See America First

In beginning on our journey we disregarded Horace Greeley's advice and went east. True, the course of empires has ever been Westward and the richest gold fields lie in that direction. But the glamour which surrounds this land of "flowing gold" has caused vast numbers to lose their interest in both worlds, until they missed the joys in this and the radiant hope of that to come.

"All that glitters is not gold,

Gilded tombs do worms infold."

The land of the rising sun is not less lovely than that of its setting. There is a freshness and a parity in the early dawn not found in the evening time, and the birds greet the purpling east with their sweetest songs. No one may know how cheerful, how far reaching, how thrilling the singing of birds may be unless he has listened to them telling the gladness of the morning while the last star melts in the glowing east.

Then, too, what a journey is this when we look forward to the glad meeting with friends who knew the horrors of the World War and whom a kind Providence permitted to return to their native land. During those awful days spent in the halls of suffering and death near Verdun there were found many golden chains of friendship, and we thought-

"Better than grandeur, better than gold,

Than rank or title a hundred-fold,

Is a healthy body and a mind at ease,

And simple pleasures that always please,

A heart that can feel for a neighbor's woe,

And share in his joy with a friendly glow,

With sympathies large enough to infold

All men as brothers, is better than gold."

Gold has no power to purchase true friendship and only eternal things are given away. So, what matters it whether we travel east or west as long as our souls retain the freshness and fragrance of the early morning's hours? We can be our own alchemists, and through the gray vapors of our poor lives transmute them into golden flowers of character that shall gleam and sparkle as the evening of our closing days draw near, like coruscating stars in the violet dusk of our twilight sky.

Nature seemed to have adorned herself richly for our departure; no sky could have been more blue, no grass more green and no trees more full of glistening leaves and singing birds. There was an indescribable freshness and glory on the sunny hills and shining sky. The breeze sifted through the trees and over the rim of the circling slopes, causing the maple leaves to show silver and wafting fragrance from a thousand fountains of sweetness. At brief intervals the loud, rich notes of the Maryland Yellow Throat and the high pitched song of the indigo bunting resounded from the bushes near Glen-Miller park of Richmond, Ind. A cardinal shot across the road like a burning arrow, and his ringing challenge was answered by the softly warbled notes of a bluebird; while down by the spring came the liquid song of the wood thrush, pure, clear, and serene, speaking the soul of the dewy morn.

We did not say our prayers, but paused reverently beneath the broad leaved maple in the park to listen to the thrushes' matin and knelt at the crystal flowing spring to fill our water bottles. As we were thus employed a red squirrel, who had the idea that the whole park was his, crossed and recrossed our path to see what strange creatures dare intrude at his drinking fountain. Coming nearer, chattering and scolding as only a red squirrel can, he began a speculation as to our character in rapid broken coughs and sniffs, pouring forth a torrent of threatening abuse in his snickering wheezy manner; "but, like some people you may know, his defiance was mostly bluster-he loves to make a noise." Yet, unlike his human brother (while being a busybody and prying into the affairs of his neighbors), he is a most provident creature, laying up ample stores for winter days of need.

Leaving the squirrel in undisputed possession of the park, we followed the winding road past glowing beds of flowers, which are worth considering like "the lilies of the field, for they preach to us if we but can hear." Before God created man He placed all necessary things for the development of that greatest of undeveloped resources in the world, the human soul, and beauty is not the least of these:

"All ground is hallowed ground,

And every bush afire with God,

But only he who sees takes off his shoes."

At all seasons there is a harvest of beauty for him who is willing to pay the price. But "nature and art are veiled goddesses, and only love and humility draw the curtains."

We turned away reluctantly from a scene so fair as that of the charming homes of Richmond, with their well-kept lawns amid their settings of vines, flowers and shrubs, doubly picturesque, lying broad and warm amid their encircling hills. It was a happy fortune for the city that White Water river, with its sinuous course crowned with sycamore trees, passes it. If we are a part of all we have ever met then our lives shall be richer for having contemplated those lovely homes, among the lovelier hills. If our environment helps make our character, then give us more parks and quiet retreats among the hills, where from the breezy uplands we get broader, clearer views.

What a contrast is here in this clean, well-kept American city to European cities! There, ofttimes, we find narrow, crooked and dirty streets, and what is worse thousands of children who never knew the meaning of the word "home." Instead of filthy alleys filled with smoke and foul smelling gases and profanity and unclean jests from vagrant lips they should have, as the children here, the benefits of grassy lawns, running brooks and singing birds, the natural birthrights of every child. Oh! For more great hearted men who are more considerate of the sorrows and cares of others and less considerate of self, as that self exists for others' good! We thought of the wonderful parks of Antwerp, Belgium, where the land is so thickly populated, yet where the love for the beautiful in Art and Nature is so universal as to perpetuate these lovely parks, thus enriching the lives of all who see them.

It is pitiful to see in the many smoky cities the little done for this thirst for beauty, inherent in all. Even in the poorest sections where many foreigners dwell one sees a broken pitcher with its stunted geranium, a window box with ferns and vines or a canary in a rude cage. As soon as a movement is on foot for parks the seekers after gain will be there howling "the poor must be fed!" Of course they must, but the body sometimes is the least part of man that needs nourishment; the soul hungers and thirsts for the beautiful. Nothing seems useless whereby we can gratify that insatiable thirst for all that is pure, beautiful and true in Nature, which draws us a little nearer the Master of all truth.

