Susquehanna River

Located at the outlet of Otsego Lake, the beginning of the Susquehanna River, Otsego Hall was built in 1899 by the father of novelist James Fenimore Cooper. Much of his fiction was set in this region of New York, and "Cooper Country" became a popular destination for travelers. Otsego Hall burned down in 1853, but its bricks and timbers were salvaged by his daughter Susan Fenimore Cooper and used to build her own cottage alongside the river.

From the Gazetteer: "Susquehanna, a large river of Chesapeake Bay of the Atlantic Ocean, rises in this State, in a great number of branches that spread from E. to W. in the extreme points, over a tract of country of about 160 miles....These numerous streams are collected by two large branches, the Tioga, and the E. branch, or proper Susquehanna, which takes its name at the outlet of Otsego Lake, at the Village of Cooperstown....Its whole course, which is very devious, and full of small turns, may be near 145 miles within this state....In the upper course of this river the valley is narrow and bordered by high and steep declivities; but further W. it expands into broad intervales bordered by gradually sloping hillsides. The whole valley is celebrated for its beauty. The majestic river, with its strong current of clear, sparkling water, the deep, rich intervales, and the beautiful slopes crowned with forests, all together form a landscape rarely equalled for beauty and quiet repose.... The soil of [Otsego County] is of various kinds and qualities; but a large portion of it constitutes a rich farming medium, though rather better adapted for grass than grain. The inhabitants are principally farmers, and clothed in the products of household industry. The lofty elevation of this county, its salubrious air and rich and wholesome pasturage, have given to its butter a high character in the market towns" (Spafford 94, 310; French 178). Major tributaries: Chenango River, Tioughnioga River, Unadilla River. Major lakes: Otsego Lake, Canadarago Lake. Highest point: Call Hill (2,400 ft). Area: 4,520 square miles within New York state.

A gifted artist, Cooper illustrated Rural Hours with more than 120 watercolors of birds and plants observed during her walks. They were influenced by the work of John James Audubon but are distinct for being incorporated into her more meditative text.

Susan Fenimore Cooper, from Rural Hours (1850)

Writing anonymously as "A Lady," the daughter of famed novelist James Fenimore Cooper was an important author in her own right. She articulated a compelling vision that synthesized close observation of nature, personal introspection, and advocacy for human-damaged ecosystems—all of this four years prior to Henry David Thoreau's better-known Walden; Or, Life in the Woods. Here, she writes about the many springs near her home in Cooperstown, NY.

Thursday, 30th.—The springs are all full to overflowing, this season. Some trickling down the hill-sides, through the shady woods, many more sparkling in the open sunshine of the meadows. Happily for us, they flow freely here. We forget to value justly a blessing with which we are so richly endowed, until we hear of other soils, and that within the limits of our own country, too, where the thirsty traveller and his weary beast count it a piece of good fortune to find a pure, wholesome draught at the close of their day’s toil.

This is decidedly a spring county. Mineral waters of powerful medicinal qualities are scattered about within a circuit of twenty miles from the lake. There are several within the limits of the village itself, but these have little strength. Others farther off have long been used for their medicinal properties—vile messes to taste—and sending up an intolerable stench of sulphur, but beautifully clear and cool. There is a salt spring also at no great distance from the lake, said to be the most easterly of the saline springs in this part of the country, and at a distance of some eighty miles from the great salt works of Onondaga. A portion of our waters are hard, touched with the limestone, through which they find their way to the surface; but there are many more possessing every good quality that the most particular housewife can desire for cooking her viands, or bleaching her linen. Near the farm-house doors you frequently see them falling from a wooden pipe into a trough, hollowed out of the trunk of a tree, the rudest of fountains; and the same arrangement is made here and there, along the highway, for the benefit of the traveller and his cattle. One likes to come upon a spring in a walk. This afternoon, we were seldom out of sight of one. We counted more than a dozen distinct fountain-heads within a distance of a mile. One filled a clear, sandy pool, on level, grassy ground, near the bank of the river; another, within the forest, lay in a little rocky basin, lined with last year’s leaves; another fell in full measure over a dark cliff, moistening a broad space of the rock, which, in winter, it never fails to cover with a sheet of frost-work. More than one lay among the roots of the forest trees; and others, again, kept us company on the highway, running clear and bubbling through the ditches by the roadside. There is a quiet beauty about them all which never fails to give pleasure. There is a grace in their purity—in their simplicity—which is soothing to the spirit; and, perhaps among earth's thousand voices, there is none other so sweetly humble, so lowly, yet so cheerful, as the voice of the gentle springs passing on their way to fill our daily cup.