Mesa-ba-wa-sin still presides in spirit and fact over the glen, and his altars are everywhere. The woodthrush and the vireo sing his praises still, and the wake robins are proxies for his redskin worshippers. There is a pathetic side to the Idlewild days. In many of the cheery, entertaining letters, and increasingly toward the last, there is an acknowledgment of illness. The man who wrote them was nearing the end of life, and he knew it. A consumptive, whose work and pleasure alike were frequently interrupted by the setbacks peculiar to that disease; prevented by weakness from participation in man}^ of the activities of life ; feeling the ground slipping from under his feet month by month, WilHs uttered no note of despondency or alarm. He was like a swimmer striking out for a receding shore and singing till the water overwhelmed him. It is meet that there should be an indissoluble connection in the thoughts of readers between his name and that of the little spot of earth that he loved so well and where his last days were spent.

The Fisher's Reach 401 The stream into which Idlewild brook flows and which itself meanders between banks that are a perpetual temptation to the artist, finally finds its way to the Hudson under the trestles of a railroad bridge. That is Moodna. Moodua, or Murderer's Creek. The last and least attracti\'e name is, of course, the one on which a tradition depends -- the story of the compassion of a red man, the steadfast loyalty of a woman, and the lust for blood that has seemed at times an uncontrollable instinct with the Indian. A family named Murdoch lived near the mouth of the stream and frequently welcomed to their cabin an Indian called Naoman, who showed great friendliness towards them.