Tom Winder's 
Famous Twenty
Thousand Mile Ride“ WORTH ITS WEIGHT IN GOLD.”
It protects chain and sprockets from wear and rust and saves many an expense for repairs, possesses greater affinity for metal surfaces and far greater lubricating powers than any other material known to science or practice.
Warsaw, Ind., Jan. 14, 1896.
Jos. Dixon Company, Jersey City, N. J.
Dear Sirs: You may be interested in knowing that I used your bicycle chain graphite exclusively during my 21,000 mile ride around the borders of the United States, and that it gave me entire satisfaction, as is evinced by the fact that, as stated, I used it to the exclusion of various other makes, which were tendered me free. It saved me much hard work, as its application never failed to cause an easy-running chain.
Yours truly,
TOM W. WINDER.
JOSEPH DIXON CRUCIBLE CO.,
JERSEY CITY, N. J., U. S. A.
‘‘Had I had such a device it would have saved me many miles of walking.”	Tom	Winder.
WALKERMAN &. HALL’S
Ouick® Chain ® Splice,
AN ABSOLUTE NECESSITY IN EVERY TOOL BAG.
PREVENTS HOMEWARD PLODS.
Walkerman & Hall, Warren, I’a., are marketing an article which they believe should find a place in the tool-bag of every cyclist who does not ride a cliainless bicycle. The article is the Quick Chain Splice, illustrated herewith, and it is, of course, designed to replace a link when one breaks, and thus enable the unfortunate to reach home awheel instead of homeward plodding his weary way. It retails at 35 cents, is made in three sizes—3-16, 1-4 and S'1^, and may be applied to any chain. — The Wheel.
DIXON’S
PURE FLAKE
CYCLE CHAIN GRAPHITE** **Around the United States by Bicycle.
Entertaining Sketches
OF THE
FUN, PLEASURE AND HARDSHIPS, THE SIGHTS AND SCENES INCIDENT TO 274 CONSECUTIVE DAYS OF RIDING.
Tom Winder passed through in his remarkable ride what the great majority of us live a life-time without even a faint conception of.—
Outings, Portland, Maine.
ELMIRA, N. y.:
TOM WINDER, PUBLISHER.PUBLISHER’S NOTE.
The stories which comprise this book have been compiled from the-original as published in the Buffalo "Express,” together with many new incidents never before published. While the route of travel is followed, it has not been aimed to carry the trip through in a consecutive manner, to do so would make a book ten times as large as this. Each sketch will be found to be complete in itself, yet a part of the whole, which is submitted to the public with the hope that it may prove interesting reading—at least in spots.
The cause of all this trouble was the attempt to ride a bicycle entirely around the border and coast line of the U. S. in 300 consecutive days—making the longest actual bicycle trip ever undertaken, In point of miles ridden. In going around the world fully two-third» of the distance must be by boat. This ride was all on land. Never before or since has it been equaled. Many have been the attempts, but none have had the hardihood to "stay by it.” Many times indeed, I felt like abandoning the task, but kept on and on, resulting in eventually gaining the desired end.
The start was made from New Orleans, La., March 14,1895, at 11 a. m. going west. The finish was at the same city, December 11, 1895, at 12:48 a. m.—making the circuit in 274 days.
Copyrighted, 1895, by Geo. E. Mathews & Co..THE START.
With the parting cheers of a large number of cyclers and others of New Orleans’ citizens, and a hearty downpour of rain together with two enthusiastic wheelmen as my companions, I started on the longest bicycle ride ever undertaken, on schedule time, absolutely knowing nothing of the great country that lay before me.
Owing to the condition of the public highways, and the further fact that the road bed of the railway had been freshly ballasted with oyster shells, I had to make a detour, leaving the city by ferry across the Mississippi river at Louisiana avenue, thence following the levee on the west "bank of the river as far as Donnellsonville, a ■distance of 83 miles, thence by way of the levee along the Bayou La Fouche—the most picturesque river in the word—to Thibbadeau, and from there to Schriever, a total distance of 132 miles and yet only 55 miles from New Orleans. Such clrcuituous traveling at the very start was far from encouraging..
The levee was being repaired, making riding along the narrow path very difficult, as deep trenches were met frequently and unexpectedly. The road at the base of the levee was in a condition much resembling black putty, worked into a pliable condition. This road might properly be called a street, for it is bordered with the huts of the negroes and the ruins of the old plantation homes for miles and miles.These plantation homes, half hidden among the groves, weird with tiie hanging moss, still look picturesque, but for the most part there is the same sad story of age, decay, neglect and departed grandeur. The roads and walks are in ruin; the gardens, once filled with the rarest floral products of the tropics, are now desolate and uncared for. Here and there, in sharp contrast to the rest, are bright spots in the vari-colored life of the south, where the well-kept plantation with its big sugar mills or cotton presses, and gangs of happy darky laborers—men, women and children—are working in the fields. They are a happy crowd, and their shouts and songs and “whoa, muel,” are heard at all times. The levee is the playground of the darky children and the dogs—every family has on an average eight children and eleven dogs—and they made things lively, following after “de bicycl’ mon,” and giving utterance to so many, to me, funny remarks.
At this season the fields are being prepared for the planting of sugar cane, the all important crop, and nearly every plantation has its sugar refinery, a few on the modern vacuum plan, but in the main on the old style. The average plantation contains 1,000 acres; the ordinary yield of which is 250 tons of cane, or 3,000 pounds of raw sugar to the acre. The cane is planted in rows, and grows more spreading than corn, the roots being left to produce again next year. The same root is allowed to produce three crops, then the ground ia planted in pea vines and turned under, and a new start made. The grinding begins about October, and lasts for three months.
The negro labor is hired for 50 cents a day; the women comamnd 35 cents and a good big child can earn as much as ten cents a day in the field—all payable in checks on the plantation store, so that a man working for 50 cents a day really costs his employer not over 15 cents, as the goods are sold at enormous profits in these stores. Still, the negro is a happy being; he needs but little clothing—and generally has less than he needs—lives on sugar cane, and wouldn’t better himself, perhaps, if opportunity afforded. I saw one man bring in 65 cents in store checks, with which he purchased 60 cents worth of whisky and five cents worth of rice—a week’s supply of both, the clerk told me.
But to go back to bicycle riding. As the day wore on the rain ceased and the sun coming out bright and hot. I, Just from a cold climate, soon felt its effects, and drank the dirty water from the river in such quantities that I almost imagined I could see the great stream growing smaller. Soon the eatables that had been brought along disappeared, and in a moment of sheer desperation, with starvation staring us in the face and only a half day out, my companion hailed a dago oyster lugger, who had tied up to a stranded log, and had him prepare a feast of raw oysters, served with vinegar of uncertain component parts, and bread that could go anywhere anddo duty as boiler plate. It was the dirtiest meal I had ever partaken of, but it tasted good, and I presume I will be thankful to get another equally as “rich” before I get through with this ride.
If all the days were to be like this first one it suddenly dawned upon me that I really had considerable to do besides riding a bicycle. Night came on and not a place In sight where we could sleep. One of my companions of the morning had long since given up, but L. J. Godbery had determined to stay by me for two days, so we waded along through the darkness and mud, until at a little after nine we came to a plantation store in the parish of St. John the Baptist, where the manager kindly consented to let us sleep on the floor, as he was unable to provide anything more luxurious in the way of sleeping arrangements. It was with aching limbs, a very heavy heart, and a great burden of doubt on my mind that I closed the first day’s travel, having only forty of the longest miles I had ever traveled to my credit—with a necessary daily average of 72 before me.
SOUTHERN SCENES AND AN ACCIDENT.
Next morning as we passed a school house, the children camp running out unceremoniously to see us go by, and the last word* X heard, as I saw the teacher getting them under control, was that they would have to “stay in for that.” Dinner this day consisted of bread and butter and condensed milk, procured at a country store.
The scenes and incidents were almost identical with the day proceeding except that in cutting across a plantation in order to save the distance around a bend in the river I ran into a ditch filled with perhaps two feet of black Louisiana mud, and my beautiful “Eclipse,”' and indeed the whole outfit, including myself, was a sight. I had to “take water” and wash as best I could. That night at Donnell-sonville Mr. Godbery said good-by.
Many strange sights are seen. Down in this low country no “undertaking” is done. People bury their dead on top of the ground; in vaults, looking more like dog-kennels. It is the same way with their wells. Instead of digging them down they build them up. Tanks are made and rain water is used for drinking water altogether. The land is only a few feet above sea-level, often below, and being of so marshy a nature, good water from it is an impossibility. Most of the negro houses in the country are built on stilts, like the pictures one sees of the South Sea islanders, so that when the high waters come the inmates can sit in their front doors and fish for frogs or alligators, just as the fancy strikes them.
There may be a few good roads in Louisiana but none of then® happen to be in that portion of the state I am traveling. After I was compelled to leave the levee the only decent path was the raiB-road track, and on the fourth day out, between Gibsons and Morgan City, I struck a piece of freshly-laid oyster shell ballast and was compelled to walk for seven miles through a dismal swamp, the green slimy water washing lazily against the railroad embankment, caused by the gentle wind or perhaps by some big reptile splashing about. It was lonesome enough to cause a man to imagine he saw snakes, even had they not in reality been there. At Boeof I found a sheep path which I was told would take me to Morgan City, but this path was as bad or worse than the track, for it lead through a perfect jungle. Palmettoes, ferns, vines and tropical grow'ths of various kinds were growing so thick that I had to almost push through, while in some places the mud was so deep and stiff that my bicycle would stand alone. In all the towns through which I passed in the south I was enthusiastically met and entertained by the local wheel people, but in no instant did any of them want to accompany me for ever so short a distance in the country—showing that they had an intimate	knowledge or their highways.
On the morning of the first Monday out I celebrated	the	event by
puncturing a tire. Stopping to repair this, I thought to make up for lost time, and was scorching along at about 15 miles an hour, on a path near four inches wide, along the ends of the railroad ties, when my wheel struck a piece of sugar cane, causing the wheel to turn, striking a tie; also causing me to take a header, jamming the front fork up straight, and twisting it in such a manner that the wheel wou’d not turn.	I placed in on the	rail, and standing on the
fork, forced it enough	to enable the wheel	to revolve.	In	this way
I rode 15 miles into New Iberia, where I was fortunate enough to find a clever blacksmith—for cycle repairers wrere unheard of in that town then—who took the twist out of the fork, and in this way I used them during the balance of the journey. Their odd shape can be observed in the cut on the cover of this book.
People down here never take the trouble to bury a dead animal, and as all stock runs at large and the railroads are not fenced, great numbers are killed by the trains. The stench is something aw’ful. Turkey buzzards, nature’s scavengers, circle around by the hundreds, yet they cannot keep even with the supply. It is unlawful to kill one of these birds. On one country road I passed, a cow had died and fallen in the middle of the road, and the teamsters had made a new roadway around the carcass, rather than to move the dead animal. I have counted eight dead cows and mules in a single mile, while no mile does not have a few'. I do not see how the people live at all in such poisoned air.After existing for nearly one week on most any old thing I could find in the shape of food, I was most happily surprised, at LaFayette, by having a spread that was “fit for a king.” Just think of a poor, lone bicycle tourist sitting down and going through an eleven course French dinner, with wine and olives, quail and soup, custard pie and "love puffs!” This was the bill of fare at the Riques house, a hotel built on stilts, with a ground plan like the letter E, one story high, wide verandahs, extending all around and back again, with frequent loop-holes through the building, for the purpose of allowing the soft, balmy breezes to blow the myriads of mosquitoes over into the next door neighbor’s yard. This town of LaFayette is very old-fashioned, belonging to the time of John Quincy Adams. Even the same broken places are in the sidewalks and the same mud holes in the streets that I noticed when I first visited the place in 1804. So far as I could see the same people are there, also.
Next morning I was away by 5 o’clock, expecting to do great things, but a wheelman is born to disappointment. A heavy wind soon came up, and late in the afternoon the daily puncturing of my tires happened. Just at night fall I came to a place called Iowa, an Important station, having besides the depot, a switch which may be entered from either end. I found I was 12 miles from Lake Charles, that the railroad was ballasted with broken stone, and the wagon road four inches deep in mud. The agent told me that I could "cut across the prairie three miles” and come to another track which was sand ballasted, with a nice path down the center of the track. I took to the tall grass, but finding it impossible to ride through the tangled stuff, I walked the distance, with the water about an inch deep all over the ground, reaching the “other road” just at dark. Sure enough it was all right. Seeing that my tires were all right, I lit my beautiful Search Light lamp, and made ready to leave a streak of "silver light” across the prairie. I had not gone more than 200 yards when "that b’amed rear tube” exploded with a noise like a fleshy lady falling through a garden trellis In gourd time, and at the same moment I struck an open space between two ties, knocking my lantern off and putting out the light. Here was a pretty fix. I had no matches, consequently could not see to fix the tire, and 12 miles from anywhere. No light, nothing to eat, and a bursted tube. There was nothing to do but walk; which I did, consoling myself with the thought that it might have been worse.
I am a great lover of nature and with the frogs in the ditches, the fire-flies in the grass and the big owls in the dark, with their cries •of "you cook to-day and I’ll cook to-morrow,” I had plenty to amuse me. The guiding of the wheel and the fear of falling into the openculverts, with their bed of black, muddy water, which infests this portion of the country, served to keep me awake, otherwise I should certainly have walked into town asleep. As it was, I did not reach the hotel in Lake Charles until 1 a. m., having walked the last IS miles of the 83 I had made that day.
A LAND OF BRIDGES AND SAW MILLS.
