THE definition of “picnic," given by Stormonth, is really a brief but suggestive essay on a delightful subject. Perhaps I can meet all requirements by merely stating: June 20, perfect day, picnic. See Stormonth.

Think of a perfect June day! And add thereto "Top-Rock," the "Ringing Stones," and "High Falls," with a ride in the valley of the Delaware that never becomes commonplace, however long the day's ramble. The drive at the base of the cliff was of itself sufficient to fill the day; but although we might well have halted at every step to revel in nature's riches, there was an overpowering impulse in every one to go yet farther and reach Ultima Thule. It is scarcely to one's credit to admit that these magnificent rocks, with ferns, flowers, and reckless trees that clung to giddy heights, should have passed with but a glance. There was such suggestiveness in each overhanging shelf and gloomy crevice, indelible footprints of Time, the day might well have been spent in contemplation at any point. There was food for thought in abundance, but, alas! there was food also in various hampers, and the day was devoted to a picnic in its broadest sense.

Let us return to Stormonth: he says, Pick, to eat by morsels; Nick, the former familiar name of the tankard for liquor. Strictly, then, we were to Pic, and the nicking was to be omitted. At least, I have nothing to say of the latter. The rocks whereon we halted for the feast afforded ample room not only to recline while eating, but to dance and make merry should one be inclined, while the more staid and geologically inclined found the flat layers of slaty rock an absorbing object-lesson. There was but a mere rivulet trickling over one edge of the exposure at the time, but every evidence that at no distant day, geologically speaking, a torrent had rushed through the glen and leaped with majestic force over the brink of a precipice hard by. How much more readily we may recall the past if we have even the slenderest thread holding us thereto! This little rivulet, that one might pass over without seeing, sang no less the wondrous story of the past because it lisped in childish treble, and every utterance was lost if a bird sang or the wind murmured through the hemlocks. It was almost pathetic to see the waters gather their puny strength where the flat rocks abruptly ended and plunge into the deep gorge below. Plunging as if to move the mighty rocks that barred their way, but only to be lost among the broken masses that strewed the dark, tortuous channel of the mountain-brook. No charm was missing because the spot was now so calm. It was a time fitted to contemplate what had been rather than follow the rush of tumultuous activity. I was thankful, for one, that there was no roar of sullen waters to awe, no giddy abyss from which to shrink in fear. Better, by far, the bell-like ripple, cheery as a bird's song, that so gently hinted of the tragic long-ago.

The feast over, we were conducted to the “Ringing Stones," and here grandeur of a wholly different type confronted us. It is hard to believe that such a spot could fail to arouse interest in the spectator, and yet the fame of these rocks is not far-travelled. Until I saw them today I never knew of them, and yet have lived within almost a day's walk of them all my life. In a little woods we found them resting in absolute silence, but not one but responded in deep or gayer tones to the touch of our timid feet. It was wretched walking, but we little thought of danger, as peal after peal rang out, when chosen masses were sharply struck with bits of stone. It was a most strange spot. A veritable crater, from which had bubbled up a molten mass, now cracked into huge angular masses, heaped in the most haphazard way,—

This rugged, rocky music will not bear transplanting, and rejects a home in any mere fragment such as one might carry away. I am glad of this, for else these massive stones would be stolen by lovers of Wagner. The sound given out, when these masses of crystalline rock are sharply struck with a metal hammer or a piece of stone, is due not only to the crystalline structure of the. rock itself, but to the position in which each mass lies, those having fewest points of contact with the surrounding masses having the clearest and sweetest “voices," as I call them.

As had been true of every other point whereat we had tarried through the day, so here was a spot about which I longed to tarry, and, as in many a melancholy case before, was forced to console myself with the hope that I might come again. The plan of the leader must be followed out, and reluctantly turning from these sweet-tongued rocks, we were soon en route for the great feature of the day's excursion, “Top-Rock." This was no outstanding point to be seen from a distance, like a snow-capped peak, and climbed in imagination before its base was reached. To all but the leader it was a matter of faith until the moment it was fairly stepped upon. In fact, it was with some misgiving that a pedestrian tour was undertaken, when, the carriages halting in the dusty highway, the fact that such was necessary was announced. Had I not already seen enough? was the question asked by more than one. Besides, we were at a cottage-door, and a bubbling spring,- with mossy pebbles set about, and a clamshell cup, tempted too strongly to have faith in stronger things. But we started at last, and never hath a hedge shut in so marvellous a view. As the field was crossed, there was nothing suggestive of other than the lowest lowlands, but we were, in fact, on a long reach of table-land that ended with startling suddenness behind a hedge. A mere fragment of a wood-path was followed, when, without an intimation of what was near, the valley of the Delaware was spread out before us. We stood upon an overhanging cliff, nearly four hundred feet above the water.

These are the Nockamixon Rocks, we were told, and very different the appearance from the summit as compared with that at the base; not that the latter does not merit all that can be said, but here we are above comparative description. These rocks are really a cliff, nearly one mile in length, of the new red sandstone, but do not be misled by this term “new." They are ancient in every sense, and their sheer front facing the east has borne the brunt of untold centuries of storms. All that is new about them is each succeeding summer's mantle of vine and flower. These, clinging to the narrowest of ledges, and finding root-hold in the shallow cracks, gave rise to much speculation in my mind, for they seemed so unequal to withstanding storms, yet were as luxuriant as the growths in the valley beneath.

We had had an opportunity of comparing man's work with nature, and the little canal at the very base of the bluff was a ludicrous feature of the landscape from where we stood. But the river beyond was in no wise commonplace. It flowed, as of old, serenely past innumerable boulders that fretted its course, but from our point of view there was no evidence of haste or hesitancy; the flow seemingly as calm and unruffled as the wide-reaching landscape and the overarching sky. Heeding only the hills that hemmed it in, as a glistening thread of silver it reached to other scenes the high hills shut from us, and was the dearer to every rambler for that, miles away, with the same gladsome brightness, it rippled past our homes. How much there is in such a feeling! Not strangers in a strange land, but at home, whether we wander where the river is but a mountain-brook, or broadens until lost in the sea. This it is that makes, for me, the Delaware something more than

Nature never duplicates a birthplace.

We saw few flowers, but abundant evidence that there are many in their season. Finding no trace of the coveted rose-root, I contented myself with fern and purple raspberry. The rose-root has a history. Gray says of it, found “throughout Arctic America, extending southward to the coast of Maine, and cliffs of Delaware River." Think of a flower that has withstood the changes since the glacial epoch! Here we have it; one that made the garlands of palaeolithic maidens. There is archaeology gone mad for you!

Of the immediate landscape nothing need be said. Description, if detailed, is nauseating; and to be worthily comprehensive who shall dare? Contemplating a landscape, one naturally drifts towards comparisons, but avoid them sedulously. My companions, to my sorrow, were not likeminded. A fair pedagogue suggested crazy patchwork! Miles of magnificent valley compared to a bedquilt! And this, too, from one who is writing a novel. Her words were the one cloud that dimmed the glorious sunshine of a perfect day.