Mr. Moon always has something nice expressly for you.  When his liability to loss in so doing is considered, his prices will not appear so exorbitant.

Those who with Prior,

            “Charmed with rural beauty
  Chase fleeting pleasure through the maze of life,”

will be pleased with

Saratoga Lake.

It has nine miles of length and two miles and a half of breadth.  Many and varied scenes of interest and grandeur occur within this broad range of water and shore.  The whole lake is replete with quiet and gentle beauty, striking the beholder rather with admiration than astonishment.

Boating and sailing may be enjoyed upon its waters, and a small steamer, plying from point to point, is at the command of pleasure parties.

Formerly an abundance of trout was found here, and shad and herring were among the annual visitors; but the lake is now filled with the black or Oswego bass, pickerel, muscalonge and perch.

[Illustration:  SARATOGA LAKE.]

But Saratoga Lake is not wholly devoted to the sportsman, or to the frivolities of fashionable butterflies.  The beautiful and familiar hymn commencing—­

  “From whence doth this union arise,
    That hatred is conquer’d by love? 
  It fastens our souls in such ties,
    That nature and time can’t remove,”

was composed and sang first, upon the placid waters of this lake, by Dr. Baldwin, of Boston, and a party of clerical friends.

That charming author, N.P.  Willis, relates in his own charming style the following tradition of Saratoga Lake: 

“There is,” he says, “an Indian superstition attached to this lake, which probably has its source in its remarkable loneliness and tranquility.  The Mohawks believed that its stillness was sacred to the Great Spirit, and that if a human voice uttered a sound upon its waters, the canoe of the offender would instantly sink.  A story is told of an Englishwoman, in the early days of the first settlers, who had occasion to cross this lake with a party of Indians, who, before embarking, warned her most impressively of the spell.  It was a silent, breathless day, and the canoe shot over the smooth surface of the lake like an arrow.  About a mile from the shore, near the center of the lake, the woman, willing to convince the savages of the weakness of their superstition, uttered a loud cry.  The countenances of the Indians fell instantly to the deepest gloom.  After a moment’s pause, however, they redoubled their exertions, and in frowning silence drove the light bark like an arrow over the waters.  They reached the shore in safety, and drew up the canoe, and the woman rallied the chief on his credulity.  ‘The Great Spirit is merciful,’ answered the scornful Mohawk, ‘He knows that a white woman cannot hold her tongue.’”

[Illustration:  BALL ROOM GRAND UNION.]

Chapman’s Hill