Connecticut western news., 1916-11-02
A TRIP IN THE BERKSHIRES.

 deusenville and skirted the mountain along lovely bit of country, on fair road up hill and down dale-with the most beautiful foliage that I ever saw. Soon we come to Williamsville, a quite little place near by the Rockdale mills, where so much of our buckwheat is ground and the flour put up in boxes after some treatment to make 1t self raising. From there we rode along to West Stockbridge, and, turning sharp curve, took the road that shortly brought us to the foot of steep noun tair, and up we went with a quick pull. It recalled the time, many years ago (and the last had been up that mountain till that day.) when we took that ride with horse and carriage-dear old Ned, gentle and faithful-it all seemed so different when the power to take us up was gasoline, instead of horse flesh. From the time we began to descend the mountain we saw many and many old land mark and soon took the road that was built when we were youngsters-a wonderful woodland drive-all along the way not build ing, just lovely smooth road between thrifty trees.
 Suddenly as we go along there bursts on our view the famous little Lake Averie, or as the Indians had it, Mountain Mirror, and it truly is. All around the lake the trees are reflected Ill the clear water; it is also called by some Echo Lake. He and l got out of the car, left it by the road side and journeyed down the bank to the waters happy days gone by, when we were boy and girl. On the north side of the lake lies huge rock, known to every one within many miles as Echo Rock, be- cause, standing on the rock one can call up and get four distinct echos. Years ago, Christine Nelson, the famous singer, who was summering in Lenox, came down with party and stood there and sang and called up tlre echos with her wonderful voice. She was so joyous and gay gentleman of the party remarked that he had heard her sing many time, but never as she did that day.
 There used to be a small floating island on the south part of the lake, but it has disappeared. He was greatly interested in everything pertaining to this little lake, for when he was still boy he fancied he could make a little steamer that would sail on it; his father told him to try, and he set out without any help. Before very long he had beautiful little steamer that held 40 people, all painted white and blue, with awnings covering it and on che side of the little engine.room which was white, the name was paint ed in large blue letters: ''Sylphide, the name of his favoriGe waltz. He belonged at that time to two cornet bands. My father, who was an in valid. was taken on board, with many pillows, and sailed all around the lake. He said it was the finest sail he ever had. He had the honor of putting the first steamboat on fresh water lake in old Massachusetts.
 When we were tired of talking about the lake, and days gone by, we re- ! turned to the car, found our lunch box, sat in a sunny little dell and ate of its bounty and drank our full of hot drink from thermos bottle We journeyed on to Lenox, passing through the vii. lage, where he was born, now quite famous because it has the St. Helen Home for city waifs, given by the late John E. Parsons, in memory of a daughter, Helen, who died in her youth. We were cordially received and entertained by loving friends, and many good thing from their garden was tucked in the car. The views all along the way to Stockbridge were superb; we soon came to another and larger lake, called Lake Mahkeenac, also an Indian name, meaning bowl. It is beautiful sheet of water, shadOwing the long range of mountains and re. fecting the bright colors of a nearby sunset. We crossed one part of the lake on fine causeway and spun along until we reached my old home, where we made another stop: also met with the same cordial welcome.
 l Taking in two young girls of the family, we started for the village of Stockbridge, and if one had never { travelled over that road from Palmer hill to Stockbridge village they cannot understand it's beauties. The road is high on the hill, the ground sweeps down to the Housatonic river, which forms nearly perfect horse shoe, and the pretty village cuddles at the foot of the hill.
 The marvellous coloring of the foliage, the purple haze in the distance, like a flmy veil, makes one realize more than at any other time of year, the magic brush of the Mighty Painter. '' We left the young girls at the corner of St. Paul's church and on we spun toward another dear friends where we made short stay, then set our faces toward home, passing pretty near old Monument Mountain. We soon reach ed Great Burlington and then home, two happy and tired people, after one of the pleasantest of days and one long to be remembered. It was trip that