We did not mean to preach a sermon this July day for we are not ordained and therefore our discourse might not be accepted as orthodox. We heard a few cannon fire-crackers, popping and sputtering like distant machine guns, the last faint echoes of the noisy demonstration that filled the streets the day before. The noise soon died away and we thought how like the politician's marvelous speeches and outward demonstrations! True patriotism consists in something vastly more than the waving of flags and eloquence, which the trying days of 1917 and '18 revealed. The orations were hot ones, and needed no fiery remarks or burning glances from the eye to make them such, as the mercury stood high in the nineties; yet some said they enjoyed them. Perhaps they did, but as a fish might enjoy dry land or an Esquimo the Sahara. Gladly we left it all for the grand amphitheaters of the hills where Nature each day holds her jubilees, filled with calm, serene enthusiasm that falls on one as gentle as purple shades that linger about her wooded heights, giving them that strange enchantment that is a part of their real glory.

The sweeping hills were dotted with shocks of rye and wheat or were covered with standing grain, and their acres shone like gold in the level rays of the morning sun. Far and near the farmers worked in their fields of corn and other grain, giving vent to their joy by short snatches of song or loud, clear whistling, as full and flute-like as the notes of the red birds that sang in the trees which bordered them. The drought and extreme heat had forced grain into premature ripeness and the yield thereby was somewhat diminished. We passed men and boys on the road going to some distant grainfield. They bade us good morning with pleasant smiles. In like spirit we went to reap our harvest. Theirs would feed the hungry, and they could at least make out its value as so many bushels worth so many dollars and cents. They saw in their vast yellow acres not the hungry their grain could feed, but only a very small pile of gold. Watching the mellow colors of the broadening landscape as we climbed the long waves of earth we saw the yellow bundles of grain gleaming like heaps of gold, and we seemed to hear Ruth singing as she gleaned in the fields of Boaz and the lark carolling in the sky above as sweetly as when we listened enraptured along the lovely meadows of the Meuse or on the battle grounds of Waterloo. The value of our harvest only Eternity may gauge.

As we watched the grain falling like phalanxes of soldiers cut down in battle a nameless sadness filled our souls as we thought:

"Though every summer green the plain

This harvest cannot bloom again."

Out where the land was broken by ravines and the woodbine hung its long green ladders from the ironwood tree or made pillars of Corinthian design of the gleaming sycamores which stood along the banks of a stream, two boys were fishing. It was hard to decide which made the more radiant picture: the softly sculptured landscape or the glow of joy that beamed from those shining boyish faces. How often had streams like this lured and detained many well meaning lads who had only a bent pin for a fishing hook and fish worms for bait, yet who had better luck than many an older person you may know, for they baited their hooks with their happy hearts.

Well do we recall how the siren songs of a little brook in early spring, or it may have been the golden willows filled with gurgling red wings, caused a court scene at school. The teacher was one of that type who study the stars by night but never his boys by day. He knew the golden willow not from the fragrance of its early blossoms or the gurgling melodies of the red-winged blackbird's song, but from the fact that they make excellent switches which cut keenly, bend but do not break. The only time he ever visited the brook was when he needed a new bundle of switches. With a jury like that, little wonder the case went clean against Willie.

Now Willie had missed school; that much was evident. So the teacher called him up to his desk behind which he sat in his revolving chair. Willie's face had been red, unusually so, and glowed all morning like sumac seed against its green setting. Willie came forward slowly. With downcast face he eyed a crack in the floor near the teacher's desk while his right hand rested tremblingly against his flushed forehead. "Willie, what makes you tremble so?" asked the teacher in a gruff voice. "I-I'm sick," came the feeble reply.

"Why did you miss school yesterday?" he repeated sternly.

"I-I fell into the creek on my way to school and got my feet wet." As if to bring proof of what he said, he wiggled the toe that the hole in his boot showed to best advantage. By this time death-like silence reigned in the usually very noisy schoolroom. Only the shrieking sound of a pencil toiling slowly up the steep incline of a slate like an ungreased wagon up the Alleghanies broke the silence. Strange it was that this sound, so noticeable at other times, no one heard. Like a piece of grand opera music this formed a sort of a musical prelude before the villain appeared. But mark you the villain was not in front of the desk but back of it, revolving like a pin wheel in an autumn gale. Suddenly there was a wild waving of hands.

"John, what is it," roared a loud voice. "I can't get the fifth example on page thirty-six." Now John had never worked so many as that before and the rest of the class looked amazed. Lily, remembering yesterday's lecture on cleanliness, washed her slate three times with her hand and mopped it up with the sleeve of her dress and yet it was far from clean.

Looking at Johnny now, it would not have taken a physician to tell that something was seriously wrong with him. He was sick, without doubt, and yesterday it was a double ailment he had. Any diagnosis would have revealed spring fever incipient and trout fever acute. Willie was perhaps thinking of the old saw mills where cascades fall and the phoebe-bird sings and the high banks, which the stream had worn deeply because it had some obstacle to get around. Poor scared Willie! He, too, had an obstacle to get around, so he said, "I slipped off of the foot log and got my feet wet and had to go home."

Now, as every teacher knows, wet feet never daunted any boy from achieving a purpose. The revolving chair swung around once more, the teacher arose from his comfortable perch and stooped very low in order to strike the trembling little boy who had heard the phoebe-bird prophesying spring, and had found the first hepaticas among the withered leaves and listened to the rippling song of the brook.

