective throwing at the time, and the knots and 
lumps that had to be taken out, and yet if the scale, when 
the cloth was weighed, only turned in the estimation of 
a hair, the sentence was pronounced and a fine that would 
have paid for the deficiency a thousand times over was the 
result. ‘his was called “‘batin.”” An old Macclesfield 
weaver with a poetical turn of mind once sang of these 

With waitin’ and battin and gaitin’, 
A’ve but little left for my atin’. 

The Macclesfield reader will remember the old 
vocabulary, but to others it may be needful to explain that 
“baitin’’ was fining, ‘‘aitin’ ”’ 
starting up a warp. 

a, 99 

Was eating, and “‘gaitin’’”’, 

[318 ] 


Still, all was not misery among them. The cultiva- 
tion of their little gardens gave them great pleasure, and 
when some exceptionally corpulent apple, or onion, took 
a prize at the local show, it formed a most jubilant occa- 
sion. ‘Then, too, there were prizes offered for fishing 
matches and for pigeon races. Lucky was he whose 
winged champion outdistanced the rest, or whose skill at 
angling brought out of the old canal a dace, or a gudgeon, 
or a roach, just a dram heavier than the others! A 
copper kettle was often the prize, and the trophy was 
never used in the household, but remained suspended from 
the wall until repeated applications of scouring dust had 
worn it almost away under the vigorous hands of the in- 
defatigable housewife. 

Methodism at its first appearance made many con- 
verts among the old weavers, and the humble chapels 
were built for the most part by contributions which, as 
the common saying had it, had come ‘‘through the shuttle 
ee.’ My own grandfather saw John Wesley and was 
converted by his preaching. In our family the circum- 
stance was more regarded than it would have been had the 
invisible unction proceeded in an unbroken line from the 
apostles. ‘“Tche old gentleman became a preacher himself, 
traveling miles in the dark on foot, over snow-covered 
Yorkshire hills, often set upon by highwaymen, who 
never molested him after finding that he had nothing. 
He never gave up his loom, as the humble ministry, like 
that of the sacred twelve, brought no financial remunera- 
tion. At those old Methodist meetings, the vocabulary 
of the loom-shop often came out in the pulpit when some 
old revivalist was moved by the spirit to address his 
fellow craftsmen on things eternal. The devil was de- 
clared a bad sort of “‘mester’’ to weave for, and converts 

{ 319 ] 


approaching the penitent form were congratulated for tak- 
ing their reeds and harnesses back to the devil, and for 
deciding never to throw another shot for the arch-enemy 
of mankind. The end of life formed a beautiful simile 
to the end of a well-woven warp, if the life had been well 
spent. ‘I'he same figure is used by Pollock, the poet, in 
‘The Course of Time.’’ 

Time is the web of life, Oh, tell 
The young and gay to weave it well. 

But the aforesaid enemy was often hard to overcome. 
He tempted old Andrew Smith with the pleasure of keep- 
ing game roosters, although Andrew was supposed to have 
been completely converted; but it was a fearful revelation 
when his class leader came one day to pay a sick visit, as 
he thought, and found more feathers than silk waste in 
the loom shop, and two game birds, with spurs on, fight- 
ing like feathered Spartans. The conversion had to be 
done over again; Andrew had back-slided. 

Sometimes they had to watch with each other when a 
warp was finished for the acts of burglary became too com- 
mon for the poor constabulary at that time to cope with. 
There was always a difficulty in disposing of a part of a 
cut, but the thieves could sometimes sell a completed 
article with considerable ease.. So it was, when the warp 
was woven and the cut finished, with the final “headings” 
woven in, that it became necessary for the weavers to sit 
up with each other through the night. The weary clock 
ticked on, and every rattle of the loomhouse shutter was 
heard with awe. 

On one occasion it was deemed sure the burglars were 
trying to pry open the back door. The owner and his 
wife stood, each with an axe, ready to strike at the first 

[ 320 ] 

TNE GN AGN Y Pie apD § 

appearance of a marauder. At length the creaky old 
portal gave way, and both the old man and his wife let 
fall their hatchets on the marauder, but instead of a 
hurried call for an ambulance or a policeman, the pork 
butcher was summoned to put an end to the unfortunate 
swine in a more regular manner than the weaver’s prema- 
ture assault had brought about. 

It was amid such scenes and such incidents as these 
that the silk industry was cradled. The reader will have 
seen how pleasure and pain, sin and righteousness, blended 
with each other in such humble lives. Dear me! In 
looking backward it almost seems as if one had lived to 
the age of Methuselah! 

And yet, there are scores who will see our Paterson 
silk exhibit who can remember the olden times. Peter 
“Wilcox, of Madison Avenue, had once the distinction of 
seeing Jacquard, the wonderful inventor of the machine 
that bears his honored name, for never was invention 
more successful, more humane, than that which the dis- 
tinguished Frenchman gave to the textile world; and yet 
it fought hard against prejudice to obtain a footing; the 
first machines were burned in the public squares, while 
ignorant mobs rejoiced in their destruction, and yelled 
triumphantly as the flames rose higher and higher. They 
were made for the most part of wood, as the old hand- 
weaver of today will remember, and were primitive con- 
struction compared with such machines as will weave the 
beautiful figured silk in our exposition. 

The discovery of benzine as a cleaning instrument 
was a great blessing. It cost at first about twelve cents 
an ounce. I remember its application, how the greasy 
spot vanished like magic to everybody’s astonishment 
when the wonderful liquid was applied. French chalk 
and a hot iron to liquefy the grease had done their utmost, 

GO UNTER Yue Ar inte 

which gave poor satisfaction after all to remove the stains. 
Old bread rubbed over the stains was another cleansing 
process, and even today this may be judicially applied 
when the stain is simply ‘‘a bit of clean dirt,’’ as the old 
craftsmen used to call it, not oil or grease. 

The old weavers were for the most part a little 
superstitious and believed in signs and charms. One I 
knew never gave up his faith in fairies. He was born in 
Ireland, but when told that the poetical little beings were 
never seen in England, he would respond: And small 
wonder sure, I don’t blame them in truth, for not coming 
to such a place.”’ 

When Old Jim, at Robbins’, took his work to the 
warehouse after it was finished, he always took the pre- 
caution of crossing Oldham road at one particular spot. 
This was opposite an old meeting house called the ‘“Taber- 
nacle.’’ In such a case the cloth inspector somehow did 
not seem to find as much fault, and Old Jim often got 
every penny that was due him. There is quite a little of 
this superstition even in our modern silk mills. Friday is 
by some still believed an unlucky day on which to start 
work at a new place, but this is not to be wondered at, 
as the antipathy to Friday is found among other trades. 

The French treaty is admitted to have brought dis- 
aster to the English silk industry, even by free traders 
themselves. Old Mrs. Low never tired of denouncing it. 
It spoiled her pleasure even over ‘‘all fours,’’ her favorite 
game of cards. Not even when she was so lucky as to 
hold “‘high,’”’ “‘low’’ and ‘‘jack,’’ and was sure of the 
“game,” could she think of forgiving Richard Cobden. 
Since then she has passed beyond the veil, and so has her 
fancied adversary. Seeing no longer “‘as through a glass 
darkly,’ can the two have become reconciled? 

