Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must re-member the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismem-bered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a no-ble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, in-deed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and set-tled, 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 grey vapours about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.
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