Could the one in the revolving chair have known what he did toward crushing the love of the true and the beautiful out of the life before him, the chair would not have been at once reoccupied. What had he to give the eager growing soul hungering and thirsting for the beauty and freedom of Nature? Had he more of the beauty and fragrance of the willow, so redolent of spring, in his heart there were less need of willows above his desk. A few of the fragrant buds in a vase would have had more effect upon Willie and the whole school than the scattered bits of golden pieces lying on the floor. Which is the greater knowledge-to be able to feel spring open in your heart on hearing the phoebe-bird, or to glibly repeat six times eight?

Our attention was drawn to a crowd of young and middle aged men idly leaning against posts or sitting on benches in the shade of trees at the famous roque court at a village in Ohio. The topic of their conversation was probably government inefficiency, hard times, lack of work, and perhaps many an hour was spent in discussing capital and labor by those who have had no personal acquaintance with either. How many are experts at various games, yet how poorly they play the great game of life! Many have failed to reach first base, and greater numbers have not yet entered but still occupy the bleachers and side lines. Go to the homes of those who clamor there is no work to be had and, without trying, you will see where at least a few days could be better spent than down at the rogue court.

Well has Holland said, "Idleness is the sepulchre of a living man." Though a man has the wealth of Croesus he has no right to be idle, if he can get work to do. A man who will not work is not only a burden to society, but he buries his talents, destroys his own happiness and becomes a nuisance. There are always good, wholesome books to be had and "temptation flies from the earnest, contented laborer, and preys upon the brain and heart of the idler."

Greenville never appeared so marvellously beautiful as she did in her holiday attire on that morning of July. We were thrilled anew with the beauty of our flag as we gazed at its lovely folds rippling in the breeze o'er the grand old men of the G. A. R. Our hearts went out in gratitude to those noble veterans whose loyalty, devotion and sacrifice made this great nation of ours possible. We thought, how many of these heroes we beheld, had defended the Old Flag at Gettysburg and Chickamauga, offering their life blood, if need be, for the future welfare of a nation. Alas! how many comrades they left upon the ghastly field of battle. Right fitting it was for the hands of children to bring the fairest blossoms to show their love and honor to those who made it possible for our glorious banner to still wave o'er a land from which had been removed the black stain of slavery.

Greenville, O., has the honor of being the home of Brigadier General Siegerfoos, the highest commissioned officer from the United States to make the supreme sacrifice. "He answered the call of his country in the defense of Liberty, Humanity and the cause of democracy." Branch of service, 56th Brigade, 28th Division. He was wounded at Mount Blainville, near the Argonne Forest and died at Souilly, France, October 7, 1918.

As if to join in this glorious celebration Nature unfurled many a banner of rarest beauty. There was the deep red of the crimson rambler, the blue of larkspur and clematis forming a wonderful background for the golden stars of the daisy that nodded and gleamed in the warm, clear light. For the white stripes of her emblem she chose the hydrangeas and elderberry. True, they were not arranged in order, like the colors of our lovely banner, but seeing them singly brings out their meaning more clearly, for there is much to contemplate in Old Glory, and we must analyze one color at a time. (Again we thought of the G. A. R. encampment in June.)

Among the many worthy veterans who honored Greenville with their presence was the proud father of Warren G. Harding, of Marion, Ohio. All were delighted with the lovely St. Clair Memorial Hall, whose classic beauty makes it an elevating and refining influence in the community. Then, too, the well kept library, with its fine museum containing the old original treaty of the Indians and many other interesting relics, will repay anyone who visits it.

As we journeyed through the beautiful agricultural region of Darke county we took a just pride in the well-kept homes with their broad and sunny acres, stretching away in one vast expanse of billowy grain or corn fields lying green and fair beneath the summer sky. We found a restful charm in these pleasant rural homes that recalled "A Song," written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox:

A SONG

Is anyone sad in the world, I wonder?

Does anyone weep on a day like this,

With the sun above, and the green earth under?

Why, what is life but a dream of bliss?

With the sun, and the skies, and the birds above me,

Birds that sing as they wheel and fly-

With the winds to follow and say they love me-

Who could be lonely? O-ho, not I!

Somebody said, in the street this morning,

As I opened my window to let in the light,

That the darkest day of the world was dawning;

But I looked and the East was a gorgeous sight.

One who claims that he knows about it

Tells me the earth is a vale of sin;

But I and the bees and the birds, we doubt it,

And think it a world worth living in.

Someone says that hearts are fickle,

That love is sorrow, that life is care;

And the reaper Death, with its shining sickle,

Gathers whatever is bright and fair.

I told the thrush, and we laughed together,

Laughed till the woods were all a-ring ;

And he said to me as he plumed each feather,

"Well, people must croak, if they cannot sing."

Up he flew, but his song, remaining,

Rang like a bell in my heart all day,

And silenced the voices of weak complaining,

That pipe like insects along the way.

O world of light, O world of beauty!

Where are there pleasures so sweet as thine?

Yes, life is love, and love is duty;

And what heart sorrows? 0 no, not mine!