I did not get away from Lake Charles until 10 o’clock next morning March 21. Taking the line of railway I had to cross a bridge over an arm of the lake, over one mile long, according to my cyclometer. On the other side my old friend, broken rock ballast, greeted me. It was impossible to ride with any speed or safety to tires. There was no country road, and even had there been it would have been impassable. I made headway slowly, riding when I could and walking where I had to, through a forsaken looking land, not worth taking in at night. The sun was unmercifully hot, and the dinner I procured at a section house did-not in the least prove satisfying, and as darkness came upon me—there is no twilight, when the sun goes down it is dark—I walked a bridge across the Sabine river. This bridge with its approaches is over two miles long. I was now on Texas soil, and hurrying on in the darkness as best I could I did not reach Orange, the first town, until 9 o’clock, having made only 39 miles for the day.
All this portion of Louisiana and Texas is given over to the lumber industry. Orange has five saw mills and three shingle mills, which produce annually 250,000,000 feet of lumber and 135,000,000 shingles. Cypress and pine is very plentiful. Take the one item of long leaf pine and there is an available supply right here of eight billion feet. The growing of rice is attracting considerable attention, as it can be grown without artificial irrigation, the land being- so low. Although the land is new the yield last year averaged ten barrels to the acre, but not until the farmers realize the absolute necessity of good roads, leaving the growing of rice to the Chinese and their kind, will this be a resort for wheelmen.
I had all kinds of roads next day. Out of Orange it was splendid. The day was bright, the singing birds and scurrying lizards, with their flashing lights, made the country scene an interesting one. But the road suddenly vanished into nowhere. I had reached the end of it. I sighted a house and was told that I should have turned tc the left two miles back, but if I would Just ‘‘cut across the field, by way of those peach blossoms; turn to the left by the school marm’s house; then go straight to the school house,” I would find the-proper road. Getting these instructions under my hat, I moved on only to find that I was getting in worse all the time. I wanderedaround for several hours. Reaching a small house the good people* redirected me by telling me to “go straight through the woods to the-railway, three miles away.” I found the matter of “going straight,” a very difficult task, for the mud was in a happy frame of mind, man/ ponds had to be waded or gone around, vicious looking cows made life uncertain for me, and I was discouraged. Eventually gaining the railway T found I had gone 17 miles and was only 10 miles out of Orange. So much for not staying by the track. I froze to it for the remainder of the day, however, and reached section house No. 46 just at night. I was lucky in procuring food and lodging here, as the next town was 19 miles away.
Next day, Saturday, was ushered in with a hard rain, but as I was not supposed to stop for anything, I went on, soaking wet, but made Houston, 78 miles away, by ten o’clock that night, and I had only walked seven miles during the day.
Houston is the northern city of all Texas—not in location, but in push and enterprise—and its cockroaches grow to be as large as English sparrows.
A MOUNTAIN OF DEAD CATTLE.
Out of Houston towards Harrisburg, six miles away, I was accompanied by ten or twelve cyclists, riding over a suburb shell road. The roadbed of the Santa Fe railway from Harrisburg to Galveston is ballasted with fine shells, making a splendid cycle path. I left Houston at 2 in the afternoon and reached Galveston at 9, traveling 53 miles, mostly against a strong wind. The general aspect of the country is undulating prairie, and many fine ranches are passed. Much attention is being given to fruit culture along this coast, and I saw one orchard said to contain 40,000 pear trees. The severe winter had been very hard on the cattle, and carcasses were strewn everywhere. At one point I saw a veritable mountain of dead bovlnes. The heap was said to contain 77 bodies. They had gathered along the barbed wire railroad fence in their struggles to escape the biting winds, but had succumbed. Their skins had been removed and the bodies left for the buzzards. I suppose I saw 500 dead animals on the run from Houston to Galveston and back to Richmond. Anyone with sensitive nostrils can readily imagine-the general tendency of the atmosphere. But one soon gets accustomed to it.
Leaving the railroad at Virginia Point I wheeled over to the country road and on to the famous Galveston bridge—a wagon and foot bridge over two miles long. There are also three railroad! bridges over the bay. The railroads could not get along with one bridge and do it socially so each company has a bridge of its own.The four bridges are all within a half mile. It is seven miles from the bridge to the city—a good wagon road leading in.
Galveston—a dreamy place, where the wholesale houses slip their goods in and out of the back doors, and everything is done in an undertone, so that all may hear the sad waves breaking on the beach—is built on an island of shells and sand, two miles from the mainland. The island is near 27 miles long and from two to three miles wide, and salt water can be found at a moderate depth underlying the whole island. The land is, no doubt, of comparatively recent formation, for it lacks those vegetable and forest productions which would indicate great age. Owing to its location and climate Oalveston is essentially marine as well as semi-tropical, and the mam land for 20 or 3J miles is so cut up by bays and bayous as to partake of the same general character. Galveston has one of the finest beaches in the world.
THE OBLIGING HIGHWAYMEN.
Getting out of Galveston was almost as hard as getting out of jail, for the railway company had removed the soil from between the ties preparatory to putting in flint-stone ballast, and in many instances I was compelled to walk and carry my wheel. It is only €3 miles from Galveston to Richmond, but it took me from 6 o’clock a. m. until 10:45 at night to cover the distance. Nearing Richmond T left the track, taking a road which I was informed would take me “straight to town.” In the darkness and general confusion I must have strayed from the straight and narrow path, for the longer I walked the farther I seemed to be from anywhere. I had the nerve to call at several farm-houses, waking the Inmates and inquiring the “way to Richmond.” The information was generally vague, and when I did reach a road that took me into town, the sand was almost knee deep. On the edge of the town I was stopped by three negroes, who in a highwaymanliite manner ordered a halt. I was in no humor for such impudence, and quickly producing my six-shooter, the gleam of the nickled barrel showing enough to convince them as to its nature, I told the negroes that it was a case of “on to Richmond,” that instead of “doing me” I would them, and that they w'ould have to show me the way to town. The bluff worked, and the three fellows walked on ahead, I following. They took me Into town, and pointed out the hotel, after which they begged to be •excused. I let them go, of course, thankful that I had escaped robbery, and possibly injury.
Richmond has the reputation of being the “worst town in all Texas,” and 1 do not doubt it; in fact I find it a good idea down here never to doubt anybody’s word. The jail is the most promi-nent building in town and it was crowded with negroes, who kept the atmosphere, within two squares of the place, thick with profanity, laughter and song.
MAKES ACQUAINTANCE WITH A “NORTHER.”
San Antonio, Texas, would be an Ideal winter resort but for the fact that it sometimes gets cold. This is occasioned by the norther, which is a vigorous, marrow-freezing wind, born and bred among the snow-crested mountain tops of the far-away north, and it takes great delight in frolicking thence to sweep across the great plains of beautiful Texas, and play the mischief with the thermometer, and with bicyclists clad in summer garb. I have lived through two northers now, and expect to end my existence with the third, unless I can find It and a cheap clothing store about the same moment. You may be riding along enjoying a subtle, warm touch of the sweet, blossom-scented winds, thinking how good the gods are generally, and how rough and thorny the roads are particularly, when suddenly you will observe a blue, far-away glint in the sky. If you are wise you will immediately order up more coal, get out extra clothing, batten the doors, and keep in the house, for that peculiar blue is the fringe of the cold wave, and for a few hours may bring the thermometer tumbling down from 80 degrees to perhaps 30, and as people seldom have extra fire-places In their summer gardens you may be forced to shake and shiver.
A BIT OF ANCIENT HISTORY.
San Antonio is the oldest and most picturesque town in the state. It is a sacred spot in history, too. Texas was wrested from Mexioo in 1835-6, after one of the bloodiest wars on record. The defense of the Alamo, in which the famous Davy Crocket, Travis and Bowie, lost their lives, was one of the most heroic contests of modern history. The Alamo (meaning poplar tree in Spanish) was built by the Franciscans in 1744, and was at once a church and a fort for protection against the Indians. It was thus used until 1835, when it was converted into the headquarters of Gen. Cos, of the Mexican army, at the time San Antonio w’as captured by the Americans. The next year it was the fort of the Americans. The advance guard of Santa Anna’s army arrived on February 22, 1836. The next day Santa Anna displayed his blood-red Hag from the belfry of San Fernando cathedral, and sent word over to his neighbors in the Alamo that they had better come out and be killed peaceably. This made Mr. Crocket very angry and his answer was only a cannon shot. This made the old butcher.Santa Anna angry also, so he had several thousand Mexican soldiers surround the Alamo, and began making things uncomfortable for the occupants. The siege lasted for 11 days. When, on Sunday morning, the Mexicans after hard fighting, during which they were thrice repulsed, carried the place by storm, they found but six of the .172 defenders alive. These six were murdered. The corpses of the brave Texas garrison were stripped of their clothing, dragged outside, piled in with fence rails, covered over with brush and burned. The old Alamo has been rebuilt, and it is now owned by the state. It is 112 by 72 feet. The walls are of solid masonry, four feet thick, and about 22 feet high. San Atonio is the center of many historical events, and has a number of famous buildings within her limits. One of these, the cathedral of San Fernando, was built in 1732, and is still in daily use. The walls are mossy and covered with mould. South of the city are four other missions, all of which were used as churches and forts.
ALONG THE RIO GRANDE.
Western Texas will stand considerable civilizing and settlement yet. There are no country roads, and as usual, I had to stay by the track. The country Is hilly, thorny and stony; no attempt being made at farming, the few inhabitants being Mexicans. For miles and miles there are no houses or towns, and I had to subsist on section house fare as best I could. These houses average 20 miles apart. The foreman is always a white man, and the laborers Mexicans. Some will treat you nicely; others the reverse. At one time I had to go 32 hours without anything to eat—I had purchased a canteen at San Antonio, for carrying water—and when I did get food it was of a Chinaman, who provided me with a can of apricots and a pound of crackers, all of which I ate.
During this time I had to sleep out of doors one night, and not being provided with extra clothing, I suffered much with the cold. The days are like ovens, the nights like ice boxes, and the combination does not strike me favorably. Sunday night I slept In Section House, No. 82. A score of bats kept flying about, serving to keep me awake a great part of the time, despite my weariness, for if there is anything I have the horror of it is cows and bata—especially bats.
At last I am getting away from the rock ballast—cinders and sand taking the piaoe of the stones—and riding is easier, but with the needle-pointed cinders, the thorns of the cactus and mesqulte bushes, I have a lovely time mending tires.
The only relief from the monotony of the landscape is the huge palm cactus, which grows by the thousands. They have a large blossom, from 6 to 18 inches in length, as large around as a stove-pipe, being pinkish-white in color. The bush grows on a single stalk to the height of about four feet, when it spreads out in a great bunch of palm leaves, in the center of which is the flower.
At Uvalde, a town of 2,500 people, I was told it had not rained for five years. The shallow beds of former large streams are glistening stretches of white sand and rocks; in many places bushes have grown up to the height of six or eight feet. Uvalde is supplied with water from an artesian well.
Del Rio is the next place of any importance, until El Paso is reached. It is only two miles from the Mexican frontier. I visited the Mexican quarters, and found them to be the most picturesque “ruins” I have yet beheld. The Mexican house, or jacal, is built of a variety of materials. Some are made by placing old ties from the railroad on end, and fastened by putting poles around the tops; others are of reeds and bushes woven between poles; others are of adobe—sun-dried mud. All have thatched roofs made from the leaves of the palm cactus. Chimneys adorn the more pretentious residences, but in most cases the smoke gets out as best it can. The houses have no windows or doors. An unprotected open place in the wall serves for both. Quite frequently several families live together in the one room, with the pigs, dogs and donkey. Cooking utensils are of rude design; old tin cans serving as the basis of all. The houses are placed wherever the owners fancy. No attmpt is made as to regularity of streets, so the general effect is unique. In only one house did I see a bedstead, and it was made of scrap iron and contained no clothing, the Mexican considering it a great luxury to rest his bones on the narrow bands of iron. Only one house had a chair, and that had no seat.
THE HIGHEST BRIDGE IN AMERICA.
Weat of Del Rio the stations average 40 miles apart, and then they only consist of a water tank and a switch and sometimes a tele graph office. Ranches or farm houses are never seen; the land is absolutely worthless, so one can imagine what bicycling through this portion of Texas means. The railroad makes many curves around the low hills; bridges are very numerous, not because there are any streams, but from the fact that there has been, and there may come a time when water will flow in the empty channels again. Often I could not see the approaching trains, and even when 1 could hear them the sounds were so deceiving, that I frequently had to hustle to get out of the way. The bridge across the Pecos river is said to be the highest railroad bridge in the United States— the second highest in the world. It is 3,000 feet long; and from the surface of the water to the top of the rail it is 321 feet. The trackis planked and covered with zinc, so that riding over was an easy task—the best road since I had started—as crossing the Pecos bridge-had been held up as a very difficult feat, by those who had never seen it. The top is protected by a hand-rail, and sight seeing is rendered a pleasure. The river is 200 feet wide, but did not look to be over 20; cows grazing below' more resembled pigs, while a house in the valley, said to be 18x20 feet, looked like a dog kennel in size. The walls of the canon are almost perpendicular. The bridge cost one million dollars. It replaced fourteen miles of track, upon which wrere nine tunnels and 18 bridges.
THE EDGE OF THE WORLD.