Such are a few reminiscences of an ancient and worthy 

[ 322 ] 


body of craftsmen, now nearly extinct. One can hear 
in imagination the rattle of the shuttles and hum of ma- 
chinery in the Armory building, and one may well say 
with Tennyson: 

The old order changeth, giving place to the new, 
And God fulfills his ends in many ways. 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 

[ 323 ] 

iS: GDA Oa wlieoan. ovine cain 

ahve Nod by ava. "4 ie, & ro ora ee? 
aT Lae AHN he Ei ook Sev, 5 CaN 
) ’ i Lhe 7 , iN a { wf ane ALLY 

; Dy ie HY, me NOVY Vane, ee 

wie i i an H 


it panna ee 

ave ¢ 

”, My on i i 
‘event Shae al yh es a ; 

Rely RT th th satin ba ienirehh st ai 
| | 4 Sah af 

’ 1 
’ ‘ c 

hey ‘) ty bia ery ml ct a a oy rena » iy ig we 

j é Ferg las 1. 
. c AY Pr | Dy ga daeh & phd | ba Py + a Wits 

} r . Siwy ty ; A OL ees i iw Wy, 
- ‘ ‘ shy A * > *- * Ve ae) } ¥ ae 
sein : 
a ip alee ta < eh 
Bye i, E, a ie 
r , } 
( 4 Ke } 
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; 1] VF { 
i. F af Mir * 
, ie ai fed 
Nie a ae Naw A y 
ive at ey) ee SATA I) tes 
{ MN MMO TPA Hey ee cy 
’ fF yy sik tual MANO NO 7: pi, 
‘ mn aire a Ar it hae La : 
Pe Ae ee eee 

Paterson, the Nature Lovers’ Home 

HAT Paterson and its vicinity has features of 
marked beauty in its many hills and mountains 
and undulating valleys, is a fact known far and 
wide. Upon the sublime heights on which is 
located the great falls of the Passaic River have 
mused some of the greatest statesmen of modern times. 
Charmed by the beautiful surroundings, they dreamed 
dreams and saw visions, the roar of the mighty cataract 
transforming itself in the ears of its august visitors into a 
whirr of machinery, and the green vales became populous 
and flourishing cities in the prophetic sight of men like 
Marquis de Lafayette, and our own patriotic statesmen as 
Hamilton, Washington, etc. 

But the writer will cast aside the story of the won- 
derful development of this part of the country from a 
wilderness into the great modern cities that now have sup- 
planted the forests. His chief concern, in this article is 
to emphasize the importance of the natural beauty sur- 
rounding Paterson. As intimated, men and women from 
far and wide have paid homage to the natural beauty that 
surrounds us on every hand, but it is not to be supposed 
that the native population has left to outsiders the pleasant 
task of exploring and exploiting the wonderful natural 
scenery so near to us. 

‘The sweetest memories of our older citizens are those 
associated with their many journeys on foot, in carriage, 
and by other means among the beautiful hills and along 
the rivers and lakes that abound. And the present genera- 
tion of Patersonians is not lagging in this respect, for it is 
seldom that a party from our city resorts to far-off places 
for spending a day or part of one, rather, and the moun- 

[ 325 J 

COU Nel Rey aWeAleios 

tains and hills are filled with people on holidays and other 
occasions when a respite from the daily grind is offered; 
and all who enjoy those jaunts come back happier for the 

One of the strongest evidences to show that the 
people of Paterson prize the picturesque beauty of the 
region is the existence of a society purposely organized to 
inspire and promote interest in the beauties of Passaic 
valley. It was in the autumn of 1904 that Philmer Eves 
conceived the plan of a club that should have for its sole 
object the arrangement of walks or rambles to various 
places about town for the purpose of studying the flowers, 
the trees, insects, the stones and the scenery. He realized, 
being an ardent lover of Nature, the advantages that 
Paterson possesses in this respect, and felt sure that there 
was sufficient material on hand to keep such an organiza- 
tion alive permanently. 

A meeting was held in the Ellison street office of the 
Public Service Corporation, September 15th, 1904, and 
the Paterson Rambling Club was organized, with the fol- 
lowing officers: President, Philmer Eves; secretary and 
treasurer, George J. Hattersley; leader, Joseph Rydings. 
who was already well known as an admirer of nature by 
his many interesting articles in the local papers. A few 
tules were adopted for the proper conduct of the Club on 
the rambles, and the organization today is burdened by 
no heavy weight of by-laws and ordinances, but the few 
that there are suffice for the proper and_ business-like 
transaction of business. 

At this meeting a schedule of rambles was arranged, 
and carried out without exception, every successive ramble 
becoming more and more enjoyable, and to these days the 

charter members recall with pleasure those first rambles 
of the Club. 

[ 326 ] 


The Club has a list of beauty spots that afford great 
pleasure to its members. The Club’s rambles are multi- 
plied indefinitely by taking different routes for the same 
locality, and in that way the charm of novelty is linked 
with the memories of past visits. Rambles are repeated 
quite often, as the oftener some places are visited the 
greater is the pleasure derived, and thus the Paterson 
Rambling Club goes on with the pleasant task of having 
their fellow-citizens become acquainted with the beauties 
of Nature that are all about them. There is a standing 
invitation for all lovers of Nature to join the Club on 
any of its rambles, and an enjoyable time is assured all 

The Paterson Rambling Club is aggressive in its love 
of Nature. It gave official support to Thomas R. Layden, 
‘Assemblyman from this county, in his fight to pass the 
bill enabling the issuing of bonds by the city for the pur- 
chase of Garret Rock, that the beautiful mountain might 
be preserved as a public park. The resolution passed and 
Paterson acquired the site, for its most beautiful park. 

[ 327 ] 



Or ea hp en 
ak ? : ue f " 7 ¥ <1) +) nS 
; LAD, Sit a aes 
"| ne Py fa Raia iy! ay ’ 
? pi é a nt _ +, 
, i i 

aa a aa ea 

Sarre saber fence Rely en eae) bs een Seif 


retensntsn oe heh Oh an iis Deda 

+ bt Sete Thee eae ite {2a 
‘ ‘ hit an J yz wah? Yea Y nae "4 

pie ¢ Phy ak ‘ 
” tf 2 ? iva v Va a ay 

ey i 
} , 4 , ( : ef ALE 
. # rl 
4 4 i y &.% aVA 
" tye lt i) Died» 
‘ had x PP is ; LPT TE 
: ' e e . i ae od § 
’ ae ree 
cy . ih, ? 
si ‘a (77 } ie ly ; 
2 7 
“a 2 atats iss 
i. var P " GP peek UGA 4 
+ s . , 
ves ¢ ) ‘ . 8, _ 
2 a ay b 
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¥ } . rhe J 
' ’ a Mi 
he én sis gg 
j } VA) ‘ oi 7 
' Ph | 
am . ee e'gh, 
* ‘ben 
; " \ ge ts 
7 ' 

Parting Song 

One more ramble, merry, merry ramble, 
Song shall close this happy day. 

Left behind are brier and bramble 
Now we're on our homeward way. 

Oft exploring, health restoring, 
Mem’ ty’s treasured charms remain; 
Joyous melody outpouting, 

Sing again this glad cefrain. 

Art inspiring, scenes retiring, 
Castle walls or hermitage; 
Nature’s thornless flowers desiting, 
Sing of Life’s sweet pilgrimage. 

One more meeting, merry, merry greeting. 
Partings now are drawing nigh. 

Music cheers and time ts fleeting. 

Sing we all, once more, “Good-bye.” 

[ 329 ] Sec 22 

DOANE abd Ube Oe a ee Pee?) i SyHL aR GeT 
aye ; MA A 7 5 AGA Seed one 
, . iM * a » 7 ‘a r. td 
Nie mA PAC ee a a 
‘ lor’ a@ » GHANA ve * y 

ve y i : } % + 
' rice 

/ ‘ 4 
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4 \ > ‘ 
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a eli,’ « 
i » J 
) ; Pa : 
‘ if ay ae ; ' 
i » 
Ss Aswan a) ee er’ é 