A NOBLE LIFE

In the northern part of Greene county, near the Little Miami river, lies Yellow Springs. As we neared the quiet town with its pleasant avenues of trees that sheltered peaceful, well-kept homes we thought of the noble spirit of him who toiled so arduously here that life might be richer and happier for all humanity. Here for five years dwelt one of America's most illustrious sons, who from a humble beginning of pitiful struggle and nearly wageless toil evolved such a noble life. We are told that he earned his first school books by braiding straw. "I believe in rugged and nourishing toil," he said, "but she nourishes me too much." Industry and diligence were the noble keys with which this beneficent soul was constantly unlocking rare treasure rooms of knowledge. The ruling passion of his life was to do something worthy for mankind. The theme he chose for his commencement oration at Brown University was: "The Advancement of the Human Species in Dignity and Labor." With such a motive, how beautiful the harvest of life: "This wonderful man's diary revealed that during his time as a lawyer he was unable for a period of months to buy a dinner on half the days and lay ill for weeks from hunger and exhaustion by reason of having assumed the debts of a relative." His was the Herculean task of revising and regenerating the school system of Massachusetts, and by so doing the whole U. S. The influence was not confined to this country alone, but spread to Europe.

"In 1852, while a member of the U. S. Congress, Horace Mann, received on the same day the nomination by a political party for governor of Massachusetts and president of Antioch College." He could not refuse a position that gave him such an opportunity to help those seeking after knowledge. His advice to his students was: "Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity." In his last illness he asked his doctor how long he had to live. On being told three hours, he replied, "I still have something to do." As we left the town of Yellow Springs, slumbering beneath her aged trees, we thought of these significant words of this great man: "Lost somewhere between sunrise and sunset two golden hours, each set with sixty diamond minutes. No reward is offered, for they are gone forever."

Suddenly from its lofty station in the tower the clock chimed the hours as if admonishing us to use them rightly. To some our journey along the road that afternoon in July may have seemed but idleness, yet we lost few of those golden moments, and every change in the foreground gave us a new picture. Now it was a wooded hillside with numbers of deciduous trees crowning its low swelling top, with a faint radiance deepening into dreamy halftones on their eastern slopes; now several giant chestnuts lifting their proud crests of bloom above the valley; again it was an emerald meadow in which cattle were grazing. The rich old gold of ripening wheat and the blue haze hanging over the distant hills all lent an atmosphere of tranquillity which the notes of the thrush only emphasized.

Now we felt a soft breeze that stole from the forest, deliciously tempering the oppressive air and bringing to us the spicy fragrance of mints, basswood flowers and elder. The country seemed to grow just a little more rugged as we proceeded over the widening high-ways. Soon we saw several machines at the side of the road on a grassy plot. Here we heard exclamations of delight from the people who were gazing in admiration over the bank of a stream at the gorge below. We soon learned that they had ample reason for their exclamations, to which we added our own. Below us was a chasm worn by the little Miami, ninety feet in depth. The ground on each side of the stream was a very garden of wild bloom. The sumac made a low border of glowing color; back of this flaming mass grew dogwood and Judas trees; while walnut, maple and linden, overrun with wild grape and woodbine, made mounds of bright green foliage, from which the ringing notes of the cardinal came to us above the song of the water.

Every rock and ledge was cushioned with moss and ferns, intermingled with long green ropes of woodbine, Here were vast hanging gardens of many gradations of green, softened by gleams of pale light from the afternoon sun. The rays falling among these fern beds made rare masses of delicate mosaics, giving them that indescribable charm which the level beams produced. Perhaps thirty feet below us we saw a phoebe perched on a dead twig that grew from a cleft in the rock. His notes sounded full and clear, telling the joy of his admirable home. The path of the stream betrayed itself by a long line of moss and waving fern. The sweet breath of the summer woods floated around us. We gazed under a canopy of trees and saw a blossoming jungle of shrubs and flowers that seemed to have been awakened by some more potent force than that of the sun.

Near the gorge lies the quaint old town of Clifton. The gray old buildings never knew the use of paint. Nature was trying her best to make them a part of the landscape. But why use artificial means to create beauty, when Nature all around was so prodigal? How one loves to contemplate architecture like this, where the gray of the buildings blends with the gray of the rocks.

With a feast of beauty spread above as well as beneath us, we found ourselves repeating these words of an Ohio poet:

"Around me here rise up majestic trees

That centuries have nurtured: graceful elms.

Which interlock their limbs among the clouds;

Dark columned walnuts, from whose liberal store

The nut-brown Indian maids their baskets fill'd

Ere the first pilgrims knelt on Plymouth Rock;

Gigantic sycamores, whose mighty arms

Sheltered the Redman in his wigwam prone,

What time the Norsemen roamed our chartless seas;

And towering oaks, that from the subject plain

Sprang when the builders of the tumulis

First disappeared, and to the conquering hordes

Left these, the dim traditions of their race

That rise around, in many a form of earth

Tracing the plain, but shrouded in the gloom

Of dark, impenetrable shades, that fall

From the far centuries."

-Galligher.

Within hearing of the waters of the Little Miami dwelt an old man all alone in a brown frame house. Thinking us to be pilgrims who had lost our way, he came to give us directions to Yellow Springs or any nearby point. He said he had lived here many years and that his companion had died eight years before, leaving him very lonely. His eyesight was failing, and he told us that he had neither horses nor cows, pigs nor chickens, dogs nor cats, to keep him company. "Mentally, physically and financially, I don't amount to very much any more," he said. As we looked at his bending, tottering form and noted his failing vision, we saw that physically he was not one of Nature's successes; while the mossy shingles thatching his humble dwelling proclaimed that he had not much of this world's goods. "Here," said he, "I have dwelt many years, telling strangers how to get to Yellow Springs and others the way to go to the devil, which is just to keep on the wrong road and keep disregarding the sign-posts in God's Word."