From the time I crossed the Sabine river until I reached El Paso I traveled over 1,000 miles—as near straight across Texas as it was possible for me to go. I had been 26 days coming from New Orleans; was 598 miles behind my necessary average, and was now on the border of 800 miles of sand, hot, dry and shining—a bugaboo I had had flaunted before me from the start—the great American desert. El Paso is the garden spot, the oasis of the wilderness; you can go this way, and that way, and the other way for 500 miles and find nothing but sand, hills and wretchedness. And El Paso has her share of all these, too, but still it has beautiful streets, handsome residences, grass and trees. Think of it, trees and real grass. Ten years ago the principal street was a long line of “dobe” houses; today it is solidly built with fine business rooms; has a street car line, one donkey to the car, paved streets, and bicycles in every fourth house. Wheeling out of El Paso the roadw’ay was fine, and I imagined I had certainly found things coming my way at last. I crossed the Rio Grande, but once in New Mexico I found my momentary hopes dashed to pieces. For 19 miles I had to walk and push my “Eclipse” up hill through sand a foot and a half or two feet deep. I never saw so much sand. Such peculiar sand, too. It is called “live” sand. You place your foot upon it in a peaceable manner and it immediately disappears and leaves you in the hole. It keeps shifting all the while. The railroad company keeps men along this portion of the track all the time, in order to try to keep the road-bed clear of sand. The rails are like polished nickel, caused by the lizards and sand toads crawling over them so much in the attempt to get away from the sand. Not a single thing grows out here but hot weather. The sun shines down on the sand until the heat causes the soles of my shoes to get like hot boxes: my eyes hang out like porcelain eggs, and a sudden thirst comes upon me; my tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth; I notice a strange, fur-away feeling of weariness stealing over me; I think ofhome and wonder if I will ever happen along there again on the life side of the fence of existence; the heat of the sand burns into my face, I can feel the wrinkles drawing; 1 am shriveling up. I am dying for water. What shall I do? Tpuch the canteen and repeat the experience every 20 minutes.
LET JOY BE UNRESTRAINED.
I was three days going from El Paso to Deming, a distance of 98 miles. Food was very hard to procure. The few railway people who are compelled to live along the line in order to hold their jobs, seldom have anything to spare, and they were not backward in telling me so, but money would sometimes buy ham and eggs, and one good woman, Mrs. Bell, wife of a track-walker, at Strauss, N. M., so far forgot herself as to give me jelly for my bread. What wonderful things we sometimes find in the most unnaccountable places!
Deming is built on a river, and water can be had in plenty by going after it. There are 135 wind-mills within the corporate limits, and not a few more around the edges. Seven miles above the town the river falls into a hole in the ground and never appears again except as brought up by the wind-mills.
At Gage they have gold and silver mines, and as I arrived in Gage at 11 o’clock at night none of the railway people would keep me. There are four families in the city and I had the satisfaction of waking them all up, anyhow. One of the railway men thoughtfully suggested that I go across the mountains three miles to the mines, where they might be able to let me sleep somewhere. As it was I slept on the platform of the little depot, with such privacy and covering as the heavens above provided. It was near this place that the famous Geronimo, the Indian who made it a business to be bad, was captured. After staying in Gage any length of time it would be an easy matter to capture anything.
BEAUTIES OF LIFE IN ARIZONA.
Tramps are so plentiful in the winter season along this southern railway, that it had been found necessary to issue orders to the section bosses and pump house men to allow no one in their houses or to-supply food, on penalty of losing their positions. This made it very hard for me, as I had to come in under the general meaning of the order, and I was frequently compelled to go hungry and to sleep out of doors. Not anticipating such an order I had made no provision in the way of a blanket, so that on these numerous "outings” I nearly froze, or had to keep walking to keep from freezing, as the nightsare always cold. I have seen days when the thermometer was above 100 degrees followed by nights when ice would form on water standing out of doors. Water is very scarce; all trains carrying two water cars, and water is brought in for the use of the few Inhabitants.
Every day is much alike. While taken as a whole, the desert is hard to cross, there are places where wheeling is simply splendid. Across the alkali flats the sun has baked the surface until it is quite hard and cracked like a mud puddle in early spring, and over these good time can be made. The country is just the same for miles and miles; low, flat and ridged by hills running every which way. At Tucson a gentleman told me he did not see how it would be possible to describe the desert—there was absolutely nothing but desert. And he was about right. I would term it a vast stretch of desolate desolation, upon which no sane man has any business, and now that I am away from it I promise to stay away. Each knoll or hill looks just like the other one, and as there are thousands and thousands of them it is a little difficult to tell just which one you do want. The cactus species here take on new forms, and Maricopa is the center of the industry. The “swalla” of the Indians, or the giganticus elephantius cacticus of the scientists, grow to a height of 60 feet, perhaps a foot or more in diameter. Some are in straight stalks while others have from one to five shoots leaving the parent stalk about ten feet from the ground. When the “swalla” is young, say 3 or 4 feet high, the Indians smash in the top for the good drinking water contained in the hollow center. There are over 125 varieties of cacti in New Mexico and Arizona.
A SAND STORM ON THE DESERT.
Easter Sunday was celebrated by a sand storm. Early in the morning the sky looked threatening and I thought it would rain, only the fact that it never rains made me doubtful as to what would happen. I found out. The wind blew in gusts, with spiteful swishes, and the whirlwinds came traveling in heightening columns from far out on the plains, swinging by with a sound like a drove of cattle tramping through the mesquite. As the day advanced the storm became more furious. Huge flanking columns, tawny and dense, rose rapidly from right to left, and a long sheet of what seemed like purple fire, more like a hill on fire—where the rays of the sun strike, for the sun always shines, except when obscured by the clouds of sand—leaped from the earth and shot with the speed of lightning across the long expanse of wind-swept and cactus-dotted sand. It was a rayless cloud of dust. Nothing beyond was visible. The air and heavens grew Inky as the blackened curtain lifts itBelf likea wall, stretching up from the earth into the sky above. In front of this frowning mass quick flashes of light shone for an instant in gigantic spiral columns, which sprung hundreds of feet high, as if by magic, and then curl into fantastic forms, merge into denser clouds. Just about this time it is a good idea to be somewhere else, for all the while the wind shrieks and moans like an audience at a poor show, and the dashing clouds of sand jar one against the other, as if in some fearful gorge in an Arctic sea, where the floes are hured one upon the other And all this time these walls of sand whirl and circle around, every instant coming closer. The rushing clouds of dust deafen the air in this elemental canonade; all around is blackness and sand—I was at the mercy of the storm, and the word “mercy” was long since cut from the pages of the desert dictionary. The tempest of sand bursts upon me with intense violence—it sweeps in blinding sheets into my face; it penetrates my ears and nostrils; it parches my lips with its burning grains. It cuts through my clothing and buries deep into my flesh, with the sensation like the thrust of ten thousand needles. The air is filled with whirling masses of gritty, powdered earth—the very ground waves in billows of sand. Whicheverway I turn a whirlwind of sand met me. To stand still is to be almost buried; to push ahead is next to impossible—not being able to see three feet ahead, not knowing in what direction to turn, and at every step have to combat against the deepening currents of sand, which like an immense flood, dashes on in sheeted volumes of dust. It shockr, alarms and bewilders one—especially on the first experience. The dust-laden air fills up the lungs; chokes and almost stifles, and the thirst that accompanies all this misery is something fearful. The tongue fairly dries up and cleaves to the roof of the mouth; the eyes become inflamed and almost sightless; the feet sink ankle deep into the soft, shifting p&nd at every step, and above the dense, black canopy of dust whirls and whistles with an ever increasing force. Every breath is choked with dust, but struggle on I must, in the effort to find a partial shelter behind some sand dune before the small supply of water in my canteen is exhausted—which would mean that my swollen tongue would cease to act, and death be the only and final result. Pushing close up to the sand dune I find an instantaneous relief. True, the dusty air still plays havoc with me generally but I am at once relieved of the drift of the terrible storm wave, which rises and eddies about like shifting clouds. It hides the sun,’ and the atmosphere, if indeed, anything like air could be separated from the rain of hot, blistering dust, which is as dense as twilight. May I never again see such a day! After the storm has passed away the whole landscape may be changed; the shifting sand moved miles; dunes entirey bdown away here and new ones formed there The railroad may be burled beneath ten feet of sand, and the wholecountry for miles and miles likened unto a snow-covered land. I have seen drifts of pure sand, eddy and pile as does drifting snow, about the cabins of the hardy section men, as high as the roof. For days the air is laden with fine, flour-like particles of dust, forming a haze. This dust goes everywhere. It sifts through the walls of the cabins, and on turning down the bed clothes on retiring at night be not surprised to And a half inch of sand nicely distributed over and between the shets.
SPORTS OF THE YUMA INDIANS.
Yuma is a picturesque old town. It is not very large, but it is a great loafing place for the Indians who come down from the reservation. The Yumas	are said to	be the	dirtiest of	all dirty Indians,
which I am tempted	to believe.	The men, women	and children are
all poorly clad, but happy as happy can be. The government keeps them in food and farming implements,	and when	new wagons are
received the Indians	haul them	to the	top of the	nearest hill and
race them down, betting on which one will get down first. This is continued until the wagons are wrecked. The Indian then calmly waits another year to renew the sport.
MIRAGE PICTURES OF THE DESERT.
Crossing the Colorado river at Yuma I am in California, with yet 200 miles of desert to traverse; most of it below the level of the sea, at Salton reaching 265 feet below. In the vicinity of Mammoth Tanks—why it should be so called I cannot imagine, because there is not a thing there but a hand-car house—the mirage begins. For miles and miles you can see the water, white-capped and angry, here in hurrying waves, there in foaming billows, dashing upon the shores. The mountains are reflected in the shining waters. It is all so real that it seems that it must be so, and yet there is no water within hundreds of miles. The spot where the water seems to be is simply a gleaming waste of sand. As you approach, the waters move at Just the same rate ahead of you. These mirages are queer things. Scientists say this wonderful phenomona Is due to the peculiar atmospheric condition of the air, and not knowing anything to the contrary I accept this explanation.
CALIFORNIA’S "GLORIOUS CLIMATE."
At Indio I get the first glimpse of California as it is. Huge palms, eucalyptus trees and flowering vines, make the little spot attractive.There Is nothing at Indio except the depot and a small store, but the railroad is building a few cottages, in the hope of getting sick people to c>rne there to die. The company then charges double rate on corpses.
I now have a steady up grade. From way below the sea I must go hundred* of feet above. On the left are the San Jacinto mountains, San Jacinto peak 11,000 feet high. On the right are the San Bernardino mountains. Ahead are the foot-hills, their sides a mass of flowers, of waving green, purple, yellow and crimson. At Banning I see great orchards of prune trees and the farmers are cutting clover. I scarce comprehend the scene; from days of shining sands to this restful picture of living green. I am filled with a mad desire for more. The ocean breeze fills my lungs with a soothing, cooling, health-giving air. The bicycle seems to fairly fly; I am endowed with new strength. Swiftly on, by flower gardens, hedges of sweet roses, orange groves, beautiful homes—the wheels cutting down flowers ac every turn. Colton; what’s that? A peck of oranges for 15 cents! That settles it; I’ll stop long enough to patch my tires at the very least. And I did, and it may interest you to know that I had 38 patches on the rear inner tube and 22 on the front, and some of these many patches covered several holes. All this was no fault of the tire, however. It was just an incident of the terrible country I had now left behind.
HAPPY DAYS IN ORANGE LAND.
Now that now good roads were mine I felt that every moment should be improved; yet the temptations held out for loitering were many. From Colton to Riverside is only a few miles, six or seven, the entire distance one long stretch of orange groves, the trees of which were hanging heavy with the golden fruit. There is a fine of $5 for "touching” an orange. The owners of the groves will give you all you can carry for the asking. But I was not aware of either fact at first, and as temptation is a hard master, I will admit that my conscience received several shocks. If I had been apprehended and fined $5 for each offense my orange bill for the day w’ould have been terrific.
Riverside is a city nearly as large as London, England—in area. It is 12 miles broad, 18 miles long, comprising 56 square miles, and has a population of about 6,000. This entire area is laid out in regular streets, graded and sprinkled, and with free mail delivery. The entire country had to be incorporated in order to get a water franchise. There are few more beautiful cities than Riverside. Miles of beautiful avenue and streets, tree-lined, flower-bordered, and always nicely sprinkled, so as to make bicycling a pleasure, havegiven the town the reputation of being one of the most charming cities on the coast. The fame and beauty of Magnolia avenue, with its miles of magnolia, palms, peppers, eucalyptus and grebillas, flanked by 10,000 acres of orange groves, are world-wide. The bicyclers can ride for 14 miles through orange groves, some trees literally covered with blossoms, the air laden with the sweet perfume, other trees bending witi. ripe fruit, the wayside delineated by handsomely-trained and tiimmed cypress hedges, fashioned into arches, columns, posts and battlements, or shaded by towering eucalyptus trees 70 feet high, English walnuts, figs, peaches, apricots, prunes and flowers thrown in by way of change. Many handsome residences border this driveway—the homes of the rich who live in California for health and pleasure, and raise oranges as a pastime more than as a business. The oranges are picked by Chinamen who have a big bag into which the fruit is put, thrown over one shoulder. The oranges are cut from the trees with large shears, as it is necessary to retain the stem in order to keep the fruit from decaying.
NO WONDER THE ANGELS LIKED IT.
Prom RKerside to Los Angeles, the city of the angels, is 68 miles— every inch of which can be ridden, and not a bit of tiresome scenery. Los Angeles is charmingly situated at the base of the Sierra Madre foot-hills, some 15 miles from the coast and at an elevation of about 300 feet. The city limits cover 36 square miles of hill, valley and plain, affording a succession of varied and picturesque residence sites which have been taken ample advantage of. There are in the city over 100 miles of graded and graveled streets and 11 miles of paved streets. When the old Spaniards laid out ihe town they took a stone, threw it up in the air, and wherever it lit was center, and they sun eyed and laid out the streets on this plan, so the city of to-day is a jumble of avenues, and this, that and the otherway streets. There are over 90 miles of cement sidewalks, but unfortunately it has a council, the members of which are not cycling enthusiasts. But notwithstanding all this, bicycling can be enjoyed eveiy day in the- year, and over 10,000 wheels are owned and in use in the place. A ride about the city shows many fine buildings, park-like streets, and flower gardens, where calla lillies, geraniums, roses and marguerites make the hedges; where palms,pomegranates, century plants, eucalyptus and cacti are more common than the oak. where odors, rich as those of “Araby,” regale the senses every moment.