CMLL ONINETVINT Ye 66d ec weliids ofe's?o hee 6 « 247 
Abbott’s boathouse ................ 246 
Acquackanonk, bridge at .......... 75 
EES ios ok ck ge bea ko ate oe eee b 23 
MTUMRTIERG AVE. 6. onic dele sessed anes 48 
MIEN LARGO oi cc ce eee nes we 276, 277 
Algonquin (Indians) .......... 304, 307 
ee Ding ais Rida OR GENS wwe ks 8 101 
MIRO ers ewes ee bee ee das 87 
PIMOMiCan ATMNY 0... .s.ce00 08 48, 49, 115 
J ATROEUES, “ 2S ee a 4, 86 
Arcola, picturesque lake at ....... 37 
POCO WOOUS icici sce ess sas ates 89, 90 
BAM SMUULET CME icfeieia <i s ilel sicldla oid beac a cele eis 307 
Ashley & Bailey (mill of) ........ 311 
Bannigan, George .............. 18, 89 
Bannigan, Mrs. George and daugh- 
PERM VIOTCE f. cisvceve ohtelesinisiohevers 18, 44 
OMI aAN Ss WOOdS ...06sc0e eee eae e 225 
Barbarrow, John ..18, 48, 204, 252, 255 
IBarbarrow, MIrSs <.ssiw <scclesiee oe 18, 44 
PS MOIEES aE ONG. cece s cle ciate an cusis helee 274 
ire UMS RELIVE OL tio t’ ct etc have ate’ a octeh el oes «: Sisters: ste ale 138 
MOC me DA VIG... « Sie.c.c.c, 0.0 sae Sule tae 311 
ORO MVE DN stiles visio aleiiors waves 179, 203, 261 
MSECENOVEIN) «cc o/s nies cieielels sicls/e seis 296, 299 
PRO OMBNL US  O.a sie ie les cles e's bh ee hs 18, 44 
Bege, Miss Annie .......... 18, 85, 44 
NSO Me TL Po tlaiclere a oie’ eiietule s Creel e's 43 
NR IES NV GCATL on ne wisn s ob wise cies 44 
IESCUT MEL OD Vink. 2 ave tg os Russert os ie) eo -diloce lee 31 
Belcher, William H., Mayor of Pat- 
TE CMTAM@ EMS Iete che lici'g esa hc. dela. shee aia obeyalens 9, 10 
ipeliew Vista Castle 2.6.2. wc eee’ 3, 84 
PCI VETS EP VITIE . f oy cis. a:+ ssisiey soo 'svs 44 
Bentley, Mr. and Mrs. John H. ....164 
retHULG Cae UATIO foe cie ss ele ikors s adaie wists 164 
SEMICN e OMT cyeicree sc ade aibleewiea oslo 165 
MRE TE DPM Drea Niche sla eis abe aywiet eae okie Whe 42 
SORIA LOLI ATY ia. clere fo oid 0 eis ws’ bie-0'e © 18, 43 
Berdan, George (farm of) ........ 141 
P2GECaN WVITSs Cece sie os 0 cctnle lees 141, 142 
Bergen County settlers ........... 117 
Bergen County short-cut ......... 89 
SEUPVER CV GC Tel, Fo ee cies oieiale w ele she 51 
Bianco, Secondo (my friend) 21, 28, 24 
ANGLE ePe te Gi ifaliave oie hc sts ela lellc claNe we boa: 140 
SEL GME SOND Wieic le aiete aisieis ele eles Gola a ere 131 
ESOC ISIN ET SMES sete cretacc fo. 4) cielo iter s!.ahewarecsns, ons 261 
SOO PUM IILATISLON | << s/sisie oe era(e love. o. eavisveres 293 
ISOrEtM  POSODI 2... ssc ce csie cscs ee 20, 23 
Seat PUP en EO LOL Bie 51 55a) etcclseial Gia, om, 0 suo hayyal site ce 43 
SRT Re eer SONS ela averst ele oo hialaereys 27, 28 
Pts UOT Cay TOAG IN) spevsisiere wccrensis a ses 286 
SOLS GNI UMMM rE eee fo, 5 alivkic a) oc Cyatelie eiieveseuehev'e, Sys 34 
BACOITLS OR iis eis) a Gino le lo Sys. ¥ Sissies. (e 37 
ENN CLOT Ee Moat isl cies sie ia ss bistece Gis 243 
Anemone, White .............. 272 
Apple, Mackintosh Red ........ 42 
PVD LORVEAIV eo wiclid cc's ishaiclote ese eects 304 
EVIVOLO NE EROLOLG cee fase Sines cen ee 42 
Arbutus (trailing) ...135, 161, 162 
MEST T Maher. irakieae cea e eretele ohh acres 3, 199 
PASEO SAILURINT 9) occ crete cis © esc ers viele Ag 

ABUOL MUG Fs vk sles. ns ert ceo s 43 
PAB COM ge CUI cdsisteierencte oiels f elsce dale 6 37 
Asters Purples Seer ste oe eicie vlslen's 254 
Azalia (Pinxter bloom) 85, 140, 302 
Bay Derry -LCO yes a6 seo ope wears eye 266 
Beech MDluGiy An Seis aes slo elets 306 
IBCCCHHITOC Mace ce wicetalele 59, 85, 199 
Bergamot ........ Picotto cao 139 
Birch tree ..... 86, 87, 171, 2538, 272 
inch yaSil Ver imaciels sccmvatete ucnerater eto 306 
Birch sew hitler. oases cee cc etene 254 
Bittersweet ............. 17, 58, 220 
Black-eyed Susan ............. 185 
BIOOGETOOt  aeodeetle oe ee 271, 304 
Bluet, or Quaker Lady (Hous- 
LONTAMCCLUIA)M citene em oletets 85, 185 
BlUGHeentianinw.. +s Lesemmeeeees 8 
Blue-flag (Iris versicolor) .... 76 
IBANG=DEELY paca cates Sieleie weierecerere ets 253 
Broomrape (one flowered) ..... 85 
Canadianiolall Va cics cre aleve s costeis os 63 
Canadian Mayflower .......... 85 
Campanula: DIlue Wc cease cere = > 37 
Carrion: Mower ic caciocieteis aieicteleie 266 
Cat= DrlOr a isle site ete Seo ake eis eras ale ve 67 
Wate kin Sia. cise cen lee tte 2 243 
Cat-tallsipercsicciterete ak siete ane ssres 50 
COCPASUUS® Bee o ccc huselas cee aes 274 

Cedar tree, 41, 85, 86, 87, 91, 
272, 281, 306 

GHeErry street. cscs csc nc cele s 165, 276 
Cherries wild) (ec)... oe 182, 290 
Chestnut tree oc fk. fee 388, 239 
GChineser Asi asec cece crete stersvensvensys 68 
Chrysanthemum eee owe oe eer 37 
Clematis Virginica (virgin’s 
DROW CL) utarelararetonisttonsentore erseet erect « 28, 266 
Climbing false buckwheat .... 57 
ClOVELE DIN Kee ices eerie estche: 41 
Columbinessa. seees sae 85, 159, 272 
Daisy (Michaelmas) .......... 266 
Dandelion (cicoria) ....... isouelie 
IDaig LaVoK ie, Say Aare psc edaS oe 208 
MOCONTI AR as fe nncs. Glos screener a se 135 
Deer grass (rhexia virginica) 
85, 140 
Dogs tooth violet (Fawn lily) 
134, 167 

Dogwood trees, 42, 85, 86, 87, 
90, 133, 200, 252, 302 

Dutchmans breeches (dicentra) 
149, 279 

GSI WASS ese tokls eis erchaucta sire Gietes 33 
Elm tree, 68, 114, 115, 117, 127, 
162, 199 

False Solomon Seal ........... 17 

SANIOCIOA terete soit s tatteiee cites 207 
i StgsBidewy sao ie & een aera iar 207 
Cinnamon cee eee eo ene se 76 
TNCGTEUDLCG waics secs ee es ote 76, 207 
RUA Ayes LOTIniss, Giese Lieve ete toate austere 76 
COSTOAUN GAtrcke cic tie has ae oe ore eens 76 
IRATTIOSNAKC atic cce se see os ls Patent 
Spleenw ood eattacieuicc ices oe oe oar 207 
IS Wi GGLter et Riise cite te ctetatiie et 17 
WV ALI er eos crcrantiottin creel sls 179 


Fins tre@e@ey 25455 ot See eee 78 Poison vine ..2....¢+s.00eseee 200 
PIOTR | i ss sgn ne aes ee 161 Poor Robin.) ..5. 09 Se 159, 199 
For-get-me-not (Myosotis laxa) Prickly pear cactus ....... 17, 273 
Forest or ates ree 126 Quince, Japanese ............. 178 