Then, thought we, how necessary it is early in life to have some objective to reach and keep on the straight road, never turning to the right or left although siren voices call to easier and fairer ways or gates of idleness swing open to lure the careless wayfarer on the road of life and steal from him unawares its golden opportunities. Thanks, dear old man, for the lesson you have taught. May you live many more years, if only to warn the sojourner upon the thorny road of life to set his face toward the distant city, that is only reached by the main highway of noble aims and self denial. May the rippling music of the Little Miami be to you a friendly voice of comfort; may the golden notes of the thrush and the fragrant perfume of the flowers console you, until you hear the chanting of the angelic choir and breathe the perfume from flowers that never fade and die!

The sun, still seen above the western hills, turned the moist evening haze to lustrous pearl that one often sees on the ocean. Broad stretches of gently undulating land opened before us. Below in the subdued light shone the houses from whose chimneys ascended pale blue wreaths of smoke. The peaceful village lit up by the sun's level rays seemed the one bright spot in the whole landscape, the rest having been veiled in a soft tint of transparent gray. It was remarkably silent. Only the wood-thrush poured forth her serene notes, seeming miles away. No sound of lowing cattle or bleating sheep came from the pasture lands; no shout of farmer lads doing their evening chores. Over all the land brooded an atmosphere of rest, of calm serenity, of perpetual peace. Sitting there in the warm twilight and gazing out over this charming Ohio landscape was in itself "more refreshing than slumber to tired eyes." "The restless yearning and longing that reigns in the mind of all was quieted for a time," and we let our fancy roam until higher ideals floated before us and we experienced that exaltation of spirit that comes at rare intervals in times like this.

A cooing dove (just one) murmured her dreamy threnody and then was silent. Far in the distance a wood thrush was sounding his vesper bell softly-the "Angelus" of the wildwood. Whether it be morning, and they are clearer and more liquid heard through the misty aisles of the forest, or evening when quiet pervades the atmosphere, giving a more fitting back-ground for their pure notes, they are alike full of rarest melody. How often we have paused, deep in some lonely forest glen, to listen to those clear golden notes, following one another at rare intervals so melodiously, thrilling with their ethereal sweetness the weary heart, and floating away through dark, gloomy aisles and faint purple shadows till our ears seem to catch the more remote echo of some spirit message of the wood.

Leaving the land to its peerless vocalist and quiet repose we made our way toward Highland county. The road wound among green pasture slopes, from the summits of which a wide sweep of rolling country was visible. On reaching these heights, almost invariably new and surprising vistas opened before us. The hill roads dropped down to peaceful valleys over which we looked for many miles. Northward the hills sank into gentle undulations, robed with golden wheat fields, orchards, and meadows, and now and then we beheld old villages. Westward they towered into higher ridges which stretched away until their green faded and stood gray against the horizon. How amply spread were the numerous valleys with many trees to diversify them and how grandly planted were the higher hills with forest!

HILLSBOROUGH

It was dusk before we reached the town of Hillsborough, where we spent the night. Hillsborough is Ohio's Rome, for like that Imperial City, it stands on seven hills. The quaint old mansion home of Allen Trimble, one of Ohio's early governors, is located here. It later became the home of his daughter, Eliza Jane Thompson, who is known the world over as the Mother of the Woman's Crusade, one of the most remarkable temperance movements of history, which had its origin here in 1873.

"Hillsborough is reached by two macadamized roads, which pass

through a section of the state unrivaled in picturesque beauty.

It is just in the fringe of hills which in the direction of the

Ohio become almost mountainous."

We left our modern Rome in the morning swathed in its dreamy charm. What could be more beautiful than to pass through the country in July when every turn on the highway discloses a picture of rarest beauty? What a vast volume of divine verse, of sonnets, lyrics, and idyls, is opened before you, wrought out of meadows, groves and sparkling streams! The valleys with their broad green meadows, fields waving with golden grain or dark green corn that bent and tossed in the morning wind, was an inexhaustible delight. A few exquisitely white fleecy clouds, pushed across the deep blue sky by a southern breeze, made running shadows of rhythmical motion.

WILMINGTON

At Wilmington we were greatly impressed with the charming, well- kept homes and the fine class of people. As we noted the noble bearing, the fine, intellectual countenances and strong physique of these people, we thought of the early temperance movement here, and realized we were beholding the fruits of that early sowing.

GRADED WAY

We passed along the graded way near Piketon, where the ancient people of an unknown race laid out a graded ascent some ten hundred and eighty feet long by two hundred and ten feet in width. From the left hand embankment, passing up to a third terrace, there could be traced a former low embankment running for fifteen hundred feet, and connected with mounds and other walls at its extremity. It was evidently built in connection with the obliterated works on the third terrace.