DAYS ALONG THE PACIFIC.
Ventura is celebrated in numerous ways. First, it is the centerof the ‘‘bean raising” district of California, and hundreds of acres are devoted to the propagation of beans large as bird’s eggs. Then, again, it is near the ocean, and also has an old mission. Perhaps the fact that Helen Hunt Jackson laid the scenes of her famous ‘‘Ramona” within a few miles of the city is held more sacred than any one other thing to the average Venturian. The ride from "Ventura to Santa Barbara, about 20 miles, was made on the beach at low tide, and is one that I will always remember with pleasure. The big Pacific ocean on the one side and the towering mountain on the other, the shining sand glistening with shells and vari-colored •seaweeds washed thither peihaps from some far distant foreign shore; the sea birds in countless numbers, the Islands of Santa Rosa and Santa Cruz to the left, made a striking picture. The sand is hard, much like an asphalt pavement. And then comes Santa Barbara! I have wheeled entirely across Southern California, the land of pilgrim padres, plodding peons, and perfect "poesy;” of rare romance, rich roser and rocky recesses, of snowy summits, silvery seas	and sweet songs, the	long-sought	for	haven of
rest	of all, the Mecca of	the American	and	the European; and to me Santa	Barbara is	the	queen of
them all, the charm and delight of all who have been so favored os to sojourn within its flower-decked environs. I actually stopped one whole day, Sunday, in Santa Barbara. Exposed on the south to the pearly-faced Pacific and the cool wave-kissed breezes; protected on the west, north and east from storm and •desert winds by towering mountains, it is a city divinely blessed. Flowers are everywhere, even calla lillies grow wild like weeds.
When George Washington was battling on the Atlantic slope with the minions of George III, for American liberty and the Fourth of July, small bands of religious zealots left the Ci*y of Mexico for the purpose of establishing missions in California, for the christianizing of the aborigines of this then little-known land. It needs no massive castles or Roman Coliseum to excite the mind to highest flight of imaginative fancy. The adobe ruins of the buildings erected by the self-denying Spanish padres in South California appeal as forcibly to the soul as do the "majestic” ruins of the old world. I have never seen those old-world ruins, but I have heard people say they "appeal to the soul.” Padre Janipero Serra was tthe leader and guiding spirit of the whole business of mission building. He was brave, fearless, devoted; no crusader ever started for the Holy Land with greater zeal or on a "hotter pace” than did the good founder of California's missions. He and his worthy and unselfish coadjutors, aided by the Indians who were “hoodooed” Into ■doing the heavy work, soon reared 21 missions from San Diego to San Francisco. Many of the buildings were imposing in appearance, though rudely built, for the recently-converted Indians had not as yet had time to become proficient as artistic builders. Some werebuilt of adobe pure and simple, others of stone, brick, timber and adobe, and ali with tiled roofs. The most imposing one I have so far beheld is the one at Santa Barbara, founded in 1786. The walls are from four to six feet thick. The mission is still in daily use, but is in a healthy state of decay.
Following the coast line out of the city I found it one long succession of “up hill and down.” There is one stretch of 21 miles in which there are 24 rivers and creeks emptying into the ocean, and as the elevations between frequently run up into the hundreds of feet you can form an idea of the roadway. Some of the streams are bridged and some are not; some I could ride through, while others had to-be forded. On one occasion coming down a steep grade a sudden turn in the road landed me in 15 inches of water. I attempted to keep the bicycle balanced and ride across, but the front wheel struck, a rock, and I was immediately right “in it,” baggage and all. This-is just one of the pleasures of touring. There are others.
CALIFORNIA PATTED ON THE BACK.
California is a great state. Great in area and great in the unlimited variety of her natural resources and productions. It has the dimensions of an empire, with its 160,000 square miles of territory, lying for 800 miles alo^g the Pacific coast, 600 miles of which I have ridden over so far, and then stretching inland for 200 miles, it has ample room for the many that are already there as well as for the multitudes yet to come. All climates known to this country are to be found within the limits of this vast state. No other state in the union has such great trees, such towering mountains, such: stupendous waterfalls, and no other has the differences of surface from the snow-clad mountain peak to valleys that are hundreds of feet helow the level of the sea. California grows to perfection alL the fruits that are to be found between the equator and the poles,, and her everlasting hills abound in all the minerals known to geology, and it has given $1,000,000,000 in gold alone to the wealth of the world. Her ships, laden with cattle and corn, with grain and gold,, with oranges and oil, with wool and wine, sail forth to every country in the world. The products of her wonderful resources which; are so rapidly developing, will continue to add to her glory. The cattle from her hills, the fruit from her orchards, the grain from her wheat fields, the gold from her mines, and wine from her vineyards,, will bring wealth to her borders and will repay the workers, who-will dwell in contentment and health in their rose-clad and vine-covered homes, in the most perfect climate under the sunniest skies— unless you get caught in a nine days’ rain as I have been. Here-nature only waits for a hint of the wishes of the people when she-hastens to outflll them. If I were a citizen of the state I would hint that it would quit raining long enough to enable me to get my clothes dry. The richness and beauty of California are worthy of her fame, notwithstanding the fact that I have not had sunshine for two weeks, excepting two days. I have read that “California is a land of sunshine,” so I still hope. In fact that seems to be the only thing left for me to do.
CLIMBING MOUNTAINS AND WADING RIVERS.
The ride through Gaviota canon, along the banks of the river,, which follows the well-kept stage road, or perhaps it would be better to say that the well-kept road follows the river, along with its many windings, is inspiring and tiring, more especially the latter. Starting at the ocean-level you climb up the mountain road for a thousand feet or more, and then climb down again. That is alL there is to bicycling in the mountains. You fairly reach the summit uhen you have to go right down again. It is provoking. One feels that after having gone to all the trouble of climbing a tw-o-mile grade he should at least have the satisfaction of being allowing to stay on top. Another notable feature of California mountains is that if there is any sand on them it is always on the road going down.
Getting over the main divide of the coast range, going inland as I could not follow the coast above Gaviota, I came face to face with the Santa Ynez river, and no bridge. The river is a peaceful stream, only about a quarter of a mile wide, with water in it. I have forded a good many rivers that only had sand, but there was one that had real water in it. It did not look to be very deep, so removing the lower half of my clothing I waded in. The water was cold and in my shivering I jarred my clothing off the bicycle* which I was holding up over my head. Catching the refractory apparel in my teeth I made shore as a good dog retrieves with a dead duck. Either the wagon road or the river was surveyed wrong for in less than five miles I had to wade right back again. This time the river was a little wider, a little deeper and the banks of a quicksand nature, stakes being driven as guides, for landing places. Putting on my bathing costume again I launched forth, only to be horrified at seeing a drove of cattle coming along the-banks on the opposite side. Something seemed to be exciting them, for they acted unusually loud, and unruly, and sure enough wher* right opposite the landing place two boy cows sparred, the others Immediately formed a ring, and the blamed bovines kept me out there in the river for fully half an hour, while two of their numberfought a twenty-round battle to a finish. I was afraid to land outside of the sand stakes, and afraid to come up among the audience, while my commands and pleadings had no effect on the brutes at all. I was beginning to think I would have to make a night of it, while my 25-pound wheel was rapidly becoming a 42 pound one, when a good ranchman hove in sight. He saw my plight and came to my rescue but he stuttered, and bad, too, and I nearly died listening to him drive those cows away. But I was duly thankful to him. During the day I crossed the same river five times, the last three ■on bridges.
A BICYCLINQ. SNAKE.
Down the Santa Ynez valley is delightful wheeling, Just enough fall to make pedaling easy. The roads are fairly smooth, in places fine. Snakes and prune orchards are just as plentiful along this way as sands in the desert. Seeing one big chicken snake, perhaps six feet long, as large around as a broom handle, 1 thought it would be fine sport to give him a gentle squeeze, so headed the wheel for him. Bicycles are quick, so are snakes, but this one got tangled up in the wheels, then around the pedals. I was badly frightened, for I thought perhaps I might be bitten and the bite prove poisonous, and I didn’t have a thing along as antidote except some quinine pills, and I have heard that quinine alone has no -charm. But you may believe me or not, that snake wound around the pedals and drove the wheel for fully six miles before he got untangled. I put my feet on the coasters and enjoyed the fun immensely.
SOMETHING DIFFERENT ALL, THE TIME.
• From Monterey to Watsonville, via the bay road, is a 20-mlle expanse of something different	all	the time.	Up hill	and down hill;
now you see the bay and now	you don’t;	here a	wharf, there a
landing; now a railroad, then a river; then the roads are good, then the roads are bad; and in this way I wheeled into Watsonville, where I was inn-'ediately surrounded by the usual crowd who had heard of my coming and were on hand with the regulation number -of questions—the hows, whens and whys.
From Watsonville to Santa Cruz is 18 miles over the mountains, nine miles to the summit and nine miles down again, and owing to the winds from the ocean catching me on the down trip I had Just as hard pedaling going down	hill	as I had in	coming	up. From the
•eminence overlooking Santa	Cruz, gazing	seaward	and up and
•down the coast the tourist can feast his eyes on green slopes, with"wide-spreading live-oaks, clustering orchards and white-washed farm-houses, while below is the city, looking like some New England town cast ashore on this diutant coast. Every object is visible— the tre*» lined streets, the churches and hundreds of homes, each one •embowered in roses and flowering shrubs; roses in bushes, roses in trees, roses in hedges, roses in clumps, in arcades, blooming everywhere and all the year. • * * The big trees are five miles to the northwest of Santa Cruz. This grove of Sequoia sempervireus covers about 20 acres, and contains 60 “big” trees, from 10 to 20 feet in diameter. The largest, known as the “Giant,” is 300 feet high -and 21 feet in diameter, and there are many others that closely approach it in size.
EXClTEMl'NT IN A NARROW GUAGE TUNNEL.
And still it rained and then I struck a sharp stone or the head <of a spike and punctured a tire. Going on until I came to a sort of shed used as a loading place for wood I attempted to make the needed repair, only to find the tire and rim so wet that the cement would not hold. Here was a new difficulty, but nothing is too •deep for a true cyclist, so I took twine of which I always carry a supply, deflated the tire, tied it to the rim firmly, inflated hard, and rode into San Jose, 18 miles away and the tire never slipped a particle. Between Santa Cruz and San Jose there are six tunnels on the narrow-guage road. There is one a mile long, which is as straight, os a rt f die—when you enter, the light at the opposite end looks about as big around as a lead pencil. Then there is one a mile and a quarter long, on a curve, and the interior is as dark as night. I followed a passenger train in, and the only way I could make any time was by walking the rail and using my wheel as a support. It was here that I had my first encounter with a train. Soon as the passenger train had passed through a freight going in the opposite direction had entered, with headlight unlit. I heard the noise but supposed it was the passenger train, as I could see nothing, and was no wiser until the freight was almost upon me, when the light made by the stoker opening the fire-box door showed the cause of so much noise. I hastily placed the bicycle flat on the side of the track, with the wheels against the end of the ties, and the handle-bars between the supporting beams of the tunnel, while I squeezed in between other timbers. In this way the train passed, but the gas and heavy smoke nearly choked me, and when I again reached daylight, I was a sight. My clothing, light in color, was of course wet when I entered the tunnel, and when I wedged In between the timbers I rubbed up againts the soot of many days, and by the time I got out the black dirt had set. What with mysleeping out o’ nights, the rain, and mud, and tunnels, I am beginning to look like a “hobo.”
SAN FRANCISCO AND OTHER THINGS.
San Jose—pronounced San Ho-say— is a town where the people* take off their hats in the rain when a bicycle rider goes by, and the house-holder frequently pawns the kitchen stove to see a race meet. In fact San Jose has several riders who have the reputation of beingr able to ride a bicycle through a show window so swift that it won’t break the glass. In view of these facts, you can readily see that I, a common plodder, was glad to take to the muddy road leading to San Francisco. I am not egotistical, but I was a good man in' my day. So was Moses. There are people still on earth who used to lock up the house on summer afternoons just to see me ride.. They said in those days that when I slipped my upper lip down over my chin and wriggled my ankles, the bicycle wandered over the* earth like a drunken man on an unfamiliar street. Those were fine-old days. P.ot I have perceptibly faded since the war. I still have-a way of jabbing my toes into the pedals and throwing up my spine like a man chasing a collar-button down his back, but the wheel that was wont in the good old times to glide through the mud like a stormy petrel in a gale is seen no more, and it was more like a big, slow omnibus in a crowded thoroughfare that I wheeled into the Oakland fcrry-house, and onto the boat for San Francisco,, after a hard ride over the “most beautiful” road in all California— in dry weather. I was covered with a choice lot of mud, and was in momentary fear of being arrested for carrying away the earth-of the various farmers whose estates I had sampled. I did not like San Francisco. Th's I know will be a sad blow* to the citizens of the city, but I can’t help it. Market street is the main thoroughfare, all other streets “emptying” into it; and every street is paved with cobble stones, presenting a surface like the back of an armadillo. The only place to ride is on the cable-car slots, and if they happen to be wet and you are going down hill, and that is the tendency of every street in the city, you are just as liable to go-through town like a sky-rocket engineered by a man in the throes-of drink, as in any other way. Then there is Chinatown—the pride-of the city. One visit to this quarter is an excuse for heart-failure, for there is about it an eerie, haunted look which seems to-advise the visitor that if he is not cautious, something from somewhere will trip down and casually rip him in two. It may be* nothing more than the playing of the orchestra in Hop Lung Wee’s theatre, but it serves to keep one on his guard. Chinatown has a smell that encircles the visitor like a fog, and sometimes when h&is not particularly guarded it will hump itself through the air and •onto the innocent victim with a sound like a garden hose playing on an Italian liarp as a center piece. The opium dens are disgusting to a degree, and the stores are equally so to one unfamiliar to the ways of the “heathen.” The Chinese barber has a three-legged •stool, on the top of which is placed a bowl. The victim seats himself, holding his head over this bowl while the barber cuts off all the hair, excepting the cue, with a razor resembling a battle-ax of King Phillips’ time. In a like manner is he shaved. The barber places his fingers in the eye-sockets and using this leverage turns the head to suit the whims of the hoe with which the few straggling hair-* are amputated.