: Red bud... .0e0s scence 302 
Gcrauinn today eae Robert Cranesbill, the herb’!!! 17 
ClOre nie. 6 eh oe oe ene 47, 237 ROSO oy'n se clsw eae vee ook 302 
Gerardia (purple) ............. 204 St. John’s wort ........0e 199 
GINSODE nies 6. sche tee epee 304 Sassafras ........... 188, 140, 238 
Golden, Maples \\ use aus ven ee « 37 Saxifrage ......:+..nbue ese 149 
Golden Rod ...... 0 Whee apie WAS 17, 50 Shrub. ....05sas0005e0nen Oe 179 
Gooseberry (English) ......... 178 Shrub (wax or bayberry) ...... 77 
STOW SUB 0.7 ob cau wy ba ene cee 34 Skunk ‘cabbage .......ngeee 63, 243 
Grass PAWMIDABs se shole PD ercsts ook gee 50 Sheep laurel (kalmia angusti- 
GAIN TR OG os § «ha oan she WStiewigte 89 folia; ‘Lambkill) ..:.45 eee 78 
HAWthGI ne ee a ee 302 Skull cap (Scutelaria) ....238, 239 
Hazel bush i ee 243 Spice bush ............. possess 168 
Hemlock, trees, 39, 78, 85, 220, Spring Beauty (Claytonia vir- 

235, 253, ak 272, 287, 306 gZinica) 3 eh i0 sae Bite wee 134, 167, 238 
=P Staghorn .35.'.003.00nhe one 233 
Hepa dca 0 cree Gee 272 lahiueh 238 
Hickory yaa 87, 128, 199, i Bh Steeple us © 0 e's 0.06 6 uaa eee Sumner ere 
Stramonium .../../.2, soe 32 
Hog tobacco ssa. ailses mec eee 200 
Sunflower .......<0s vou cna 243 
Hollyhocks ...... Hope oer davecitete ws 208 
PLOU STO Tao sc oe wie eae aioe ee 134 Sunflower, SWE) | ss). cea 51, 233 
Huckleberrya 0045. wore. see 190 Sweetbrier ........¢0 0c. 00 ee 277 
Hyacinths ........._. 128 Swamp honeysuckle ........... 51 
COT RT, 6 ila Yaar Sweet flag .......)- 0s eee 
Ammortelles 4. selene eee 17 Sweet gum tree ........2e 
Indian pipe (corpse plant) 253 Sweet William .....:..,0:0 208 
Ivy (Chinese) ..............44. ait Thyme, wild ..a:.i0..aeeeeeee 95 
Jack - in - the - pulpit (Cuckoo Tulips ....c.<seeess505 nee 128 
pint) 200, 252 : , : 

- : Varelia gigantica ..7i, eee 287 
JOWel- Weed: iicsiscdhinn a WEReertes 17 Veronica, pale blue (Spec dwell) 
DAriague pct ieaee oe eee 208, 243 176, 177, 185, 199 
LAUTCL CWI). 6 oo seen 179, 235 Violeta x77 esac 30, 185, 287, 304 
TASCA os pices tuk 126, 133, 135 Vipers Bugler ......5.0.seeeeee 159 
Daly. 4 sts enna ae tee 302 Virginia creeper ....... 37, 133, 233 
Ey seniladelphia 2.0. 9.55600 4 187 
Taly, -yetlowie, Chee ree Tey, 167 eee Peete eee e ees Fe ae 
Lobelia, sreatane sites, at ony eae Water Hyacinth ..:.... 30900 66 
Ma@ndrake? voi. etic ee 1 White mans footsteps ........ 76 
Maple tree, 86, 87, 91, 128, 142, Whitewood tree .:3..e cee 148 

150, 199, 240, 2 Willow tree .........s0 see 2, 78 
Marigold icc csule cca ee eee 143 Willow (Salix Babylonica) 58 
Marigold, marsh........... Roo lis Wild Yam >: 6. .. io eee vd 
Meadow: graee 2.5.5 140.. see 65 Wintergreen plant ............ 161 
Milks weed 46 oo oe ee 37 Witch Hazel (Yellow Blossoms) 
BEINGS. alt cated sake tere ee ere 179 172, 200 
Morning "siorys eee 243 
Moss Pink ............. esse eee 159) Box Turtle ...........+.) 00 144 
MOSSES ++ sees cece ee ceee eee eenee 28 Brierley, Chas. .......:2.))e0neee 288 
Mountain pink ........ 8b, 149, 272 | British Army ../-......0 sn 49 
Mountain sumach ............. 17 | Broadway Bridge ......l/.)Q 00 205 
Mulberry trees ................ 204 | Brookdale | \..’,.....0... nn 61, 228 
Mushroom ticks dcx s.cue s eee 145 Brooklyn Bridge ..........0000m 277 

Browertown Rd. ...\..5..c0e eee 
Oak, rod tee ath it | Brammere, banquet held atin 9 
Oal:, ‘sornbi io. so ee 306 Bryant oo... oc. sine et Oe 134 

Bunyan |... .ecd ees cn svuns oe 35 
Frarwidge (Vine (7.175 aes 161, 199 Burns, Robt.” ... ics s0 tes cele 316 
Pentyroyal 2... 3, ee 17,199, 252 Burke, Mr. (station agent) ........ 106 
Persicarig ise cee Oa 233 Burke's Crossing .......2.0+. une 106 
Ping tree a4 44 es 39, 188, 256, 271 Burr, “Aaron :... s+ icc cnet 100, 119 
Pinstagiwé i..¢ 3... cobd ate 199 Buschmann, Wm., 3, 5, 7, 10, 16, 18, 42 
Filantaim? ei ah se aie 76, 143, 159, 199 43, 77, 157 
Plum, trée, “wilds. ..55 eee eee 240 | Buschmanh, Miss.......,2.).09 18, 44 
Poison |ivy-Givs cates ee eee 32 | Buschmann Hotel ....\...... eee 41 

[ 332 ] 


Butterfly (black swallowtail) ..77, ee 
mutteriy (red admiral) ........... 
Butterfly (tiger swallowtail) 85, 160 
Meeerermilkk Falls .... cc. ees 202, 203 
Bemteme MAIO Ol 2 ei alla 38 
Butz, DIOETCICd RA tae eee Wes eos eee ae 18 

RIS ios). os ve veh 00 640 a 
Caldwell, (State reformatory at).. 

EEC 2 Sik bs BOs taht 17 ; 

Campbell, MOUs eae at ena a F 18, 43 
Rr, MTS.) ls ask sive ec eecsees 18 
Cannonball Road ............. 108, 109 
Serman, Mr.and Mrs.'............ 107 
Carman, Mrs TT on Ma iuaenine ace. 108 
Carlstadt, an old German Settle- 
PROUD OMe ee Cee she seis Sek bee eset 49, 50 
BeMMIEOR) B BTOVE oo ce esc cceesccs bf 
teed Lawn Cemetery, 32, 181, 246, 
Medgar Lawn Car oi... sc cies ccc oces 185 
Meter eeciite Pari 5 ook. cb eee es 42 
DAV OVO: 0S ose lovec elect 207 209 
Change Bridge (the old) ...63, 64, 228 
Chatsworth in Derbyshire ee aces 28 
merry: Hill se... se es 46, 73, 181, 184 
City Hall, 10, 13, 45, 56, "61, 84, 88 
99, 102, 139, 251, 265 
City Hail Loop ecatitetatete ca tccetete 41, 75 
oe aS oe ee ee 153 
Cleveland, Grover, President 
(birthplace OLN retin: ee vice oes 98 
REACT ois sles ce clea oss 18, 136 
Clifton 21 1G Hk AR Fane SS REGO ee ee Sa 75 
Pages. 6. 4, 5) 6,°9, 10, 18, 15, 18, 
42, 90, 91, 92, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 
105, 122, 153, 261, "268, 326, 327 
Cobden, Richard Biers Monee Ae ecu tee th iy 
Colonial BOUCLOUS ee rete oS criciatun tiene T7 

Colt’s restaurant (banquet at) .... 79 

MPRTONIIO@TELLR Oo. bias cnc cccccccces 307 
MOTIMPREO, USAT oo coo oc orate nceecdos 2 
Soertey, Henry TD). ook. eee cc ok 123 
Cornwallis, Lord and his soldiers .. 75 
Cottage-On-The Cliff ........ 149, 151 
eR Re ee 14 
Crompton-Knowles Loom ......... 309 
SeemeOiee.  AVATOINY,” os. as cies ox vc eee 46 
HOOKED AVG: (cc cncccces secs cacce 46, 182 
WEBB KEU PEON (6255.6 ales cae eee 10 
PRAVOTIDONG, MTS. cic oo + acus’sccne.0. 6. 50.0.0'0 43 
em LIV OTEY. 2s) oo s)s & o.uko ss sicca led 3 wane 165 
MD NAT Hoes se ws cc neh eeees 188, 190 
MBEGISODe NACA 4). . crc ae cuwisalecre cee oc 18 
D. Groot, VG RALYICL VUES) ni. c1c: <a creie ue 0 204 
Deep-Brook-Glen Biter eC era te 161, 162, 163 