Here many a passing traveler goes unawares over one of the most ancient highways in the world. Our trip over it was more memorable than any journey over a Roman road could have been. We paused awhile to speculate who these ancient people were who passed this way centuries before us. What ceremonious processions may have moved over this ancient causeway! From the branch of a maple that sent its roots into the more defined grade came the dreamy notes of a mourning dove, from a walnut tree a cuckoo uttered his queer song that perhaps was the same as these strange people listened to; indigo buntings sent their high pitched breezy song from the tops of the trees, while the warbling vireo seemed to be saying, "who were they?" and the clear, melodious call of a quail rang from the highest part of the embankment, with just enough querulousness in it to appear as if he too were trying to recall this lost race. The grassy slopes were still used by the meadow lark for nesting sites whose "spring of the year" still resounds among the hills speaking of the eternal freshness and youth of Nature. It appeared to be a work of defense where the people may have congregated for protection in times of danger. A hole in the side of one of the embankments told that it was still used as such, for a woodchuck had burrowed in under the roots of a maple where he was safe not only from his enemies but from winter itself. Thus we left this memento of a vanished race, thinking that, beginning our journey over a road so romantic, the day would hold much in store for us.

ON THE ROAD TO BAINBRIDGE

Whoever wishes to spend a few hours of unalloyed delight amid the most charming and picturesque scenery of Ohio, should visit Highland county. Here both Nature and history have done everything to make this a journey never to be forgotten. The round browed hills lift themselves in "bold bastions" and parapets of green that seem to beckon to you to come up higher. Sometimes you see a wide plain with its far flashing stream and homes here and there, or clusters of wooded heights with now and then a single pointed summit rising above and behind the rest. The roads are made up of innumerable loops and curves, every twist and turn of which unfolds a picture worthy of an Innes or a Rembrandt.

The morning of our journey was as fair as a July morning could be. Near the western horizon a few pearl-colored clouds hung motionless, as though the wind had been withdrawn to other skies. There was always that mysterious blue haze over the higher ridges and that soft light that fills the atmosphere and creates the sense of lovely "unimaginable spaces." It overhung the far rolling landscape of wheat fields, pastures and wood, crowning with a soft radiance the remoter low swelling hilltops and deepened into dreamy half shadows on their western slopes. Nearer, it fell on the rich gold of ripening wheat that lay in the valley or gleamed like golden crowns on the level space at the very summits of high hills; nearer still it touched with spring-like brilliancy the level green of meadows that clothed other uplands, where groups of Jersey cattle grazed beneath the shade of graceful elms; yet nearer it caught the rich foliage of blossoming chestnut trees and lit them up like crowns of ermine. In the immediate foreground it fell on the road that made continual windings along the edge of a steep ravine. How we rejoiced at the prospect and the warm, glowing sunshine! Right at the road's edge grew Christmas lady, sensitive and woodsia ferns, mealy-bell-wort, true and false Solomon's Seal, ground ginger, greenbrier, smilax and flaming cardinal flowers which were lit up with flying gleams of sunshine, forming great masses of tremulous shifting mosaic of rarer and older designs than any that Persia or India yet know. This Ohio of ours is indeed a fair land; and this morning, of all mornings of our lives, we seemed to hear "the ever-lasting poetry of the race." We thanked our lucky stars that our lot fell in such a pleasant place, and were justly proud that from Ohio's farms have come so many worthy souls.

We found enough to admire in every farmhouse, however humble, to repay us for our climb. Now and then we saw some narrow valleys and rough hillsides, where corn and potatoes were engaged in a struggle with countless stones. Without the aid of the energetic Ohio farmers they had well-nigh been driven from the field. The rows of pale thin corn (the stunted reward of necessitous husbandry) "showed that these people possess that spirit of labor, which, however undervalued by some unthinking mortals, is the germ from which all good mast spring." One cannot but notice with what patient industry these sturdy sons of the soil turn these rocky hillsides into fields of growing grain; how the apple trees were made to acquire health and productiveness; and how the wheat stood like vast billows of gold under the rays of the forenoon sun. We soon forgot their seeming hardships and gave our hearty admiration to the sturdy reapers of Ohio.

These men, spending as much toil and energy upon their log cabins and small barns, prize them just as highly as the people of a more favored section value their more luxurious abodes. We were glad to note the whitewashed cabins, well kept yards with roses at the gate, patches of marigolds under the window, and the ever present birdhouse and adjacent orchard. How at the sight one's memory goes back to other days with a wealth of emotion as refreshing as falling dew to thirsty flowers. One considers how to these people their humble homes may be priceless in their wealth of associations. They may be indeed far richer than the owner of some palatial residence where every luxury abounds and love is not. How often these tillers of the soil must sit beneath their doorway, watching the outlines of far hills clothed in dim blue haze; how often, too, they must have watched the sinking sun as they ate their evening meal of bread and milk and looked far away over the rolling landscape with the air of a king. The old home has grown into their lives, giving them more than wealth. If the soil is not adapted for the finest crops it may produce better thinkers.

As we journeyed on we thought of John Dyer's lines on Gronger

Hill:

Ever charming, ever new,

When will the landscape tire the view?

We answered his question by saying, "Never." A quiet seemed to creep over the hot landscape. The great chestnut and basswood trees seemed to be taking their noon rest; only the buzzing of myriads of bees filled the air with their sound; a robin settled near us with open mouth and drooping wings; the maple leaves hung limp and silent, showing their silver linings; only the warbling vireo sang her medley among its branches. The hills shimmered. Not far away were masses of dark clouds which stretched across a valley and seemed to rest on the opposite hills and sink in a dense mass into a farther valley. Presently we saw a white sheet of rain drifting rapidly toward us. We drew out to the side of the road beneath some small hickory trees and quickly put on the curtains and proceeded to eat our luncheon during the storm. The rain came down in torrents, but was soon over. We unfastened the curtains that we might have a better view of the birds that emerged from their leafy coverts and sang all about us. The noon sun was lighting up a million gleaming tears that hung to the leaves, so quiet was the atmosphere. The storm was still rumbling not far away across the hills, where a lovely bow spanned the sky. Vapors hung just above the tree tops, seething like smoke from hidden chimneys.