I was taken proper care of by the press of the city, the papers igiving me column “write-ups” with illustrations, wherein I was made to appear as if I might have been guilty of the wholesale butchery of a family across the alley. * * • I had stopped over a day in the hope that the "leaden sky” with the down fall of rain up in its sleeves, might exhaust itself, but no such signs being apparent the following morning, I crossed the bay to Oakland, following Broadway to San Pablo avenue, and from therce away through a succession of suburban homes and fruit farms to Vallejo junction, 30 miles away, where I had to wait six hours for a ferry across the river, which like everything else, finally came, and when on the shore I long had watched from afar, I plowed through the mud, for •eighteen miles, reaching Benicia at nine o’clock.
IN THE SACRAMENTO VALLEY.
If Balboa had landed in the Sacramento valley in the midst of a rain, and had tried to push his velocipede through the mud, he would have returned to Spain in disgust. But I had to keep at it, and by cleaning the adobe off the wheels every half mile I was enabled to make so many as two miles an hour. Nearing Red Bluff the soil changes from black adobe to a red clay, and it is yet an unsolved problem with me as to which is the better—adobe or red clay. * • * Next morning it was still raining! My clothes had not had a chance to become dry for over one week now, and I was just about as disgusted and discouraged as I could be and still be determined to keep on. Redding was only 35 miles to the north, and I set out through an almost blinding rain with the sole object of reaching Redding if I had to swim. And I nearly had to do iit. The rain made running mud-puddles of the hilly roads. I could not ride up, and when I wanted to ride down the wheel would slip and slide, with the usual result of landing me in the mud. After several hours of this the wheel and I closely resembled the rest of the ladscape. We were both covered with red mud—not a glimpse of the black enamel on the wheel could be seen. When Ihad to ford a creek or river I waded right in, not taking the trouble-to remove my clothing—I was thoroughly soaked anyhow. When finally Redding was reached I placed the wheel against a tree and turned the hose on, and then washed a part of my clothing in the same way. * * * I was growing desperate. I would wait in Redding until it quit raining, if it took a month. The next day was Sunday and all day it rained. Monday morning at 5 o’clock the sky gave signs of clear weather and I started again. The rains had caused the rivers to overflow their banks, the wagon road could not be followed, so I was compelled to take to the railroad track through the canon of the Sacramento. I had heard that the canon was a grand affair, almost equalling that of the Colorado. But it doe:.n’t. By 9 o’clock the sky was clear, and my spirits rose with, the brightening light. All mountain scenery has a grandeur that takes hours of faithful, humble, patient study. As I rode the narrow path along the edge of the ties the rushing river far below,, the towering mountains snow-capped and glistening in the bright sun. I felt my insignificance and absolute humility. To see the mountain lights and shades give a thousand different expressions to the face of nature and to learn some new feature at every turn— these are things that make the hurrying wheelman first curious, then wondering, and finally almost worshipful.
MT. SHASTA, THE MOUNTAIN MONARCH.
At Dunsmuir I left the track and followed the mountain road, it being four miles shorter to Sisson than the railroad. The road goes up at once. The grade is simply awful and I was fearful of falling off backwards. The climb reminded me of a fly walking up a window pane. It was now dark and as the moon came up I saw Mt. Sliasta right in front of me. I have beheld many beautiful sights, but the one before me capped them all. Mt. Shasta—there is an impression of unspeakable solemnity conveyed to this giant of the mountains. The thought, the meaning, the expression of the great snow-clad mountain is something the human mind is unable to grasp. There is no definite thought resultant upon any single glance at Mt. Shasta, no matter how comprehensive or perspective that may be. Shasta in sunlight is a wonderous sight; Shasta in the moonlight far surpasses the mountain of the daytime. It refuses to be composed at a single glance. More mighty than the sea, more beautiful than the Alps—now I never saw the Aps, but they could not be any “nicer” than Shasta was that night—it offers an enigma capable of solution only after long and faithful study. To attempt to see Mt. Shasta in a day is a wrong to one’s self, and yet I had to content myself with little more than hurried glances.TAKEN FOR A TRAIN ROBBER.
I was now in Oregon and had forgotten all about the fact that, a man by the name of Brady had ridden a bicycle up to a train in. California, stopped the same, robbed the express car and killed an officious sheriff who was on board and wanted a hand in the fun. The bicyclist-robber had escaped; a reward of $10,000 had been offered for him, dead or alive, and the innocent and ignorant mountain constables seemed to think that Brady was still riding a bicycle about near the scene of his crime. Now, I resemble Brady a great deal in appearance, I have a moustache—Brady had none; I am tall and slim—Brady is, or was, short and heavy set; I have seml-gray hair—Brady’s hair is red. In many other respects we look much alike. I was traveling over the same road the unfortunate Lenz had traversed on his way to the coast, and while thinking of how he had met his death in a lonely mountain pass, at the hands of an assassin, I was started to hear a command to “Halt!’' Looking up I was surprised to see two men, mounted on horses,, standing cross-wise of the road. They had fire-arms in about the proper range to do me bodily harm did I become unruly or boisterous. I thought it was a “hold-up,” and was happy in the-knowledge that I was nearly “broke.” But it wasn’t even a “holdup.” They thought they had found Brady, and as they in imagination saw the shining gold of those $10,000 reward their eyes fairly danced. They were big strapping fellows, and I saw, or at least thought I did, that the best way was to humor them. But I tried to argue the case, anyhow, but to no avail. I offered to be Brady for half the reward, but to this they would not agree. As a last resort I showed my credentials from the "Express.” This produced a favorable impression, I imagined, as they closely scanned it, but they handed it back with the information that they could not read.
I read it to them, but they would not take my word. I argued more, and we finally compromised in this way: I was to accompany them; they were to go in the direction I was going, and the first person we met who could read was to examine my papers, and if, in his opinion I was not Brady, I was to be released. Agreed, and we set out, one horseman ahead and one behind me. It made a pretty sight,
I know. After several miles of this play, we fortunately met a farmer who could read, and I was soon free to proceed on my way, and was not slow to take advantage of my liberty, wheeling into the little town of Grant’s Pass r-bout 2 o’clock in the afternoon.
THE WILDEST WEST OF ALL.
The country in this portion of Oregon is of the wildest. From Grant’s Pass up to Roseburg and to the east, Is perhaps the wildestpart of the United States. It is nearly all covered with a dense growth of pine, fir, hemlock and other trees, many of them of enormous size, and they stand so closely together that it is difficult for men to make their way between them, and where the trees do not take up all the space, is a heavy growth of bushes of various speices. I went along roads where the forest on each side made solid walls, the growth of timber and bushes being so thick as to keep out all sunlight, and the woods presented an unbroken wall of darkness. 'The country is filled with all kinds of wild game, including elk, mountain lions, bears, lynx, and other animals. At almost every stream I found the footprints of animals that had been down to ■drink. Wild fowls are very plentiful. • • * I followed the only road in that portion of the state along the edge of this wilderness for many miles, and saw much that filled me with wonder at the vastness of the forest and that anyone should attempt to live in Ihose solitudes. Few men do attempt it. To get off the main road onto one of the faint trails meant, to a stranger, to get absolutely lost, and I found that many of the hunters did not like to plunge too far into the wilderness. There are no Indians in this part of the mountains. It is too tough for them. The wind soughing lone-comely through the tall pines, the gathering gloom, and the threatening storm, caused me to put forth every effort to reach Wolf Creek, the only place where I could stop for the night and be under shelter. It was after 9 o’clock, however, before I arrived -at the little tavern, too late to get anything to eat, because “the >cook had gone to bed.”
HEARD ON THE OREGON TRAIL.
Seated around the old fire-place were half a dozen men; pioneers, stage-drivers and hunters, and they were telling stories. Tired as I was, I was equally willing to hear stories of life in those forests as told by men who had taken part in them, so procuring some •cheese and crackers from the only store in the place, I sat down on a chair, the seat of which was made of braided leather bands, and asked for a "bear story.” One old fellow who was mending his suspenders by driving tacks through the straps and making rivets of them by placing an eyelet taken from his shoes over the rpoint of the tack and then beating it down, spoke up.
“I think,” said he, “that there is nothing In the shape Qf a bear that can come up to those of North Californy and Oregon. Take •our grizzlies, for Instance; for size and ugliness they cannot be beat anywhere. I have killed grizzlies that weighed over 1,200 pounds, measured eight feet from the nose to the tip of the tail. They are big beasts, but they are rapidly becoming extinct. Twenty years ago bear skins would only bring $2, while now they bring $18 and $20.I remember when the same kind of pelt could have been bought by the wagon load for a dollar apiece. I have had some pretty tough fights with bears, but I think the most remarkable happened to me not a dozen miles from this tavern, up in Cow Creek canon. In a majority of cases a bear will wait for a fight with a man, and put himself in the way of one but there are times when his courage v ill fail him. On the occasion I refer to I had foolishly advanced on three bears, an old she bear and two cubs, and by a series of monkey-shines and circus business on the ground, within a rod cr two of the animals, filled then with such astonishment and fear lhat they retreated into the woods. My gun had snapped in both barrels on the old bear before the cubs appeared. I had been told that a hunter once scared a bear in this way, and as a last resort I took to turning handsprings, and flopping my hands, and other queer moves. I found that the plan works on bears, although *t is good policy to take a gun along with you when you go grizzly hunting.”
The others Joined in, and at midnight, when I retired, I was thoroughly scared, for I was to go over and through the woods on the morrow that had teius behind every tree.
THE DEAR AND THE WHISTLE.
Next morning 1 was on the road by half-past six. The hard rains of the week before had made the road heavy with mud, and the forests being so der.se the sun had had no chance to dry it. Riding was impossible anyhow, foi it was all up hill, and the mud mixed In with disabled corduroy. On the banks of the'first stream I had to ford were foot prints, and fresh ones, too, of bears! and I will admit I was a little ner/ous. But I had to go on; I would never turn back even if the bear should catch me next minute. I whistled. They say this is a good thing, but it didn’t help me out any. I penetrated deeper and deeper into the forest over the worst roads I had ever met, and no bears came. I believed the “old men” had been woiking me frr a “tenderfoot,” when rounding the top of a mountain, not 110 feet ahead, was a big bear engaged in tearing a hollow log to pieces with his great front claws. I was horrified. The bear on the contiury seemed pleased, and after recovering from its first surprise rose on its hind feet and relieved itself of a few gxcwls that wer<* not in the least reassuring to me. It threw' its f}re paws straight above its head, and for an instant stood f. i if about to "clo me.” It must have been eight or nine feet high, with its mouth open and eyes flashing with rage. Ordinarily I am a brave man; I carried a revolver packed away with my other baggage but as it would xetjuire at least ten minutes to unpack, I w'asat a loss just what to do. You may imagine—or at least have some idea--that it takes the coolest nerves for a man to stand his ground and wait for such a monster to advance. I first thought of doing the tumbling act, but had to abandon the idea because I had never turned a hand-spring Then it occurred to me that I might talk to the brute. I am given to argument, but this seemed unreasonable, inasmuch as the bear was showing sigTis of uneasiness. What ever was to be done had to be done right then and there, and with thoughts of home and vhether the bear would eat me all at once or save part for supper. 7 blew my bicycle whistle. It seemed like a crazy act, but the noise paralyzed his bearship. He looked at me in wonderment, and seeing my advantage I advanced on him blowing that whistle until nr>.. eyes hung out. The bear stood his ground for a moment, then dropped on all fours and sped tor the deep woods. I was saved.
“WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON.”
I reach* 1 Cam-nville at 2 o’clock in the afternoon, having been eight hours going 2d miles. 1 think Oregon can justly claim to have not or.ly the wildest part cf the United States, but also the worst roads. - * * Nearii.i: Albany the country becomes beautiful. I was now in the valley of the Willamette, a vast extent of level pla’n, no doubt once the bottom ol an Inland sea, whose deposits left a soil many feet deep of almost Incredible fertility. * * * Oregon Is a word derived fioin the Spanish, and means "wild thyme,” the earl/ explorers finding the herb growing there In great profusion. So far as known Oregon was first visited by white men in 1775; Captain Cook coasted along its shores about 1778. Captain Gray, commanding the ship Columbia, from Boston, found the big river in 1791 and named it after his vessel. Astoria, at the mouth of the river, und the greatest salmon-canning place in the world, was founded in 1811. Territorial organization was effected In 1848, and Oregon became a state in 1859. It has an area of 96,000 square miles, Is 350 niPf.s long and 275 miles wide. There are 10,000,000 acres of forest and 50,000,000 acres of arable and grazing lands, and rough, univorkod roads without number. Portland Is Its chief city, and nature has been lavish In her gifts to Portland. Italy with its vlne-cl id hills; Switzerland with its rugged peaks and mountains; Egypt with Its broad valley of the Nile, cannot furnish scenery grander, deeper or of more peaceful beauty than Portland’s citizens can see at any hour, right from their own door-steps. Through the very heart of the city the Willamette curls and winds Its sunny way to {oin the great Columbia. Upon the bosom of the river can be seen vessels of all descriptions from the row boat to the huge oceancraft that sails from continent to continent. But the crowning glory is the* view cf the gigantic peaks of Mts. Hood, Adams, St. Helens and Tacoma, that stand out against the heavens, above the ranges ot lesser mountains, covered with eternal snows.
