McGraw©Hill/Focus/Rip van Winkle p. 236////R7N15/ ***** Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the

Catskill Mountains. They are a branch of the great Appalachian

family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up

to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country.

Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every

hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and

shapes in these mountains. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in

blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear

evening sky;but, sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is

cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their

summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow

and light up like a crown of glory. At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have

seen the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle

roof gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the

upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape.

It is a little village, of great antiquity, having been founded

by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the

province, just about the beginning of the government of the good

Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!) and there were some of

the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years,

built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having

latticed windows and gabled fronts, surmounted with weatherªcocks.