That lunch just before the march to White Plains has become historic, and the old resident can still point out the trees with pride to any visitor who may be passing that way. Let us hope, however, that the meal of these fine gentlemen was not spoiled by the presence of that rough old German, the Count von Knyphausen, who, though a dashing soldier and a brave man, was no courtier, and anything but a pleasant dining companion. All that is left of this gallant assembly, are the old trees that have defied all change in this change-loving land, and as recently as the beginning of the winter (1897-98) still stood, the only landmarks of those long-

XTbe ^'IReiitral erounO"

departed days. But, old trees, you are not to stand here always. Though you may have seen the Indians of the seventeenth century; Washington, Howe, and Clinton, of the eighteenth; and all the celebrities of the nineteenth; yet those trunks of yours, sixteen feet in circumference though they be, are but hollow shells; the gales of two hundred winters have lopped many a fair limb, and ere the twentieth century shall grow old the squirrel will no longer play on your boughs, nor the frosts of autumn turn your leaves to gold !

In the fall of 1876, just a hundred years after the day of the "Great Review," two gentlemen were lunching under the same old trees. "The days of old" were discussed, and the historic spot examined in all its bearings; but after a time the conversation flagged, and they sat gazing up into the shady trees, whose leaves were f^ist turning into those brilliant hues with which the American forest-trees bid good-bye to summer, when the elder man turned to his companion and said: "Here is the pistol which my grandfather carried when with General Howe on the day of the 'Grand Review,' when they lunched under these trees just before the Battle of White Plains; now, as 1 want you to remember this occasion, I present you with the derringer as a memento of the anniversary of that parade." As they gazed upon this weapon of a former age, the