window, nay, almost beneath my feet, for we have our rooms in the hotel, “Cataract House,” above the rapids, which with the speed of lightning shoot foaming past on their way to the great fall,—now then will I have a little chat with you and give you an account of the events of the last few days.
I wrote last to you from Albany. The rain kept us prisoners the whole afternoon and evening. The morning rose grey and cloudy. I looked like a turkey-hen, up to the sky in fear of rain; but when I saw the grey clouds breaking, the blue peeping through them, I knew that all was right, and the day became glorious, and the journey was glorious through the beautiful fertile Mohawk valley, along the river of that name, a lively, roaring little river, with bright red-tinged waters, which went speeding along through verdant and rich meadows. The clouds had taken to themselves wings, and flown far aloft into that blue vault, and there vanished like the small wings of the cherubim, leaving the firmament brilliant in its deep blue. The fields were brilliant with sunflowers, partly wild and partly planted around the small farm-houses. I never saw such an abundance of them, nor of such a size. Many of them had heads of flower, and were as tall as young trees. At one place I saw a little house quite surrounded by tall sunflowers as by a wood; they were higher than the house: but that, certainly, was not very tall for a house. On all hands the land appeared well laid out and cultivated. The sun shone brilliantly over that beautiful rich landscape, and the landscape shone brilliantly back again after the rain; everything looked fresh and rejoicing. And we flew along that excellent railroad, reposing in excellent arm-chairs, flew towards the West, that rich land of promise, the evening land of the sun! Thus sped we along through many infant cities, such as Syracuse, Rome, Oswego, Auburn, Vienna, Amsterdam, Schenectady, Oneida, Seneca