Delaware (tribe of Indians) 97, 304, 
305, 307 

PDO VIIS “StRITCASE 5.5.52. ee oe aia, aie 
Devonshire (Duke of) ...........6. 28 
Diaphormera Femorato, (The walk- 
merstick insect) Ves... .e ess 169, 170 
MIeTentnaler” TRATTY 2... ecw ee eae 127 
IMO TUE SSC ticie oe tik otches eenese ee ae 30 

Doherty & Wadsworth (mill of) ..250 

Donnelley, Andrew ................ 270 
SOV OLS OMAURIE§ Voce tote ve eae 6 oe oases & 18 
Drakem(themgallantjecas oe. tates 6 14 
POUT IN VER eek ah ek eb os Werke ae ot OS 195 
PUNGGOL oak Ero oe tle 75 
Dundee Laker Station’ ..4i..eceeses 89 
Dundee Lake ............ 245, 247, 248 
DUNGCGs DAM sake eee coe eee aes 246 
Dunkerhook es. eee. oe 8, 37, 39 
Dunkerhook (spring the famous) .. 38 
Dyers Miss tAnnio + onsn440 co eee 18 
Dyer Miss) Minnie*; As. 28s. ee 18 
TOA LOM Midas veh wn RE Ns eI he ee 303 
MCAstside sarki, 64) 8 eee o dated a7 
POO@aAT ©) IAINeS: Jey See. oo 165, 268 
TUUPADETO AOUCEI 2) yes oi tale 14 
Pens lAnd ae sk eee ee 8 ee 28, 34, 150 
English silk industry .............. 322 
PMBOsiss POUR E eel Cos cel cee ea 14 
ETVANS VIGO. de ee, , ie hes 165 
Bitruscan marbles: ....... 0.0: ceeve 15 
SUVOREMATHOIC® (Gdns ca keto e. cect ete 43 
Eves, Mrs. (Miss Marion Hender- 
SOM) pecs Fees cee ane eee te ere wis 9, 18, 43 

Eves, Philmer, 1, 4, 5, 6, 9, 16, 18, 
24 e2D, 1595 43. 76, 79, ’84, 86, 87, 89, 
91, 178, 220, "326 

A LGW Tike eaters 5 tie tere clos ee res 249 
VALS T) CIO ates teste iels cmeveters meron aan 270 
Farrar, Miss Frances E. .......... 18 
Farrer, FL domes (0. 20s cy cate es 18 
IW GIESPAT meds c.4.% stone he ees ee 307 
MiddlerssHIbOWr eee se ee rete. 64 
Fleming, Mr. and Mrs. ...179, 199, 251 
Bilemins Mir, ae eee on tec. er olnte ters 201 
BIGMINS Ss ATM see eee eters eter 203 
OTUs Ctaaeyusha fuck kes heehee 49 
IPOSSIUATOCK? Sal lane tae Lone a 
Hraniklines Wak Gio tiouts sie ee 105 
Hrench Ctreat yarns terns fee cee tee 322 
Frog (Hyalodes Pickeringii) ...... 63 

Gamp Maine yee ersios eee See, an 
Garfield gercekcte vee sae ee ee 262 
Garret Mt., 3, 10, 13, 35, 135, 161, 

169, 269, 276, 280, 282, 305 
Garret Mt. riot aR SEG ay NENTS tour Br eae 32 
Garret Rock, 38, 48, 144, 171, 179, 
301, 302, 303, 304, 327 

Garrison, PORTE S aed ees eee 43 
Garrison, JONNSEIMITS Swe crns etee 44 
Gaston (My French friend) ...... 250 
LS OOLOR YUE. Surtees le ce cele ae 2, 4, 11 
George The Third (time of) ..... 14 
Germansiarmeérseer ect coe 66 
Gerard: sy ‘Herballiee. os. tse eevee. 172 
Ghost (at Change Bridge) ........ 64 
ASIARNO TOOK v4!) sas ena ean es 125, 126, 128 
GIBdStone ye Miran eae ce cee ten ot. oe 297 
Glen Rock (village of) ....99, 139, 141 
(SLOWS VV.OLIN) venieene citer re thereat: tic cae 170 
Golo mehilignaec st tee ee 270 
Gomle TAaNBe oo... ces ecko lees 179, 303 

[ 333 ] 


Gofile? ‘brook +32. ease oe eee 163 
COTO chin cho niles ve ale £5 ale Lie, wee 33 
GouldVA vey oor a eee be ee eae 45 
Gould Chast oc cussion ceo Eee 97 
Gourley; (Wm: idence eee eae 5 
STANICON Fs cic la Gare iene Ceara eae 307 
GreatwNotehvn aaeceiceee 6, 259, 261, 276 
Great sSpring reo eee ote 90 
Green sBbrooki- harmo. .he ee eee 199 
Green: Pond 4. Aen snes 187, 188, 191, 192 
Green; Brook t c.os cache in eek ee 97 
Greenwood Lake (formerly known 
ass Done mond) iis ane co oes 109 
CIPORSDOCK, bad OUT vine we tea a ot on act 86 
Grusters Ss Mr arr. oie ine as eee 70 
GYPSY “Hire acs ah ee eee 7 
Hackensack; -Tivern succes Joc ane 52 
Hackensack, meadows ............ 50 
Hackensack, bridge ......... 50, 52, 53 
Hackensack, Reformed Church eli 8 
Haledon Mts. Bia a ecsie weal cheer cis eee ci ine 
Faledon, ACroley cn. cco eee 
Haledon sea twoadsoctanee 41, 165, 263 
Haledon; woods) (s.05 07.05) ee 202 
Half-Way House (the once fam- 
OUS) MS Ie FEA ee aS a ee THE 
Halls *farmiocscc.. ee Cee eee 41 
Hall* Louise,” Mra. is css snare 91 
Hamile: EMU Of) was ea ee ae 30 
Hamil & Booth (Factory of) ...... 311 
Hamilton, Alexander ...... 45, 55, 325 
Fi6nd's factory 330) does eee 47 
Harrigan esideath veadiamalh. wee eee 262 
Hartmeier, John, Jr.,.d:¢10)' 6.041943 
Harum, David Bie aie ead e Sioa eet 53 
Hattersley, George. oc eae eee 326 
MAW Orne ac need Hae ee 162, 163 
Hayden’s (Hymn to the emperor) 5, 16 
Hebrew, ‘cemetery 5. od. Gilead 89 
Fenn. Oran con ov si Wace ee 108 
High Bridges sive ses. ik eee ee 127 
rsh Mite eee 2, 8,0 Bye 8 1h de, 8 6S 
High Mt. territories. ehseds. eee qT 
High Mt.i woods tics ica eee {é 
Hinchliffe, John, ex-mayor ........ 9 
Hoboken; ferry neler eee 53 
Hoboket dacs ou rn aaa eV 46, 262 
Hoboken, WOat-: >... 5 esa oe a 53 
Ho=HO-Kausi. ote. tee: 99, 1175-160 
Ho-Ho-Kiis) cereek! 24.0 8. oe 100 
Ho-Ko-Sham-<Us » 1 ig) Ae ee 99 
Homestead ic. ice eee 5], 53 
Hopatcong Lake (Long known as 
Brooklyn: ‘Pond) ts) ee oe ee 109 
Hopper, ,AmMoa  W. ..: cae cee 105 
Hudson RIV GT i crest bagte nee s aen 53 
Hudson River car’... 3)... ee 77, 96 
Hughes, Congressman ............. 