IN THE EVERGREEN STATE.
North from For lland I followed the line of the Northern Pacific railway over a fine road, as far as Goble, where I had to ferry across the Columbia to Kalama where I enter the wonderful state of Washington—a kingdom in itself, for In truth the state is a kingdom in size and wealth. It is as big as England and Wales, but of far more varied character. Split in twain by a great mountain range—it has a climate which rivals that of the downs of Southern England, on the one hand, and again the dry and bracing atmosphere which has made Colorado a health resort. The variety of its productions is amazing. No other state in the union possesses so great a diversity of soil, climate and resources. Within the boundaries of Washington are to be found the counterparts of the alluvial soil of the Mississippi valley, the rich, volcanic ash lands of Colorado and Arizona, the lcam of the prairie states, the clay and mineral soil of Virginia, the tide marsh lands of Holland. It can cut its pine and ship and undersell St. Paul and the pine of Minnesota. And what trees they have to make this lumber from! The western part of the stale is the home of the great forests. Here are over 10,000,000 acres of the finest of standing timber. Here may be found fir trees, mute monarchs of the forests, standing as straight an I tapering as a ship’s mast, eight feet thick, 400 feet high, and clear of limb for 2iH» feet from the ground. It is the finest timber in the world so far as is known. Though the quantity Is almost inconceivable, it Is not Inexhaustible, but it will be the source of the lumber supply of the world for many decades to come. At the “Tacoma" mili, in the city of Tacoma, I saw a single piece of timber 24x24 inches square, 83 feet long, and not a knot in it. It is nothing unusual to cut them 24x24 and 110 feet long—the capacity of the mill. I saw boards 110 feet long, 18 inches wide and one inch thick. These mills work up everything, making lath and shingles from the odd.-: and ends; they sell a great amount of refuse for fuel, feed their own fires, and yet the “Tacoma” has a “rubbish fire" that has been burning day and night for 28 years. The whole range of temperate zone products are here. The average yield of wheat per acre is nearly twice that of Minnesota and fully three times that of New York. Potatoes yield from 300 to 600 bushels to the acre. Squashes have been grown weighing 80 pounds—justthink of the pies such a fellow would make!—cabbages, 50 pounds; potatoes, 5 pounds, cauliflower and celery produce an average value of $600 per acre, and so on through the list. Almost every known mineral is found in Washington; in fact the area of its field, forest, mountain and stream is richer in the gifts of nature than any other the sun shines on, at least so everybody out there will prove to you, if you give them a chance.
THE OLDEST CHURCH TOWER.
One of the sights of Tacoma is the little church in “Old Town,” which has the reputation of having the oldest tower of any church in the United States, an old fir tree, supposed to be over 600 years old. The church is built close to the tree, the top of which has been destroyed by fire, and the bell placed on top of the fifty-foot high stump, which is now overgrown with ivy. The interior of the church is also festooned with garlands of living ivy, which has crept in through the crevices in the roof.
HARD LUCK AND SOFT WEATHER.
Now, honestly, I cannot say that I am having vast quantities of “fun” on this bicycle ride. In point of fact it is the hardest work I ever did in my life and I bear the reputation of being partial to toil. The daily grind, the hardships and exposures, are beginning to tell on me—I weigh eight pounds more than I did when I started.
* * * It is one of the features of this Sound country, that people think just as much of carrying an umbrella as they do of wearing hats, for it rains every day. Not all day, but portions of it. and you have no way of telling what portions it will be. The wet season begins January 1, and usually lasts until December 31, following. As a consequence the roads through the vast forest are always muddy. The morning I started at 7:30 for Seattle, 43 miles to the north of Tacoma, I found the roads in such a deplorable condition that I did not get in until 3:30 in the afternoon. I had to walk every inch of the first nine miles, which included a hill a mile and a half up and the same distance down. It sometimes occurs to me that if Mr. Dante could have ridden a bicycle over some of the roads I have before he wrote that book it would have given his imagination a good deal of a boost. It had been my intention to follow the track of the Great Northern east from Seattle, but the local wheelmen all discouraged me, declaring that the track was rough-ballasted, and that as there was no wagon road over theCascades I would have to walk it all, and as it requires 25 miles for the railroad to “switchback it over’’ I listened to their advice and returned to Tacoma, following the track of the Northern Pacific from there, and I wish to say that if the track, generally, of the former road is any worse than that of the latter, I am glad I came via the N. P., even if it did make me 200 miles more of traveling. The morning I left Tacoma opened bright, and I felt enthusiastic over the outlook for a pleasant day. I did not get away before nine in the morning, in a perfect glare o£ sunshine, but before I was beyond the city limits I was drenched to the skin—a feature of the country. The rain kept me company all day.
MOUNTAIN CLIMBING AND TUNNEL TRUDGING.
Next morning I headed for Cle-elum, 39 miles away. The distance would take me up the mountain, through the “Stampede” tunnel, the second longest in the United States, being 1 4-5 miles long, and to the eastern base of the Cascades, to a land where it never rains, and as I had had more or less rain for the past six weeks I was anxious to reach a dry country. The track was not nearly as good as it had teen the day before. At Lester, which is 13 miles from, the tunnel, I met a track walker, who told me where I could make a climb up the mountain side and save several miles, as I could reach the track above and not follow its windings. He walked with me to the first climb. It looked a little doubtful. The side of the mountain was steep as a barn roof and was a mass of fallen timber. But I started in, and by carrying the wheel, lifting it over or sliding it under the fallen trees, I reached the track above, which I was to follow until I came to bridge 184, where I was to repeat the do$e. There is an unexplained mystery, to me, about mountain roads, and that is why up-grades always look level. To such an extent did thu fool me that on reaching the track above I started down th“ mountain thinking I was going up, and did not discover my error until a curve revealed the track-walker below, and I could see where I had started in to ascend the mountain. Bridge 184, where the second climb was to be made, was about four miles farther up the mountains, and I found it to be worse than the first one, for it was much farther, steeper, and the timber was on fire. It was hard, hot work getting through this, and I wished I had taken the long way around, but it was as far back as it was up. and I eventually reached the track—winded, scratched and with numerous little burns, as I had used my bare hands for support in order to protect my rubber tires from the hot logs. Up above I could still see three more tracks and was undecided whether tokeep on climbing or to follow the track. I choose the latter, and a half-mile brought me to the mouth of the tunnel, the tracks above being the remains of the old switchback, in use before the tunnel was built. I had been told that I would not be allowed to enter the tunnel, as repairs were being made, and watchmen were on guard all the time. Seeing no one I forged ahead. I had been in quite a few tunnels before and knew just what to do. Buttoning my coat up tight to protect against the damp air, I stepped upon the rail, used the wheel as a support and plunged into the darkness. Far ahead I could see the twinkling lights, the lamps of the workmen. Reaching the cars I squeezed in around them, getting my feet wet by stepping in the drain, and dirtying my clothes on the smoky timbers. Farther ahead, so that the smoke would not strangle the workmen, was a locomotive. Here I could not steady myself as I had against the cars, because in the darkness I was liable to put my hand against a hot portion of the engine. Once alongside the cab I hailed the men and asked if I would have time to get out before the train moved. The men were at once greatly interested, and offered to take me out with them if I would wait about 20 minutes. I explained that I had forsaken trains for the time-being, so they promised to ring the bell continuously when they went out, as they had to clear the tunnel for an approaching train. This they did, and I had time to get my wheel and self in shape so they could pass. With the passing out of the train all light disappeared. It was so dark I could squeeze it between my fingers. The smoke from the engine was another bad feature, and on emerging on the opposite side I found I had been 50 minutes going through.
ONE CONTINUAL ROUND OF PLEASURE.
The snow-capped peaks of the mountains back of me showed_uxi magnificently in the bright sunshine, and the heavy banks of clouds could be seen far above, hovering over that ever rainy west coast. The track was terribly rough, and the persistent attempt to ride cinder and rock ballast soon wore holes through the outer case of my tires, which were now showing the effect of long use, notwithstanding I was then using the third set since starting. The inner tube was bulging out, and as I had no tape and any turn of the wheel, riding or walking was liable to puncture, I was annoyed to say the least. I pushed the wheel along on top of the iron rail until I found a rug on the track. This I wrapped over the hole, and was once more able to ride. * • • The road was through a flat country for many miles when it suddenly plunges into the mountains again, following the canon of the Yakima for 20 miles or more.This canon is exceptionally picturesque; many points being truly grand. At one place the huge walls rise to a height of 1,000 feet, and upon the crest is a castle with a big round tower on the outer edge, while farther back are many sharp pinnacles. One could readily imagine that all had been placed there by the hands of man, and to make the deception still greater, the walls are covered with moss. *	* * Thus	several	days passed.	Many Indians in fanciful dress	were met.	They	would look at	me, and then grunt and
grin at one another. The men make breeches out of their striped blankets, and as they are cut ‘‘bloomer” style, and all Indians are pigeon-toed, the effect of seeing a dozen or so walking, is most comical. • • * I got a 5 o’clock start next morning, leaving before breakfast, and there’s where I missed it, for I was unable to get anything until late in the afternoon. The country here is an absolute waste. It is hilly, rocky and sandy! nothing grows except a dwarfed sage. Riding could not be accomplished under any circumstances and my tires being flat, and no cement, I settled down for a day’s walk, as it was only 40 miles to Pasco, the next town. * * At times I felt that I would surely faint. Sometimes I did not make over two miles an hour, the sand being four or flve inches deep. The sun was burning hot, and the road runs in and out among the hills with a sameness that is heart-rending, on an occasion like this. At 5 p. m. from the top of a plateau I could see Pasco, yet eight miles away, according to the mile posts. I reached Pasco at 8 p. m.; never so tired in all my life. * * • I put in the next half-day repairing my	tires, putting on 11 patches, and as I
could get	no tape I	bought	ticking, tore it	in strips, and wrapped
the weak places where holes were worn entirely through the outer cases. I got away at 1 p. m. and made 18 miles for the half day, every inch of which I had to walk as nothing else was possible in the sand. At the section house when I applied for lodging they ‘‘had company” and could not keep me, so I had to content myself with a bed under a small tree, down by the pump-house. The next day was but a repetition of the ones before, occassionally I found a half mile or so that I could ride. That night I stopped in a box car telegraph office, on the top of the summit between Pasco and Spokane. The operator is only on duty at night, as the office is not kept open during the day, and has a most lonesome Job. His nearest neighbors are ten miles away. The operator was a boy, only 18, and he told me he had been on duty for ten months, and it seemed to him at times as if he would go Insane. I wouldn’t blame him. I would go most anywhere to get away from that place, which the railway has, in grim humor, named "Providence.” * • * The next day brought me to Ritzville, got me out of the sand, and as I thought, ended my days of walking. The early morning found me on as pretty a road as I had met since starting. True, it was hilly, butit was hard and smooth, and I thought the 69 miles to Spokane would be but play. But, unfortunate me! Some five miles out, my chain broke and I had to walk 25 miles before I could find a place to have it repaired. And all over those elegant roads! As it was I got within 28 miles of Spokane, and stopped for the night at a little place called Tyler, where all I was able to procure in the way of eatables, were raisins and crackers. It is almost a foregone conclusion that I will never die of the gout on thi3 trip. * * * Reached Spokane about 11 a. m. The past week had been one of the hardest of the trip. 1 had walked fully 150 miles, and had been ten days going the 400 miles between Tacoma and Spokane.
MISTAKEN FOR A SALVATION ARMY MAN.
Sand Point, Idaho, is a typical western town, having two stores, four hotels, eight or ten dwellings and a large number of saloons. During the building of the Great Northern railway this town had the reputation of being the toughest place along the line. It wasn’t safe for a man to go out of doors after dark unless he wanted to get hurt. It wasn’t really necessary for a man to go out of doors to receive attention. You can find bullet holes in the doors and sidings of most any of the houses. All through the west the saloons have a “hotel” in connection with the refreshment stand, and the “office” of the hotel is generally the bar of the drinkery. In the bar-room of the Grand Central hotel, where fate decreed I should stop for the night, were a lot of drunken miners and a still more tipsy barber. This barber was tall and thin, and when he opened his face he looked like a mummy with store teeth. He sized me up and decided, from the my uniform, that I was a member of the Salvation army, and I was at once commanded to sing. Now I can do most anything but sing, and I wasn’t going to bring torture on even those drunken miners. My protests were bearing no fruit, and as I steadily refused they became moie anxious, and several stepped up and took hold of me, marched me down to the “piano,” upon which one of their number was “performing.” Things looked as if I were going to sing after all, so I told them if some one would start in and show me the “style of music” they wished I would set the pace for them. This seemed fair, and a Mg fellow by the name of Pat Gallagher, with a voice like a wagon load of Roquefort cheese, and a delivery like a family grocery that strives to please, started on “That is Love.” * This had the desired efleets, the gang Joined in, and in the excitement that followed, I made for bed. I had a very fair room, but I made a death-trap with chairs before the door that night. Next morning the barber apologized for mistaking me for "one of them Salvation febov s.’I had intended following the line of the Northern Pacific to St. Paul, because I would reach more towns, and have better roads, no doubt. But at Sand Point I decided to go over to the Great Northern, because by so doing I would miss the ‘‘bad lands” of Dakota, and the route was 33 miles shorter. The later road runs within one mile of Sand Point, and I cut across the country over a road that must have been cut out the day before, and headed for St. Paul—1,405 miles away. • • * That I was traveling through a new and undeveloped country was proven by the fact that the forests were as yet untouched by the ax. For miles and miles not a stump is to be seen excepting those on the right of way of the railroad. The mountains are covered with rich forests of pine, tamarack, fir, spruce and cedar. These forests are clean, the ground not being strewn with fallen trees, branches, stumps and refuse. I frequently saw deer. One has to depend entirely on the scetion houses for eating and sleeping accomodations. * * * At Blackfoot, Montana, I am well out of the moutains, the plains stretching far away to the east for hundreds of miles. Crossing the bridge over the canon at Two Medicine Lake, just out of Kalispell, I had quite a time. I had been told that days when the wind was blowing strong the trains had to wait until it calmed di wn before they dared to cross. The bridge is over 200 feet high, over a gorge, down which the wind comes with terrible velocity. Trains have laid by for half a day before being able to cross, and then they sometimes “lay over” as far as the springs will let the cars move. During the construction of the road several cars were blown off the track. When I arrived at the place there did not seem to be any unusual wind blow’ing, but soon as I stepped out on the bridge I found out differently. The wind seemed to be a howling dervish. I was afraid to turn around to go back, and afraid to go on. I would take a few steps and then sit down to catch my breath, and then sneak a few feet forward again. I imagined I could hear trains approaching; below I could see the water being dashed into foam as it rushed through the narrow, rocky channel. I firmly resolved that if I ever lived to reach home I would never go outside the yard again. But no trains came, and by keeping on the far side of the bridge I didn't blow off—and it isn’t so bad now!
