Blue peaks of distant mountains roughen the horizon of the north.

Westward, the broad, clear river winds away into a maze of jutting bluffs and picturesque wooded headlands.

The tall, white stone on the westerly slope of the hill bears the name of "Nicholas Singletary, M.D.," and marks the spot which he selected many years before his death.

When I visited it last spring, the air about it was fragrant with the bloom of sweet-brier and blackberry and the balsamic aroma of the sweet-fern; birds were singing in the birch-trees by the wall; and two little, brown-locked, merry-faced girls were making wreaths of the dandelions and grasses which grew upon the old man's grave.

The sun was setting behind the western river-bluffs, flooding the valley with soft light, glorifying every object and fusing all into harmony and beauty.