“What you have said, from time to time, concerning man’s power to do, has astounded and frightened me, coming from you. That idea you never got from any of us. There shines the light of the seer, of the prophet, leading where?—to salvation or destruction? I dare not think how that flame may grow into conflagration, or mellow into a world-glow of wisdom. But I know, worst of all, that adolescence is at hand; that you are in grave danger of a shakeup. Hard work and clear straight thinking may pull you through; that is my sincere hope. I regret, now, having spoken harshly: I did not intend to, but one thought led to another as a river flows. Now let us return to earth and I will tell you about the Hudson.”
Then Grandpa, aroused to eloquence, made a splendid, flowing, word-picture of the Hudson, from Albany to the sea, that brought out all the rare qualities of his fine mind, and so aroused Louis that he made the journey with him—lost to all else. Just then the train slowed up and came to a full stop. Louis looked out of the window. They were in a ravine, with high walls of rock, jagged and wild, and through this gorge came dashing, plunging, swirling, sparkling, roaring over the ledges in cascade after cascade, laughing and shouting in joy, the same Mohawk River that had flowed as gently as the footstep of a veiled nun, through the long, quiet valley they had traversed. Louis was exultant, he leaped from the train, waved his hat, and in spirit sang with the waters the song of joy. The bell clanged its warning note, Louis was aboard with a swing, and as the train moved on, from the rear platform he waved his farewell to Little Falls.
They soon arived at Utica; and Grandpa, who had begun to feel the fatigue of the journey; announced that they would spend the night there in order to be fresh on the morrow. Louis, still restless, took a long, evening stroll. Utica had not impressed him. It seemed staid and somnolent, giving out an air of old and settled complacence, differing however, in kind and quality, from that of New England. So he strolled; his thoughts reverting to Grandpa and his extraordinary monologue; and for the first time, since he had begun think such thoughts, he asked himself, what lies hidden behind Grandpa?
The Black River at that time flowed irregularly northward, as presumably it does today. Originating in hills not far northeast of Utica, it finally, after much argument with the lay of the land, debouched into Lake Ontario, not far beyond Watertown. About midway in its course it picked up the Moose River, and a short distance beyond their junction broke into a rough and tumble waterfall of perhaps forty feet descent, beyond which, its surface at first much ruffled, it went smoothly on its way as far as the eye could comfortably follow. The water-tumult was named Lyons Falls. Near the falls, on a narrow flat, close to the west bank of the river, sat dismally, in true American style, in the prevailing genius of ugliness, a hamlet or village, also called Lyons Falls. It was occupied at the time by what were then known as human beings and was the terminus of a canal, already in decay, that had somehow found its way from the city of Rome. At a level higher than the village flat, ran, substantially north and south, a railway, named, if memory serves, the Rome, Carthage & Watertown. During what time the village had served as the terminus of the railway, it flourished; when the line moved on, the village drooped and withered into what has eminently been set forth as a state of innocuous desuetude. At the station was a dirt road at right angles to the railroad, that quickly fell around a curve down to the village. To the westward, however, it ran straight as a section line over the hills and vanished.
From the railway station the ascent was gradual for a space, and at a distance, say of a hundred yards from the railway, and close to the northern side of the dirt road, rested the home of Walter Whittlesey, a rather modern structure for that day, surrounded by spruce trees that looked as though they had been dragged there and chained. Across the road from the family residence was the ice house, secreted in a lovely and refreshing glen of wildwood; at a decorous distance northeast of the “Mansion” was a big barn with its outbuildings, all in a state of dilapidation, and adjacent thereto was a worn and weary apple orchard, lichen-covered and rheumatic with age. Beyond this orchard was sheer stubble over a vast acreage.
Not very far west of the house, however, was a charming valley, quite incidentally berthed between the looming earth-billows. Throughout the length of this ever-to-be-hallowed spot busily ran a rivulet