THE INDIAN AND THE BICYCLE.
I had frequently been warned against the Indians; told that in crossing the reservations I must watch the common herd, keep njy eyes on the Indian police, and to beware of the Indian agent; thatthey were all robbers—and it was just a question as to which one got me first. But I did not find it so. I had some bother with “bucks” who wanted to ride my wheel, and in the goodness of my heart I found it expedient to let them try. The results were always comical, and with an “Urn, heap no good,” they returned the machine, which being a good one, was never broken. Mine was probably the first bicycle that ever crossed overland through that part of the country, and it was a novelty to the Indians, and to not a few of the w'hite people as well.
HOBNOBING WITH THE INDIANS.
I sometimes think the stories I hear about Indians getting mad and killing people and doing all sorts of things are pure moonshine. For two weeks I have been in the land and companionship of the “noble” red man, and I know he has not the energy to keep clean, and I am sure that could be accomplished far easier than to kill a man. In fact the smell that lingers around an Indian is decidedly picturesque. All Indians have “that tired feeling,” but some Indians will move before they will let a train run over them. Then again I have heard of instances where they would die before they would go to the trouble of moving out of the way an approaching train. From Blackfoot, Montana, to the Dakota line the Indian has complete and absolute possession of the situation. He can pitch his tepee and wander hither and thither and no one disturbs him. He can do just as he pleases, and he generally pleases to do nothing. He won’t farm; the government may fit him out with the necessary implements, but he trades them off, or lets them go to ruin, while he hitches up his cayusses to the wagon and wanders about the land, living on the carcasses of the dead animals he may find. The dried meat of a dead horse is a tid-bit, and if the animal has not been dead an unreasonable length of time, say from a month to six weeks, it is considered a fine prize, and the squaws—they do all the work, the men do the "rest”—quickly have the juicy hunks drying in the sun. Skeptical people may think I am jesting, but I am not. Circumstancess have been such that I have lost control of my appetite, and seeing no restaurant sign hanging out, I made a request for food at the first Indian tepee that I came to. Now this tepee was a work of art in itself. It was composed of odd bits of old carpet, flour sacks, tarpaulin, coffee sacks, hides, bits of blankets, a small piece of an American flag, and one thing and another ingeniously fastened together. In answer to the request that I bq given something to eat, a buxom squaw, who dispayed an ample bosom while nourishing a thriving young papoose, grabbed up a dead muskrat, at least such I took It to be.thrust a sharp stick into it, and held it over the fire, preparing me a roast of muskrat, hide, hair, insides and all. I had been congratulating myself that I was beginning to learn to eat anything, but from some cause I suddenly discovered that I was not hungry, and, mounting my wheel, I slid away as fast as I could, determined that I would go hungry forever before I would ever ask for food of any member of this remnant of a “fast departing race.” And I came near going hungry for my fastidiousness, for at the next section house I came to they were shy on food, and at the next I got eight small, cold biscuits—the only food I had for 42 hours. As eating places, all section houses are bad, but the majority of them are even worse than bad.
“ONLY THE GOOD DIE YOUNG.”
I only have one objection to Fargo, N. D., and that same objection holds good all over that section of the northwest, and that is the fearful mud, when it rains—had it not been for my Hall automatic rubber mud guard I could have made no headway whatever. * * • Constant exposure, insufficient food, long days of steady wheeling over roads that would cause a less enthusiastic individual to utter “swear words,” were beginning to tell on me. I tried to convince myself otherwise, but the stubborn fact kept staring me in the face—I was sick. * * * I abhored the wagon road and its mud, and rode over the flat prairie, the tall grass tangling in the pedals, and causing almost as much annoyance as the mud. By and by a long vista of marsh loomed up in front, to the right and to the left of me. It was simply more railroad track, which I found to be absolutely impossible to ride, and I settled into a walk—on dirge time. The rain had ceased, and the sun came out boiling hot. I could see my bones expanding and then collapse with a snap that made my teeth rattle. My pace grew slower and slower, and Anally stopped. I was exhausted, unable to stand alone. For two long hours I sat on a tie in the red-hot sun, my wheel lying in the ditch, and I was simply unable to do aught but sit there and suffer. My thoughts during those two hours would make an interesting book. Again the heavens were becoming cloudy. Soon cool winds revived me, and I went on. Before I had gone a mile the rain was coming down in torrents. I could wring the water out of the frame of my bicycle. Then the clouds were moved away, and Mr. Sun began on me again. He made me steam and smoke. I was going so slow and the sun was so hot I was afraid I would become mouldy, and, to add to the horrors of the day, the track was getting worse; there was no dirt between the ties, and I had to carry my wheel, as the ties were so far apart that the wheels would drop betweenand “set” in, in pushing it over them. * * * Eight o'clock found me in bed, and they had to keep pouring water on the bed clothes all night to keep them from catching on fire from my fever, which continued to work steadily all the next day, but I was stubborn I am afraid of doctors, and none came to relieve my pains. I ate ice cream to cool off my burning vitals, consoling myself with the thought that in case I was to be sick, 1 would know what caused it. But by morning I was feeling much better again, and I headed for Minneapolis, deciding to postpone my dying until I arrived there.
IN THE TWIN CITIES.
“A weary, dust-begripied individual rode slowly up to the Nicollet house last evening, and after dismounting, pushed a very dilapidated looking bicycle into the lobby of the hotel. The tires on the wheels were wrapped with many-colored rags, and the woe begone appearance of the entire outfit caused considerable comment among those who were standing near.” The above which I took from the Minneapolis Tribune, tells of my appearance and arrival in that city better than I could. * * * Minneapolis and St. Paul are only ten miles apart and are known as the “Twin Cities.” They are practically one town, as the ten miles is almost solidly built up. There are a whole lot of good people in these “twin towns” who are kind neighbors and try to pay there debts, and all that, but who struggle along with a fearful handicap. They will not raise an umbrella in church, or pass under a ladder if a coarse man is going up with a hod of mortar; they will not even order up the drinks if there are thirteen in the party. They are the miserable, horror-stricken victims of jealousy—they are taking the census, and being superstitious are fearful lest some mishap takes away one citizen. * * * At St. Paul I stopped as the guest of Mr. F. L. Shacket, the manager of the big	Aberdeen hotel,	the	finest	in the northwest.
The idea of me, who	had for weeks	been	living	with the Indians,
and the section-house people, suddenly dropping Into a suite of rooms, with real carpets on the floor, chairs to sit on, and a marble bath-tub inviting tne in; tiled walls, and above all a door with -a lock on it, stunned me. I had been buying quinine in large wholesale lots, and taking it on	the same liberal	plan,	but after a bath so hot
that a' lobster would	have died with	envy	could	he have seen my
color, I felt renewed. I was not sick, anyhow; all I wanted was something to eat. I began to Improve from the moment I reached the Aberdeen.I am going to get some pleasure out of this trip after all The country to the east of LaCrosse for 25 miles, is great. The roads are good! Every farm house is a mansion. If I ever go to farming I am going to Wisconsin, near LaCrosse, where the grass is the greenest, the fields the cleanest, just enough trees to make it pleasant, hills to relieve the monotony of a dead level, and where the soft rays of the setting sun casts a glint of happiness over all nature. * * * To the north of Madison, Wisconsin is hilly, so much so that one of the railroads has several toy tunnels, and they are so afraid that some one will carry them away, that I had to walk up and down the “mountain,” as I could not “work” the gatekeeper, the same being an automatic concern, the weight of the engine opening and closing it as the trains pass. I have never had any trouble “bribing” human beings; I have always made the tunnels and crossed the bridges, but this was a new one on me.
* * * One thing that excites the curiosity of the people is the canteen I carry. Many do nof even know what it is, let alone its purpose. One bright youth wanted to know if I was “subject to cold feet,” adding that he "observed I carried a hot water bag.”
* * * In the north they had called me a hoodoo, “a rain maker,” but as no wet weather had accompanied me for the last nine days. I felt that I had been unjustly accused. Now, however, dark clouds began to appear. Some 20 miles north of Chicago a gale set in that made the hundreds of riders hustle for home. Just north of Evanston, the sand is awful, and our party of 20 or more for a few moments got tangled up in a blow of sand that would have done credit to Arizona. And then the rain came down. By the time I reached Evanston I was wet enough to sprinkle streets with and Chicago 12 miles away. * * * Chicago is a wonderful city! Why, the next morning I stepped out on the streets, and for the first time since leaving Tacoma, met some one with whom I was personally acquainted; for the first time in six weeks felt free to talk without reserve. And I did—talk.
OWNS THE TOWN FOR A SHORT TIME.
The Chicago papers had very generally mentioned the fact that I would go to my home, at Warsaw, Ind., for a few day’s rest, so the home people knew as much about it as I did, and they prepared to give me a royal welcome. The night I was expected home they had two bands of music out, while crowds lingered along the streets waiting my arrival. Numerous riders rode out to meet me— but I had taken the road they didn’t expect me to, and so they didnot find me. Ten o’clock night came and they gave me up, while an hour later I was at home—a place I had pledged myself several times never to leave again should I ever be able to reach it. I was glad to get home and from the way I was received I had reason to believe the citizens were glad to have me with them, for the following evening I was tendered a reception in the opera house that would have done anyone proud. * • * Congressman Royse made the address of welcome and as he introduced me I stepped to the front of the stage with a faraway expression upon my cranberry-tinted face—with the strained restless look of a man in the giddy waltz whose only suspender button is tearing itself slowly away into the great unknown. I felt sorry for those present. The audience roared and screamed and stamped on its spectacles as my ’•brilliant” word plays came one after another like telegraph poles seen at a mile a minute. I do not remember a great deal about it, but I must have displaced considerable air. When this summer’s toil is but a dim and nubulous memory; when I am a wrinkled old gentleman with a cane and a hollow cough; even in that misty, far-off-time when I am no longer young, people ’will be talking in awe-stricken voices have that strange conflagration—those burning words of eloquence. Arabs under the palm trees, with the fading light shining along the sandy horizon like the gleam of a saber, will explain it to each other. School children in the next century will read it in the histories with wondeiing eyes: and in that happy shadowy time when all nations will be gathered under one banner of equal rights without one thought of gain, the world will recount with a shudder how my listeners did not seem to know or ''are, as iney were led away. A wild, strange light glimmered through their tears, and there was in their faces the expression of a maft .vho has been long dead.
FINDS A COMPANION.
I am no longer a “lone wheelman,” wandering around in an uninhabited, roadless country, for since leaving Warsaw I have a companion, who in his youth and innocence imagined it would be “fun” to take a “long run.” And I am glad he did, for companionship is a boon I have been denied so long that I actually hungered for It. W. H. McCullough is his name, but for brevity’s sake he shall be known as “Mac.” Leaving home this time was, if anything, more of a hardship than it was when I began my Journey in March—six months ago. Then I actually knew nothing of the trials and hardships I was to encounter—now I knew Just about what I could expect from day to day. * * • It had rained some during the early hours, but now the sun came out to his day’s work with his sleevesrolled up, and the way he made the sweat come forth was a caution. I never saw such a sun. The corn in the fields along the road was actually withering up. I could feel the wrinkles gathering on my face, while Mac went ahead and served as a street-sprinkler, the sweat running down his face in streams. Fairly good roads were encountered but by the time South Bend was reached Mac’s knees were ‘‘aching like sixty,” and amid his frequent lamentations, I found time to smile at the effect of his first day’s run.
A NEW USE FOR BRAKES.
Many funny things happen every day and as we stopped at Dowagia for something to eat, the usua 1 crowd at once gathered around, and I was amused to see one old man, his face a perfect sea of lather, razor in hand, among the crowd. He pushed his way to the front, and spying my brake, immediately called me down for having such a devise. He had ‘‘rode a wheel for years and had never had use for a brake,” and certainly if an old man like him could get along without one, a young fellow like myself could. I assured him that he was perfectly right; that I was foolish for having a brake, but as I only used it for scraping the sunshine off my front t're, I hoped he would not be offended if I continued to carry it.
HAVING FUN WITH MAC.