Hunter, John, State Legislature .. 66 

Howe, Bob POR aoe AWA VAN 

idiewild *Park 0. 7) ee eee 126, 207 

Indians, of Paterson .............. 307 

indian? Road oF yee 285, 286, 288 

Indians «5% oss. >a view « te ee 
Indian, rock: (): s.cases eee 3 ee 
Indianapolis (The flourishing city 
epee) JIMMY 6:52 6 cis . ce a 197 
Io-Moth ;.......5......0 78 
Inscription *....:....0+.s 004 chee 124 

Inscription (Route of Gen. Wash- 

ington): © ss sicies soc be cee were 115 
Italian o..5 ss ck een ae eee 21, 22, 24 
Ttalian,: gardens \.2 5:\.)..s see 3, 13 
Italian, people ........... 0000 22 
Italian Language ..............e-. 22 

Jackson, Stonewall (Confederate 

General) 2.0... 0s<s.ets» eee 6 
Jackson, Whites... .o..:..ee00n 204, 205 
Jacquard (The wonderful inven- 

tion) ...scccsncecccde dense 321 
Jefferson, Joseph. .......<ssesse 113 
Jersey woods ....6..c.e0e8ne pee 51 
Jimmy’s carline to Lakeview ..... 46 
Johnson, Dr.) .....¢.05eeue 34, 299, 308 
Jonesy Jonn: i2é7o2i. 193, 194, 195, 196 
Joseph, Francis ........:.:s0eaeee 157 
Judge Thompson’s junction ...... 41 

Kanouse, spring .....:<sssshne 106 
Kent, Chas. 3.6 a 0-0 «6 0.10 © 0/oce serene 197 
Kerr, Judge ..... 10, 13, 38, 48, 87, 94 
Kingswood .....:: ds casas 53, 55 
Kuyl,. John... sc. .5s os oe 43 

Lafayette, Marquis de werrer ie yf 
Lake Passaic 3.51... eee 284, 301 
Lakeview Ave. ...:.....0s)0nee 239 
Lakeview*’.\) $s 5..00hs eee 46, 47, 73 
Lakeview, car barn at ............ 45 
Lamb, Miss Elizabeth ............. 18 
Lambert, Catholina 3, 9, 10, 13, 15, 16 
Lambert's Castle ...... » DB eee 
Lambert's Tower .:.5...).) 0 272 
Lancashire *. 3.00... la ee 194 
Lawrence, Sir J.) '......s,05 epee 14 
Laxey (in the ‘village of)). ).2 02 20 
Laydon, Thomas R. (Assembly- 

MAN) 2. s.00 sae & cers eied ¢ cate 
Le Grand Lake ....0...7.9 ee 108, 109 
Lenni-lenape (Indian tribe and vil- 

lave: of) s.33. ae eee 97, 303, 304 
Little Falls Hagle ......d:sn0g0uee 290 
Little Germany ....../... 40s 227 
Long Island, battle of ............. 48 
London: } eee. Sus doe ee Zovtoe 
Louis, Prince. ........... a4 


Macnab, Robt... 2: s.u0.:seen eee wet 
Macnab, JOHNNVAG ae 95, 125, 215, "216 
Mackintosh red. apple .. :..s.eeeee 42 
Madison Ave. a's 0 0's s/ate ec oe 67, y 
Madonna in Botticelli ............. 

Mahwah. 5sss06-00s 00k oe 101 
Main St., trolley :..... 090) 13 

[ 334 ] 

Maloprop, Mrs. ........ 5 fo cm tererenctunvels 96 
No cia v's o nae Oe ve e'sce.¥ «a's 131 
Mansion House (Ho-Ho-Kus) 100, 114 
4 eee ee ee 67 
PPI Vi BE IOL, “cc's, ss cue wus sic alele @lenie 32, 270 
mree@ran (Senator) oie. s.eetecins sce 66 
BeOS, OWN. a bute ns coe ncene 250 
Meagher, Miss Marion T, ......... 9 
Meemmnmer, William ......cccccevcses 9 
OT ES Ss ee 295, 296 
Meisters, J. C. (Farm of) ...90, 91, 95 
COE ET ONT ©. 5. cco e's c.c.ce oss 0 coos 32 
BURA TEN GREET EST YR Gani tratisiraiarverto,io eeerchavel ahaa 5's o%0 319 
Miller, Buffer (Senator) ........... 101 
ED le syd tanya, pee se em 0 315, 318 
MOnOMmOniICgINn;.fs6. 0.0.8. cese ee ee 98 
EEE ee Cu ie wate Goo cb eae bs 49 
ES ITD aap ee as <0 b0e v0 oes eden 263 

Morris Canal (the old) 62, 66, 170 
225, 265, 267 

Morrissee, James A. .............. 127 
Morrison, Margaret E. ............ 108 
Miorrigon Cottage ..........ce0sees 108 
ER ES OCCINY yrs coals gree bsn'els oh aidve 2 39 

Mountain View (Canal bridge at) 288 
Mourning Cloak butterfly (Anti- 
opa) 61 

Mount St. Dominic Seminary ..... 98 


Murphy, Nicholas (rude hut of) 92 

IMPEDE POOT O10) .....66%0 6 sabe ees Pops AS 

IE oe hls ak sche sean sd ieee 3 

PATECEHMMPESTOS OMe ATEN ero eral ea a's. S40 6. 4 ee 0 o,.0r5 0 311 

Napoleon & Josephine (Touching 
PU UPSET RE Oita ers valalchove) boeie, ieie.e eleuslectie.s a 15 

Nature, 1, 7, 64, 75, 78, 86, 91, 92, 
93, 94, 139, 141, 199, 235, 250, 251, 
268, 281, 287, 302, 303 

Nature studies AiG ORAC AAR kc 4, 20 

err peony tle & charms of) 4, 

Nature, lovers of .......... 19, 326, 327 
Nearer My God to Thee ..97, 110, 111 
Neolithic Limestone .............. 307 
eI E AID oi oc cs aie cle wie viee 316 

Neuberger, Frederick (Cottage of) 
131, 211, 216 

New Amsterdam ................. 279 
PIG WOUE IC) Fee hikers sale c abo die laid et 49, 98, 262 
NETL M ESOL Bia slcveieis c.cts sisic ee sls's antec s 86 
MPO WHOUNGIATIC“ Gictclce sie dls c clots eases 192 
Newfoundland, Station ............ 187 
New Jersey, state of .............. 19 
New Jersey (largest boulder rock 
HEU coge\ehRlS Ai ASG A Jyh A ne Rea 41 
New Jersey (one of the grandest 
PAUUOTAMAB NOL) i. ccaseeeees ceeee 
VEN COSTATMNONE | o. 45. ccccac ee loei sles .. 14 
RVI T IC. coir culete cone aces ecb s.é\0 a.e0 305 

New York (high buildings of) ....163 
New York, papers as Truth & Star rt 

New York State, Mts. in ......... 
Normal School (Upper Montclair) 62 
Monee CAIAWElL. oc. cccleclc osc aces 97 
PORT TARIGMON bo oe diate oe a alelad ve. 167 
North Paterson .......... 139, 163, au 
North Paterson Station .......... 

IN O LG iar aloe vacations © aicie oa etnuaers 1, 85, 260 
TL INOCCH MW OOU Saicc. bit Sotinas ahs ane ke 87 
PAPC Dc LALLIG U5 vhvteguiermss saves Mah elas 84 
INObON SR Cairete ne cstvct ohie cir 84, 274, 277 
INOLOCHERESELPVOIT. “oie sheee bcran 5, 87 
INOPCIIPIMECS ie ce srecte atyreiais ore eke 5, 84, 92 
RO INOCONEBTOOK Rl. oi ono ciaece ts ie 62, 65 
INDIEIS Yai ee ieie cto ctonsce ties late teieics Bites acs 66 
INV CII yore cra crete es easels la les to Aarae te 12% 160 

Pa IES Len UAE A SCM ies Ca tee vee 193 
COAMIATIC ae eer ee 105, 107 
S AKIOy UR GOOTEG Gis cs ace ces hee ae 95 
oO Brien Mary) Miss oct. 0s. eck ee 44 
CU BYlen MPA tice kaiiiemces soe aL 18, 44 

