s, for here is one who is destined successfully to enter an
honorable contest for the possession of the very highest honors. Unity
of design, and warmth as well as vividness of light, positive
atmosphere, characterize the works of this artist, and render each one a
satisfactorily completed poem. No. 226, 'South Mountain, Catskills,'
presents a view doubtless well known to many of our readers. The
far-away horizon, the winding Hudson with its tiny sails, the square
dent where lies the lake in the Shawangunk range, the serrated ridges of
the lower hills, the smoke from the lowlands outside the Clove, the
shadowed, ridgy sides of the Round Top Mountain, the stunted pines of
the South Mountain, so characteristically represented, the great rock
overhanging the cliffs, and the whortleberry bushes and other low growth
clustering about its base--all speak to us unmistakably of that very
spot, and tell the story of the place as we scarcely thought it could
have been told, yet so simply, so naturally, that the art of the artist
is almost forgotten in actual enjoyment of the scene portrayed. No. 250,
'A Twilight in the Adirondacs,' glows with an intensity of light
suggestive of some secret art, and not of ordinary paint and canvas. A
few brilliant cloud-specks float in a golden sky, which is reflected
from the surface of a placid lake, high up among the hills, whose
haze-flooded and light-crowned tops fade away into the far distance. To
many this picture will prove more attractive than the view from the
South Mountain: perhaps it is our familiarity with and love for the
original of the last-mentioned view, which induce us to give to it our
personal preference.

No. 158, 'The Old Hunting Grounds,' is by W. Whittredge, N. A. It gives
a charming insight into the mysteries of the woods. The characteristic
white birches, with their reflection in the quiet pool, the dark trunk
and spreading branches of the great tree in the foreground, the tender
foliage, and soft, hazy gleams into the depths of the forest, afford the
materials for a delightful picture, the more precious in our sight that
it is so truly a representation of our native land, so thoroughly
American. The broken birch canoe adds to the beauty of nature a most
effective and pathetic touch, by briefly figuring the melancholy history
of a fast-departing race. Gone forever are the moccasoned feet that
pressed _that_ mossy soil, and the dusky forms that flitted to and fro
among t