On my first, and perhaps only, visit to Cold Spring, I searched for a little something commemorating the disappointing day trip up the Hudson. The leaves had not turned and antique shops resembled secondhand flea markets. I stumbled upon a quaint shop devoid of customers. A bell tinkled when I opened its door. The scent of leather greeted me as well as rows of colorful leather goods. I tried on a pair of gloves. Buttery leather embraced my fingers and I knew I had found my souvenir. They remain unworn, for like the foliage had stalled, so has the cold weather.