Ode of Welcome, 3, 5, 7, 10, 16, 39, 
42 76, 85, 90, 157, 219 
(Official song of Rambling Club) 
ClGHAM SILER os. i ee eS 
ODENSE Ta Wik eran emis ok Orne 322 
OldesimematerRopbinsmes- hess sn 322 
Old Oaken Bucket .............. 76, 91 
Ol TACIOS pHOMG (55 iiss 5.0 ne be cee 43 
WIPNEUA GA ec vache osice eee caer 174 
IED NPC. WAR. ee cee s Set wee ee oe 228, 261 
_ Ornithological References 
Blackbirds, redwinged ...63, 65, 66 
Blvebindy erie tocete ice cates 33, 61 
FLODOMMNE GAs ic. ut tarale te wisenite 33 
ATP ICG teeny sorte he ee 189 
Gheewink feseaises ie Neues clea ne 252 
Chickadees oo 220s iis.o3.g Re oe 171, 280 
CLO Wie cr cee cients ftten loss 252, 292 
Cuckoo, white billed ........... 70 
Cuckoo, yellow billed .......... 68 
WINCHES DinG pon. ee ee ee ee 50 
INCIFSO, DUNNE Pet os ase + seaieks 188 
SAY Lelewiitve ctuns URES ee ee Oe 252 
Kingfisher, belted ............. 65 
PGA TKR ier ttre ha eran hate orcas hc ect 33 
harkwe meadow: “isi.cs ecco won 64 
WANG LE Cece tee eee eee 33 
Maryland yellowthroat 171, 237, 302 
Mockingbird, northern ......... 142 
OPO trees ie chk ha Sak 33, 70, 240 
Oriole, Baltimore .............. 171 
WOQDIFG We ico t er ce eee 304 
IROGSTALU Recieve sec istee sce ale ee 188 
Robin, American, 33, 61, 68, 70, 
85, 189, 261 
Sandpipers ............ 226, 182, 183 
Snowbirds ..... 51, 202, 204, 237, 280 
Sparrow, fox ........... 51, 168, 204 
ass song ..172, 189, 240, 
Sparrow, VESDEPM eee eae 237 
Starlingeiea.ouekes 64, 69, 227, 240, 261 
Starling, English .......... 194, 197 
Summer, yellowbird ........... 70 
SSW LLO Waite ic oie Pritts ite min destemetane tcc 61 
Swallowtail, black ........... 70, 85 
Swallowtail, tiger .......... 85, 160 

[ 335 ] 


PONASEr, BORCiOt 2 2:05 Goes 85, 70 
Thrasher, brown. 2.4.) 40sec 142, 178 
ULOSHS 315s caedtcu cule tts ae 33 
Thrush, hermit’... 4,7. eee 271 
Wartail netsh to vee 226 
Warbler,’ yellow W,7 co ee 172 
W OOdpeCK6E NN. ye eee ey ae 184, 187 
Woodpecker, redheaded, 142, 
172, 183 
Wood-peewee ............. 140, 189 
O' Trigger, Siry Gucius ....>....5005 23 
PAPAIN woes cea jae ae 299 
Palisades ..... 43, 86, 133, 255, 272, 305 
Paramus Chureh (245 26.3. . 115, 118 
Paramus Indians¢es. ES ila hye 
Paramus’ Plaing’* 00, owe eae 99 
Paramve. eee ee 37, 99, 100, 113 
Park” AVG. waco ons nee Le eee 70 
Parting Songs). 72 ana: 10, 88, 329 
Passale re, ORO heuer tee. nate ee 262 
Passaic River .......... 8, 301, 306, 325 
Passaic, Valley of 33, 97, 305, 307, 326 
Passaic,’ Quéen: the 2. se ee 49 
Passaic Falls soA.n. ae: & 149, 154, 301 

PRCIBOD (AT Ceci ee 30 
Paterson & Hudson River R. Ree +102 
Paterson & Ramapo R. R. ........ 102 
Pennaylyanta WA v6s: sei ny eka ee 48 
Peckman (Brook) ........ 207, 209, 291 
Pah, Dra ss «cass ee Ae ee 10 
Pie CUD Gree oon wenn ae 6 
PRGIMIGONE Try Cae: alee a eee 102 
Fliny, Fink‘ Watate 52. 5, 3. ee 108 
Ponligs, (Mr. plates...) be ee 102 
POMP i 7. vice ag Cee oe, Rhee 108, 109 
Pompton Ave Te 6es ens eee 128 
Pompton’ Lakes oo) 231, 283, 286 
rompton’ "Turnpike <....., 5 i.) 41, 199 
Fonds Cnuren corre enna 105 
Ph Onds, \ Their tierst er 6 oe erie 105 
Pope, Alexander iiss 2b rea 58 
Porter, Mi orcs ar ee on ee 106 
Post, CLn6) PaUIGe ied ee 75 
Poverty-Knocking ............ 316, 318 
Preakness Miao ci chas da eee 199 
PPRAENGRR I Soli keke eee 2, 42, 43 
Preakness Church ................ 83 
Preakness Hills ....... 33, 251, 303, 306 
Preater, (Walter BM... oc. cauteeieen 43 
Freater, (Walter, Mra. .i.a7.30s ce 
President, Grover Cleveland (birth- 
DHIAGG) OE) eet ee et 
Proapeet) Park Uv ye... ae? ee 162 
Provost,. Theodosia /ono05. - snk 100, 119 
Publias Library 44... awed 15-5 2938 
Queen) Mary. Tudor .......:0leuee 35 
Quackenbush, Jacob .......... 211, 212 
QUSrts ek NO est ol oe alee taser. 307 

Agassls) ..3. 0)... a0 ee 105 
Alice In Wonderland ........... 191 
“America” ...... +0 «ss oe 110 
Artemus Ward. ...jsise ee 187 
Byron) 2000s ccs ths see 139, 270 
Biblical quotations ........... 273 
“Coming Through The Rye” ..151 
Cowper... 4.7. Ae 7, 171, 240 
Dickens ......+:.:5«esn see 24 
Edgar Allen Poe ....).)),0 000 278 
“English Strain”’’ \))) 0 147 
Epitaph <..) 2) eee 212, 213, 214 
Falstaff 03. s3vsie,0 228, 279 
Gingle “sic... 6 sa. ce bp 300 
Joseph Rydings . ....);0).eeee 83 
Lines .i.66)....0 178 
Lord. Hyron '.:.::/.,. eee 215 
Longfellow .?......00.. eee 220 
Moore, oi sas sone cu seg aug! 
“Old Song” ...2..0-5 fee 59 
“Old Scottish Lay’ 530) a0 15 
“Old Rhyme” ...........0e 68 
Phrase ..6is6s45. 00s 293 
Pollock .ecis.cestee see 320 
Robert. Burns 4......200 47, 310 
Shakespeare, 3, 7, 30, 55, 64, 96, 141 
Solomon }\"s'.. Jess:e ad, ee 60, 130 
BON. ls snes bck tee 107,.. 318 
Scripture. oo... ii ice oe 315 
Sancho. Panza | ,....:,0ctoeee 226 
Shelley 2... sw. cue en 176 
“Song of the’ Soil’? age 114 
Tennyson +... ..4..2). oe 323 
“The Helmet of Navarre’ 132 
Verses, 113 to 128, 197, 246, 248, 

254, 290, 298, 299, 301, 304, 315 
Whittier: v0.0... 32 2 ee 33, 161 
Ramapo, valley of the ...... 107, 108 
Ramapo River ....,,.., 000 106, 107 

Ramapo Mts., 
261, 270, 306 
Ramapo Stream, footbridge over. .206 

Ramapo Turnpike ...,./3,.05e 251 
Ramapo Ave, ..%s. 201s oe 268 
Ramapo Range ......is0.snneeeee 303 

Rambling Club, 4, 7, 9,10; 
60, 61, 75, 79, 84, 89, 92, 93, 94, 99, 
100, 105, 119, 157, 161, 189, 191, 
208, 231, 234, 259 

Ramblers, 2, 5, 19, 38, 39, 41, 43, 
62, 63,65, 75,076.) 77; 78, 86, 87, 
89, 90, 91, 101, 102, 103, 108, 109, 
It1, 114, 118,123, 1230380 134, 
yy 139, 140, 171, 176, 178, 199 


