some mountain exploration. So dismissing our driver,
we took up our abode at Falk�s tavern. �Tis a
plain wooden house, with perpendicular and iron orna-
ment sign in front. Falk is a stoutish old boy of
Dutch ancestry, deliberately rustic in speech, and
stolidly good humored. He charges $5 per week.
Showing us the upper floor of his house, (to which you
ascend by means of a darkish staircase presenting two
sharp angular steps to damage your knee-pan against)
he exhibited two neat chambers with the information that
if we selected them, it must be with the condition that
we�d vacate �em for a lady from Boston, her baby
and servant � if they came on during our story. Her
husband had written to him (Falk) inquiring whether
he could accommodate them. It proved, of course
to be Mr Alf Hill. So we took a sufficiently spacious
two bedded room, smelling herb-like and countryish, and
setting my heart yearning towards Chacombe. After
a plentiful though homely supper in a rear room looking
out on a garden, we turned out, crossed the stream
by a temporary foot bridge � the freshet has carried off
the old one � and so to the girls. They looked very
healthy and happy, especially the younger ones.
I love these Cattskills. I feel at peace here.
26. Tuesday. With the girls, their brother
Jack, and the little fellow Will up the streamlet,
under conboy of a Mrs Williston, who resides here.
A lovely sunny day. Up mountain paths, through