‘It’s so-da wa-ter,’ said Uncle Bill, musing aloud.

‘Hallo, uncle, you awake?’ asked Caper, suddenly raising his eyes from his letter.

’I am, my son.  Give thy aged father thy blessing, and open that hock and soda water quicker!  I say, Jim, now, what became of the nobility, the Colonnas and Aldobrandinis, after they finished that barrel?  Strikes me some of them will have an owlly appearance this morning.’

‘You don’t know them,’ answered Caper.

‘I am beginning to believe I don’t, too,’ spoke Uncle Bill.  ’I say, now, Jim, where did we go last night?’

’Why, Uncle Bill, to tell you the plain truth, we went to a ball at the Costa Palace, and a model ball it was, too.’

’I have you!  Models who sit for you painters.  Well, if they arn’t nobility, they drink like kings, so it’s all right.  Give us the hock, and say no more about it.’

* * * * *

HOWE’S CAVE.

Few persons, perhaps, are aware that Schoharie County, N.Y., contains a cave said to be nine or ten miles in extent, and, in many respects, one of the most remarkable in America.  Its visitors are few,—­owing, probably, to its recent discovery, together with its comparative inaccessibility;—­yet these few are well rewarded for its exploration.

In the month of August, 1861, I started, with three companions, to visit this interesting place.

I will not weary the reader by describing the beauty of the Hudson and the grandeur of the Catskills; yet I would fain fix in my memory forever one sunrise, seen from the summit of a bluff on the eastern bank of the river, when the fog, gradually lifting itself from the stream, and slowly breaking into misty fragments, unveiled broad, smiling meadows, dark forests, village after village, while above all, far in the distance, rose the Catskills, clear in the sunlight.

After two days crowded with enjoyment, we arrived in Schoharie, where we passed the night.  Having given orders to be called at five, we took advantage of the leisure hour this arrangement gave us to view, the next morning.

AN OLD FORT.

In reality, the ‘fort’ is a dilapidated old church, used as a shelter during the Indian wars, and also in the days of the Revolution.  On the smooth stones that form the eastern side are carved the names of the soldiers who defended it, with the date, and designation of the regiment to which they belonged.  I deciphered also, among other curious details, the name of the person who ‘gave the favor of the ground.’  I would gladly have indulged my antiquarian tastes by copying these rude inscriptions; but the eager cries of my companions compelled me to hurry on.

The western portion of the structure has also its story to tell.  The traces of besieging cannon balls are still to be distinctly seen, and in one place I observed a smooth, round hole, made by the passage of a ball into the interior of the fort.