MUREODIOS 3 cee c ences 4, 6, 8, 18, 29 SULENT one occ neon 99, 101, 102, 108 
eT ce Sie BON Ce sie de eae nee 21 Busguenanna “Ry Betis. ess 105, 106 
[SSL OV 9 a6 BR 5 8 ne a 14 Swamp Rd, (Near Arcola) ....387, 39 
mevonmtionary War ...:.s....se0 120 SVCAMITOM ote nett she nite ce tioe a 165 
Revolutionary Army .........,-% 121 
Peels VETS rcctne stares, wise erie ne Ly 
chfield (Footbridge at) ....... ; 
Richfield, near the first bridge at, 64 Bh aN a MSE EE 1S on lea oma MR Ha 97 
PHMESWOOd 00.050. BG TBS COM ome WOSE) py Sxiiielas wees sca nh 316 
Miveewood Line ............c..-- 176. i LODDAT (200 | a 6h odes ives Se chee oe 305 
: WaAsaOre bernard Mrawiceeec cess 18, 43 
PERE VALC soc ceesc cs svescese 96 1 
Erg sa, a Sen cn n'ne ess LOG Re tet aCe ONE Soe obits aR Ac eS 
es awe hea cee os RR ee er in ERTON Dp mans vena ere et ao8 
Robert’s Ford (bridge at) ae Ae 15 ees Wm. eiialayelonecatee a/v ara) meheaielic tee) ae 55 
Rogers, ih) 5 ro BE hs ee chk 9, 10 Tarhon, te ivan) pile Molteliet eccevte) as ei-el ay Gite) 2 conenre, eee 15 
Pemrers. (GACOD. .. 6.5. ce see ec 68, 70, 109 oN yes id bak eal Adige etal Pak ES SE 90 
Roger’s Woods ....... 57. 69,/184. 161 oreau, the naturalist ........... 128 
* , Baia POUTCISArA GH eta enin: ies eed aire 189 
DR irc re: per ifePextilo/texhibition’ .....5.-0. 1113809 
Od eS mS ladle Aiba oak 1 Rome ie FUALtIOTIGMNS OR ech ee Matis ee oe nares 14 
STOVE Camecirctaetctie ciaclc-c theta vee cs patie 175 
S TrentongA Vente. tenant ae 46, 47, 183 
FEVIGOSIOVetem a utiecs toi ra obeia eo sie re 95 
Saddle River Valley ......... Valea. a lales 
Saddle River ..37, 38, 95, 99, 117, 121 U 
RI PRES ME NO ois cod a's 6 lave lol's oc 140 
Samia Cecropia (Moth) ......... 52 Unami (Indian tribe) ............ 304 
AEM hoa e sce dhe ee ee 67, 271 ASTOR CIN OI) c. nut sae fees bates 100, 1138 
MMOL CEU) osc ap oon hae veeaee's 167 Lpper Pea kneGs: oe... esas ec pewas 41 
ee a te Tae. bsg conv wees oh 44 
Schrabisch, Max ............. 11, 304 V 
MeTROE SSC OOES oy iis ls cy evs oss bss 257 
SM LSI iu niki, o nies sce 4 oda wos 10 | Valleau Cemetery ...........00000- 116 
REPIBECOMIUS TEMG yok seco cagcac aces AOTC Y OLOGY DOV AOW Ts tie ces ga aes cee 306 
DCOCCNe OVWATDO! ibis ccsce case 311 WATER ESIATOOULY cok cutee eee Cae ees 163 
URN IEUCM Me ch Le oa Kid 06 ka ¢ ie ee Sorte Vanderhoven, (Mre e208.) we ek en 100 
meventeenth AVG, ciscsccseescesns 70 Van Riper (familiar figure of) ...249 
MERON RIMS EY Gc slic lps & oe bs x eo. 3 ws aes 107 Van Riper, Nicholas (farmer) .... 90 
Shaw (The late Rev. Dr.) ...... 153 VanwRiperwe Mrs apts sc ae 18, 43 
shelby, Harry C. ...... 18, 18, 38, 43 | Vermorel, Miss Jeanette (Talented 
Shelby, Harry C., Mrs. ........ 18, 43 VOUT GH Violinist. ore dee. see oes 
MOOT ELOCK: f. sho oleae e's 203, 256, 257 WOReELAINICHD OAS 68? are a 47 
Shippen St, Steps (The famous).. 53 WTOOIETLT AVE lat ocean ate irs tenes 245 
Schumann-Heink, Madam ....... 97 
ENEMAS Ma tale gh ava egos ial oma. 8 LOLA Lod W 
DIGOMIVGmeEUIIIS: Sissi cd anes coc sears 134 
Bicomac SWAMD ....6.6sscseceees 135 VV ELE PAR VE Os oats ore fois Giend Gao oe 47, 184 
Bim OUrney. SMYSs G..ckscetesve cweas 115 IWR ICWAG Keiacicts tants erect tel ticn a oii iti 101 
Simonton, Mrs. Edwin .......... 9 WV PACOt rn Pei tars ee anton 89 
RENCE PRCA leg) Poe ge cy. nis as ix $0 8 me 008 97 WY POT VE OUTIG 2 pO EE cies i oiteroce cnt vo | 
RERINC ON aiatgin choca Vokes Geias eas 125, 209 Washington, General ..... 87, 280, 325 
Sipp-Eastwood .............. 309, 312 Washington and his men ........ 75 
Sipp horizontal warping mill ....312 Washington aie issue cheese ste. 48, 115 
Para PANIOTOW cave cles 0 cclssy vac 320 Washington Rock ...5, 6, 84, 86, 280 
Snake (With horns) ............ 275 Wiatehune Valleys 0.5 eemcccm ass cone 98 
Soldiers Monument .............. 153 PYLE ALIINUS MINIS <OfM eee crasce sree 113 
Seana CL AL SSELIC ec cicis cle c's & chee ee es 95 IWCAVOIUS) STOCOPY, cicc co slen cs aeaite he 317 
DOUth SPAlersONn: | oc ok oo lew ce ce 171 Weehawken ........ecsseee. 45, 538, 54 
Squaw Brook Valley ............. 167 WV CERT DOGE We ns tice ss waclcee kc a site oe 150 
eauaw Brook Rd, .....ecesescens 221 Wel OlLRSainta Weyne wees aoe 17 
SOA. SVOOK: 5 54.6 ore. le eeets 168, 219, 221 WV ORLOV GP IORIS Seve ke cates 2 Piel teks tern ate 319 
EMD PLOT DOPE Co ce cca ec eewesc 18 WY BOBOLIS  DIRCE Wns ive renee cue eels 118 
OE ES S| Ceara 48 West) Oakland 0 /.20...5.03% 107, 108, 111 
EEO MISIATNG | ccs. oe cee swisleles 86, 277 West Hoboken .............ccc cee. 237 
Stace, Of iberty ..c6.... 6s 277, 306 IWIESTSICELS Pa Pliers cso sereeie eteerccetarl ot 270 
Stewart (A gentleman named) ... 39 West Park (borough of) ......... 294 
ONE DE a ear 268, 276 Wheaton, Mr. and Mrs,, 177, 178, 
Stony Rd. (Canal bridge at) .....270 204, 205 
St. Patrick’s Cathedral ......... 277 IWHiteo Tine OCAY Wa es kos 46, 75, 185 
Beni eoty StAtiON!) . 5 sco ens + «ons 89 Whittaker. Lily; Miss) 4s .o..ceee 18 
Strange, Wm. (Weaver for) .....136 Whittaker, Horatio ........... 18, 216 

[ 337 ] 

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A ix, 
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Wilcox: ))Peteryg. orto, .: tener tea ee 321 | Wyble, children .... ool 0 
Wilcox, Alice, Miss .............. - 18 | Wyckoff, 131, 136, 137, 160, 2 
Wilcox, Margaret, Miss ...... ..18, 44 215, 216 
Wilcox, Kate, Miss ............ 18, 44 | Y be 4 
Wilson, Miss (Former Paterson- i 5+ yn 
ian) eoeeeeeeee eevee eeerece eee eee eens 98 Yorkshire Hills eee ee aoc y 
Wortendy kes. Forse ivchmone ee 160 | Yosemite National Park ....... +113 | a 
| é. is 
[ 338 ] 




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