As I stood on the walls of this ancient building, surveying the valley it overlooked, with its straggling village lying at our feet, and the fair Schoharie Creek, now gleaming in the sunlight of the meadows, or darkening in the shade of the trees that overhung it, the past and the present mingled strongly in my thoughts.

The Stars and Stripes, that on this very spot had seen our fathers repelling a foreign foe, now waved over their sons, forced from their quiet homes, not to contend with the stranger and the alien, but to subdue those rebellious brothers whose sacrilegious hands had torn down that sacred flag, reared amidst the trials and perils of ’76.  Not less noble the present contest than the past, nor less heroic the soldier of to-day than the patriot of the Revolution.  We continue to-day the fight they fought against injustice and oppression—­a conflict that will end only when every nation and every race shall lift unshackled hands up to God in thanksgiving for the gift of freedom.  A deeper love of my country, and a firmer trust in the God of truth and justice, sank into my heart as I turned away from those rude walls, sacred to the memory of departed valor.

We hurried back to the breakfast that awaited us, and then drove to

THE CAVE,

which lies six miles from the village of Schoharie.  The entrance is at the base of a heavily-wooded mountain that shuts in a secluded little valley.  The only opening from this solitary vale is made by a small stream that winds out from among the hills.  The entire seclusion of the place has prevented its earlier discovery; but the inevitable ‘Hotel’ now rears its wooden walls above the cave to encourage future adventurers to explore its recesses.

In the absence of the proprietor of the hotel, who usually acts as cicerone, we took as guide a sun-burnt young man, with an economical portion of nose, closely cut hair, and a wiry little mouth, which we saw at a glance would open only at the rate of a quarter of a dollar a fact.  He proved himself, however, shrewd, witty, and, withal, good-natured, and as fond of a joke as any one of us all.  Bob, for so our new companion named himself, showed us at once into a dressing-room, advising us to put on, over our own garments, certain exceedingly coarse and ragged coats, hats and pants, which transformed us at once from rather fashionable young men into a set of forlorn-looking beggars.  Each laughed at the appearance of the other, unconscious of his own transformation; but Bob, with more truth than politeness, informed us that we all ‘looked like the Old Nick;’ whence it appeared that in Bob’s opinion the Enemy is usually sorely afflicted with a shabby wardrobe, and that, in the words of the sage,

  ‘Poverty is the devil.’

Being furnished with small oil lamps, we descended to the mouth of the cave.  This opens at once into an entrance-hall, one hundred and fifty feet in length and thirty in width, and high enough for a tall man to enter upright.