How the birds rejoiced after the shower! Two cardinals woke the echoes with their wild, ringing calls. Indigo buntings, using the telephone wires as a point from which to start messages, sent them out in all directions. These, if not so important as those of men, were more pleasant to hear. The summery call of a turtle dove came dreamily through the forest; while nearer, towhees filled the place with their "fine explosive trills." Down in the ravine chats were uttering their strange notes, so weird that they won from the Indians the name of "ghost bird." Vireos and tanagers vied with each other in persistent singing. The vireo sang more constantly but the notes of the tanager were more wild and possessed greater resonance of tone. The call of a quail came clear and sweet from a distant wheat field and, like a glorious soloist, Ohio's finest songster, the woodthrush, was casting her "liquid pearls" on the air.

We were loathe to leave a song carnival so fine, but Kinkaid Spring and Rockyfork Caves were some distance away and the recent rains made the dirt read very slippery and traveling uncertain. We had to climb a three-mile hill. The road had innumerable turns, and in many places ran very near the edge of steep ravines, which were often covered with almost virgin forest. There may have been some elasticity in the auto, but we didn't seem to notice it. It seemed, in spite of shock absorbers, a perfect conductor, and the shock it received in passing over deep ruts and rough boulders was immediately communicated to the lowest vertebra of our spines to pass instantly along all the others, discharging itself in our teeth. One of the party, not having traveled over many rough roads, seemed to be enjoying the scenery in much the same manner as a drowning man might enjoy the Rhine. Whenever the machine skidded dangerously near a steep ravine, he was seen to cling in alarm to the seat. He was informed, however, that this was not even A B C of what the rest of the party were used to, and his fears somewhat subsided.

This way and that ran wavering lines of low rail fences-some recently builded, others rotting beneath and thickly covered with wild roses, blackberry vines and numerous shrubs, forming an almost impenetrable hedge. Now and then distant hills rose, clothed with dark green woods. On nearer hilltops the wheat shimmered in the light, and all around grew green forests which gave them the appearance of a lake of gold in a setting of emerald. The blue green of the oats with the brighter green of meadows, blending imperceptibly together, made a rare picture enhanced by the blue haze of distance.

Kinkaid Spring is well worthy of a visit, for here is a spring whose water would be sufficient to run a grist mill. It is situated in charming woods, where grow fine old walnut, maple and tulip trees. A gentleman told us that the man on whose farm the spring is located dammed up its water, only to find that he had lost his spring. He tore away the dam and recovered it.

So many fine old trees were passed that someone remarked of the wondrous beauty these woods present at autumn-time. He did not repeat the words of the poem we shall quote, but he meant it all.

INDIAN SUMMER

"Now all the woodlands round, and these fair vales,

And broad plains that from their borders stretch

Away to the blue Unica, and run

Along the Ozark range, and far beyond

Find the still groves that shut Itasca in,

But more than all, these old Miami Woods,

Are robed in golden exhalations, dim

As half-remembered dreams, and beautiful

As aught or Valambrosa, or the plains

Of Arcady, by fabling poets sung.

The night is fill'd with murmurs and the day

Distills a subtle atmosphere that lulls

The senses to a half repose, and hangs

A rosy twilight over nature, like

The night of Norway summers, when the sun

Skims the horizon through the tedious months."

-From Poets of Ohio.

It is not strange that you do not find yourself recalling fair mornings spent among the far-famed Alps. True, you do not feel that awe-inspiring sublimity that their snow-clad peaks produce, but as you joyfully gaze out over the quiet beauty of these fair Ohio hills and vales clothed in magnificent stretches of golden harvest field and green forest, through which lead winding roads and sinuous streams, you ask yourself this perplexing question: Where have I ever beheld a more lovely or more quiet landscape than this? To be sure it is not thrilling, but sweet and soothing, like the view you get at Intervale, above North Conway in New Hampshire. This fair picture brought to our memory the scenery among the hills and valleys of the Meuse, as seen from Fort Regret. Here the view discloses vast stretches of upland meadows, orchards of cherry and plum trees, old stone highways that lose themselves in the valleys to appear again like slender paths where they cross some distant hill. Old stone farm houses, clusters of ruined villages, and as many as seven forts may be seen from this commanding position. A few miles distant rises the almost impregnable fortress of Verdun whose round Roman towers look down on the devastated region and seem to say, "They shall not pass." Nature has given just as picturesque a setting to many of her ancient fortified hills of the Western World, whose crowning battlements speak of a different age and architecture.

To the lofty parapets scattered throughout the southern part of Ohio, the ferocious warrior of another age came for refuge or lighted fires on their signal mounds to warn their people of an approaching enemy. Here are forest trees growing upon their sides said to be six hundred years old and rising from the decomposed remains of others perhaps just as old. How long these forts were used before the forests again reclothed them we have no means of knowing. We cannot but wonder over the fate of this forgotten race. What starving sieges, deeds of noble daring and brave sorties these ancient walls must have known!

