It was a beautiful morning early in July when we three, with a team and a driver, left the Mohawk valley and climbed the Deerfield hills, making our way northward.  On the evening of the first day we readied the hills of Steuben and gained a first glimpse of that broad, beautiful forest-level, known as the Black River country, which stretches away toward the distant St. Lawrence.  The next day we descended to this level, and, following the narrow road through forests, and clearings, and little settlements, and villages, arrived just at nightfall at the home of my friends.  It was a small, unpainted, wooden house, standing near the road.  Back of it were barns and sheds, and I saw cattle and sheep grazing.  The zigzag rail fence common to the region surrounded the cleared lots in sight, and in front of the house, across the road, were the wild woods.  A wood-thrush, or veery, was pouring out his thrilling, liquid notes as we arrived.  A white woman and a large, black, shaggy dog came out of the house to welcome us; and a few minutes later I had the best room, up-stairs over the front door, assigned to me, and was a guest in the domicile of my friend Anthony.

The location was a delightful one, about three miles west of the little village of Champion, near which was a small lake, where we spent many morning hours.  From a height not far away we had glimpses, in clear weather, of the mountains, seen in airy outline toward the eastward.

My friend had the horses and wagons of the farm at his command, and we took many long rides to visit places of interest.  On several occasions we saw the decaying chateau of Le Ray, which was but little more than an hour’s ride to the northward of Anthony’s home; and on one occasion we went a day’s journey and saw the stony little village of Antwerp, and visited that beautiful sheet of water on the margin of the wilderness, known as Lake Bonaparte.  Joseph Bonaparte frequently visited this lake, and he owned lands in its vicinity, and made some improvements upon them in 1828.

Anthony’s mother was a tall, spare woman, with a wrinkled face and large, straight features.  She seemed to me a curious mixture of European features with a dark skin.  She used French phrases in a peculiar way, and was full of the history of Le Ray and Bonaparte and various members of the company that had undertaken to make of this section, in years gone by, a rich and fertile country like the Mohawk valley.  It appeared that the name which the company had given to this region was Castorland, which she interpreted to mean the land of the beaver.  She had, among other curiosities, some coins or tokens which had been stamped in Paris on behalf of the company, and on which the word “Castorland,” accompanied by suitable devices, was plainly seen.  The one that interested me most seemed to have as its device the representation of a small dog trying to climb a tree.  I was informed, however, that the animal was a beaver, and that he was cutting down the tree with his teeth.