Here we found growing great masses of purple spiked loose- strife. The deep purple flowers that closely cluster on the long spikes give a rich glow to the lowlands. This flower we found growing in abundance in New Hampshire, New York, New Jersey, and Massachusetts. It is an importation from England. It is remarkable as an example of trimorphism, the two sets of stamens and pistil being of different lengths in the same flower. Every pistil, in order to affect fertilization, must receive the pollen from the same length in another flower. Professor Darwin experimented with these flowers and wrote about them to Dr. Gray "I am almost stark, staring mad over Lythrum. If I can prove what I really believe, it is a grand case of trimorphism, with three different pollens and three stigmas. I have fertilized above ninety flowers, trying all the eighteen distinct crosses which are possible within the limits of this one species. For the love of heaven, have a look at some of your species, and if you can get me some seed, do."

ROCKYFORD CAVES

Here in one of the most charming spots that Nature gave to this scenic Ohio region dwelt a being-a wretch-by the name of McKinney, the tales of whose terrible deeds recall the gruesome acts of the days of the Inquisition or the horrible tortures of the fierce Iroquois. In one of the caves embowered in this leafy wilderness, where the rays of the noonday sun scarce ever fall and there reigns perpetually a cavernous gloom, dwelt this bold robber. Only the complaining water of a brook as it slipped over the polished stones or the song of the birds broke the silence of this solitude. Here we listened to a thrilling story, told by a middle-aged lady, of one of the many horrid deeds committed by this Ohio robber.

In the near vicinity lived two old people, who represented that worthy class of pioneers whose strength of character and noble self-sacrifice formed a fit corner stone upon which to build such a glorious state. The old gentleman was a stock buyer, and on the morning of that particular day of which our tale relates he had received a large sum of money (large for those times) and returned to his home late that afternoon. It was too near night to distribute the money among the various farmers. After consulting his good wife as to the best place for secreting it he decided to bury the money in the ground beneath the puncheon floor. Raising one or two of the huge planks, while his wife kept watch from the doorway of their cabin, the old gentleman dug a small hole in the ground and deposited the pouch which held the money. Smoothing over the place he carefully relaid the rough-hewn puncheon and, with an air of satisfaction in a work well performed, he left the cabin to do his evening chores, while the good housewife busied herself in preparing their frugal meal.

The work being done the old man returned to the house where in the twilight they ate their corn bread and potatoes with a relish that only those who labor may know. The last faint notes of the woodthrush came softly from the shadowy ravine, robins caroled in chorus, then they, too, became silent.

Late in the afternoon from his leafy covert (one of the numerous places found in this region, overlooking the road) peered the treacherous eyes of this bold highwayman. Here he awaited the coming of the twilight, patiently, silently, for he knew that the old man was alone, and like a fierce wild beast, he did not stir from his retreat until the gleam of light from the cabin door announced his hour had come. Leaving his hiding-place, he gazed through the deepening dusk and ever and anon glanced over his shoulder, as might a criminal who is fleeing from his pursuers.

Stealthily he approached the cabin, where the two old people were made plainly visible by the lamp and the warm, ruddy glow of the fireplace. With silent tread he entered the peaceful abode, and drew a pistol on the old couple, who stood up speechless and horror stricken before him. He demanded the money, which he very well knew the old man had received, but neither the man nor his wife would inform him of its whereabouts; whereupon he seized the old man and bound and gagged him. Then threatening the old lady with vile oaths, he tried to frighten her into revealing the secret hiding place, but to no avail. Seizing her, he securely bound her, with a horrible threat of pushing her into the glowing fireplace, but to no purpose.

Having the two forms prostrate upon the floor, he shoved their feet into the fire, removing the gags now and then so they could speak and disclose the secret he so vainly strove to force from theist. Removing the gag from the old man for the second time he found that he had fainted. He gave him a toss and a rude kick, leaving him to lie lifeless, as he thought, upon the floor. Turning again to the old lady, he pulled her lack from the fire and removed her gag, threatening to again torture her if she persisted in refusing to reveal the secret. Although her feet were horribly burned by the coals and her suffering was so intense that her whole frame shook convulsively with the inexpressible pain she endured, she remained silent. His barbarous attempts proved of no avail.

Unbinding the old lady he left her alone with the still form of the old man lying as dead before her. Painfully she hobbled to the well after releasing his bonds and brought water, with the aid of which she revived him. The old man lived only a short time, but his wife recovered to tell of that thrilling night to her grand children.

"Those people were my grand parents," continued the lady who related the story.

CHILLICOTHE

At Chillicothe still stands the magnificent old elm under which Logan, that gentle, noble Mingo chief sat, "while he told the story of his wrongs in language which cannot be forgotten as long as men have hearts to thrill for other's sorrows."

"I appeal to any white man to say if ever he entered Logan's cabin and I gave him not meat; if ever he came cold and naked and I gave him not clothing. During the course of the last long and bloody war Logan remained in his tent, an advocate of peace. Nay, such was my love for the whites that those of my own country pointed at me as they passed and said, 'Logan is the friend of the white man.' I had even thought to live with you but for the injuries of one man, Colonel Cresap, who last spring, in cold blood and unprovoked, cut off all the relatives of Logan, not sparing even my women and children. There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any human creature. This called upon me for revenge. I have sought it. I have killed many. I have fully glutted my vengeance. For my country I rejoice at the beams of peace, yet do not harbor the thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is thereto mourn for Logan? Not one."