Now Mac had never ridden a track before and knew nothing of its Joys, so at the end of the first eight miles he declared he would die first rather than ride another foot, and as I did not want a dead man on my hands I consented to return to the wagon road, more especially as a conscientious farmer had informel us that “if we would go back a mile and a half this way, and half a mile that way,” we woud find a "fine gravel road." In deference to his superior knowledge of the country we believed him, and followed his directions, only to find hif» elegant road a mass of sand—very fine gravel Indeed. Two miles and a half of this convinced Mac that the railroad was not so bad after all, and we climbed a barbed-wire fence and forded a marsh in order to regain it. Four miles of track opened up the old wounds in my companion’s heart, and also caused blisters on his bicycle “pants.” At the 2x4 city of Mattawan the railroad agent told us to go "straight down this road for two miles and a half, and we would come to the old territorial road, taking us straight to Kalamazoo, and the best road in seven states.” He looked like an honest, well-meaning man, and we took his advise. Half an hour later we would have taken his life had he beenhandy. The road leading to this famed “old territorial” high-way was all right—but the other! It was here that Mac’s good nature fov.na vent, and as his feelings flowed forth in chunks, bunches and lumps, even the trees felt a little shady. The sand is so deep, sort and slippery that the farmers fasten their crops down with cement. * * * Mac has no cyclometer on his wheel. We were going along a narrow path when Mac suddenly put out his hand and tool; held of the top board of the fence. The air was filled with a tracking, multitudinous roar like an earth quake under an apartment house, and as I hastened to the scene of devastation and inquired the cause, Mac said he “took hold of the fence to see how fast he was going.” He depends on my cyclometer for information now.
VICISSITUDES OF A HUNGRY MAN.
The ride from Port Huron along the banks of the St.Clair river, with its crafts of all kinds, is a succession of pleasing pictures. The day was perfect, the road excellent and the little town of St. Clair was reached most too soon for dinner, so we did not stop—to our great sorrow later on. At St. Clair we turned to the west, and as fate had it planned we could not reach a town between St. Clair and Mt. Clemens. Hunger found us in the country, and at the first farm-house at which I applied for dinner, I was informed they had no time to cook dinner. I reported to Mac, and he, knowing that I am dead-set against farm-house eating, thought it an invention of my own to miss a good thing, so he said he would ask at the next house. After making peace with the dog, he went to the barn-yard and asked the man of the place, wrho referred him to the lady, and Mac came back with the word that no dinner could be had there. This was all in civilized Michigan, remember. My honesty of purpose and truthfulness were once more restored, and I applied at the next house, only to finu out that it was "wash day and they had no time.” Our emaciated forms were growing more so right along, and Mac asked the next place—the fourth house— and came out waving his arms like a mad man, saying that it was all right. As we wiped the tears of joy from our faces, and congratulated ourselves from our deliverance from death by starvation, visions of fried ham, bowls of bread and milk, turkey breast and big red apples floated before us. That is all they ever did. The lady of the house was large—built on the general architectural plan of a foot ball. Her twin blue eyes twinkled in her harvest-moon face like two pansies in a bucket of blood, as she bid us be seated. The ceiling of the “room was low, ornamented by sundry smoky streaks; the walls were decked by bright colored calendars, while a clock
i? OTt! •with an impediment in its speech stood guard over a mantel of Caesar’s time. In one corner of the room sat the grandmother, who had a way of cleaning her throat that caused the dishes to crack, and soured the only glass of milk on the farm. Children of step-ladder ages, from 2 to 20 years, assisted the mother in standing around the tab’e to watch us eat. The father, with his face in a generous frame of "agricultural” whiskers, made the scene a pleasant one, and added fuel to our joy by telling us how we could have gone by another way and thus had better roads. And the bill-of-fare was corn bread, molasses, onion soup, and a sort of gravy in w’hich was a big fish whose bones stuck up from the seething mess like whiskers on a cat. We ate timidly of the bread and molasses, and as I dropped a half dollar into the peacy hand—closely resembling a baseball catcher’s mit—of the lady, I felt that it was good to be a cheerful giver.
PEN PICTURES OF CHARMING COMPANIONS.
My friend McCullough is not a handsome man. His legs lack repose; his hands are too large for their age, and his face is a clam chowder dream; his neck is so extensive that he cannot wear a collar without embarrassing his ears. He has the sturdy Romanesque physique of an over-grown pile driver and aside from the fact that he has a voice that is cracked like a pair of patent leather shoes, and that he chews gum with remorseless speed, he is a thing of beauty round which the scent of violets lingers. I had thought he would never be able to ride a bicycle. But it is all a fearful, hideous mistake. This is to certify that Mr. William Honduras McCullough is a gentleman and a scholar, and when he glares at the shuddering cyclometer, and turns himself loose down the country road, there is a hissing noise through the air like a drunken man in a shower bath. • * * From Toledo to Sandusky we were accompanied by Harry Ralston and Harry Hoyt, boyhood friends, and friends yet, for that matter. Ralston is as thin as hotel consomme, and so shy across the shoulders that you cannot tell whether he is riding front-face or edge-ways. Hoyt is a chunky person, with hair and eyes like a Saxon baby, and a leg like the fag-end of a base-burner. They are both good boys, though, and I enjoyed their company very much. * • • It’s a queer thing, this cycling business is; a large silken-fringed, hand-painted dream, except when you bring up against a rock in the dark. Then everything changes and you wish you were a friend of the Turkish pasha who ties his friends up in sacks and drops them into the sea. * • • I’ve lost Mac. From Sandusky to Cleveland he seemed to be troubled withsomething on his mind; at one time I thought perhaps it was an idea, but speedily dismissed this as being unreasonable. It afterwards proved to be that tired feeling and with tears in his eyes, his wheel in the baggage-ear, and a cake of hotel soap in his pocket, Mac started for home.
IN WESTERN NEW YORK.
Westfield has, like so many other towns, its “big hill.” I never mind a big hill when it is encountered on the way out of town and I can ride down, but as I make it a rule and live up to it, never to ride up a hill—five minutes of hill-climbing will tire me more than five miles of ordinary riding—I was horrified to find the entire city of Westfield assembled on the brow of this hill to see me “ride into town.” I knew that people expected me to ride the hill; indeed, they imagine I get on the wheel in the morning and never dismount until night; but I leisurely walked the hill, while the escort went up with the motions of a yacht in a typhoon. Westfield was glad to sea me. They made me welcome in no uncertain way. I really do not see what I have done that should cause people to show me so muc attention. It looks as if nothing but arsenic in their victuals will prevent this, however. • * * The escorting party was of goodly s.ze now, and as the many wheelman rolled along the splendid road, it made a pretty picture. As Fredonla was neared cyclists were constantly added to the line, until as the city was approached we had a line nearly a half-mile long. Fredonia was out to do the occasion Justice, and did it. So much enthusiasm and curiosity had not been turned loose for a long time. When men met they silently clasped hands and smiled through their tears; the birds in the parks twittered the happy refrain all the summer day long; a strange nameless longing that for days had oppressed the town was stilled, and instead there came a wild, fierce Joy. As the procession moved through the streets the men cheered until they were red in the face and the women waved their handkerchiefs—and I had to look pleasant and think of the time when I would be stuffed and exhibited at the county fair. Fredonia "did me proud.” And I shall ever remember the fact. Here I was met by C. M. Cordell, of Buffalo, who had been sent by the "Express” as ym special escort from Fredonia to Buffalo. Dunkirk was the stopping place for the night, and as the Fredonia and Dunkirk contingents combined to escort me to the latter city, but 3 miles away, over a splendid road, paved for the greater part of the way, they made things lively enough to suit most anyone. Indeed, as we rode through the streets of Dunkirk many rents were made1n the air—in fact next morning: at daylight the police force was out with an ax. a step-ladder and two pounds of six-penny nails, closing up the large jagged holes.
AN ESCORT OF A THOUSAND WHEELS.
Speaking of	roads, I never had	any	better. They are simply
perfect. The	Buffalo-Erie century	course is	a dream; people who
have never ridden any other road can tell naught of the terrors of bad roads. I have been in many good-sized cities where the principal street would not compare in hardness and smoothness to this 100 miles of country roads. * * • I like escort Cordell. He is a perfect gentleman. He makes a century every Sunday, just for exercise. He has a plethora of legs, a general makeup that defies analysis, and a firm-set visage like	that	of a	village maiden in her
first tin-type.	* * * Long before	the	city	limits were reached
wheeling was becoming difficult, caused by people who were desirous of seeing the only genuine "freak” now before the public, in many instances crowding in until I could scarcely turn a wheel. From 6 to 8 p. m. this jam of wheels continued; through the new South Park we went in double column, and the party had been so reinforced that there must have been a thousand wheels In line; and as the center of the city was neared the open space was narrowed down so that two wheels abreast could scarcely push through. Street cars could not run, neither could the bicycles, and as I was almost lifted from my wheel and pushed along by the crowd, I realized what it must be to be a popular political candidate, with every one of 10,000 people wanting to shake hands with you at once. • • * Nothing is too good for Buffalo, and I only regret my inability to describe the spendid reception I received at the hands of her people. Its magnitude was so great that my words sink into insignificance. I am confident that no wheelman, at any time, or at any place, ever received a more hearty welcome than I did in Buffalo. I am more than proud of it, and I return heart-felt thanks to every one of the thousands who helped to make it great, from the “kid” who cheered to the old man who praised me.
LOCKPORT GLAD TO SEE THE REAL THING.
If my entry into Buffalo was a triumphal one, my exit was none the less so. The people were just as anxious to get me out of town as they were to get in. The start was made, and the long line of wheels sped over the asphalt with a sweet purring sound that made distilled ecstacy run out over the rim of your soul like rain.All along the line riders were constantly added, so that by the time the city limits were reached a fair-sized army was there. I he asphalt pavement stops at the city limits but Tonawanda has con! tinued the good work, and has paved the road with brick, so that for 11 miles we had an unbroken pavement to ride over. At Tonawanda a short stop was made and the Misses Crist, of Buffalo, presented me with their club colors as a memento of my visit, and those little bits of ribbon remained tied on the handle bars until New Orleans was reached. Here they were cut into little bits by the souvenir fiends who wanted “something to remember me by.” • * * C. F. Alward, W. H. Johnson and H. E. Haywaid, of the “Express” were to accompany me to Lockport. We were met by a party of Lockport wheelmen who had come down to escort us in. Lockport is a fine town. The streets are paved, and a substantial look prevades the atmosphere, and the citizens—no better grow anywhere. As the party of cyclers stopped in front of the hotel it was a signal for the rush to begin—the crowd was on its feet and producing a sound like a car-load of shingles shot through a photograph gallery. After supper—during which those three fellows from the “Express” succeeded in eating a peck of pickled pigs’ feet— we went to the handsomely furnished rooms of the cycling club, where I met many of the "ity’s best people. The mayor and council called in a body to pay their respects to the timid creature whom the bears of Oregon had not considered as worth the trouble of eating. Still, I prefer meeting mayors and common councils to bears. A very enjoyable evening was passed, and to still further confer favors upon me, I was made an honorary member of the Lockport Wheelmen, an honor I much appreciate. After retiring to my hotel I was serenaded by a string band—and I think I am getting altogether too gay.
ON THE SPLENDID RIDGE ROAD.
Next morning a large delegation of local wheelmen accompanied me. A number going as far as Rochester. I thought the Erie-Buffalo course a fine one, and so it is, but the side-path along what is known as the Ridge road—a high rise of ground supposed to be the old shore line of Lake Ontario many hundreds of years ago—it is by far the best long stretch I ever saw. For perhaps 60 miles this path is as hard and smooth as a marble slab. We played along the road, and in the early evening when Rochester was reached, our cyclometers showed that we had come 75 miles and not a weary man in the crowd. That shows what good roads will do, and yet people are content to wear out their horses, their wagons, and themselves on bad roads rather than systematically spend moneyin making decent highways But while no one was tired, all were hungry, very hungry indeed, and a famine immediately set in at the hotel where we stopped. One of the boys ate three regular suppers and it was only by threats of violence that he was persuaded to stop eating. At 10 p. m. the boys returned home by train, and I was again alone. This is a queer life of mine. During the day I am acc» mpanied by friends, anxious and willing to do everything possible for me; at night they leave me and again in the morning I am to go through the process of forming new friendships for the day. I get but fairly acquainted; able to distinguish one face and name from another when all the ties are rudely torn and I am as a hermit.
BAD ROADS BETWEEN ROCHESTER AND SYRACUSE.
Some of the worst roads in the world are in the vicinity of Rochester. I had been met by two boys from Syracuse who had come to escort me to the Saline city. They rode an “Eclipse” tandem, and pulled me over the nasty roads in a manner fearful to behold. My wheel and baggage weighed more than the tandem, and it kept me exceedingly busy to stay in the same township with them. We tried the sandy roads, then the railroad track, then the tow-path, then the road again. The country is picturesque, hills and valleys; the canal with its slow-moving mules and an occasional steamboat; the high arched bridges, the numerous canal locks, the viaducts, whereby the canal is enabled to cross a stream, all tends to make a pleasing picture. • • • The New York Central has four tracks and the space between the tracks is generally very smooth, the only real cause for complaint being the many bits of broken glass, from bottles thrown from the cars by passengers. This glass makes bicycle riding dangerous, as tires are liable to be punctured at any time. Darkness found us at Jordan. There were no stars or lights of any kind making riding very difficult. We made slow progress, and finally the tandem ran over a broken bottle and rendered the rear tire worthless. In the darkness no attempt at repairs could be made, and as the boys would have to walk, I did so also. My tires were Just as liable to meet with disaster as theirs. It must have been fully four miles to Memphis, the next town, where we decided to stop over night. The railroad uses towers, and as we watched the distant signal light, stumbled over the semaphore wires and dragged our wheels and weary bodies along, we made a picture that the three of us will long remember. Next morning the boys were unable to make the repairs necessary to their punctured tires, so I journyed on alone, going out via the track andlater going over to the tow path. Syracuse was but 12 miles away and I reached it in time for late breakfast. The city is surrounded by salt wells and evaporating vats. Look as far as you may, and the low sheds containning the briny waters will everywhere confront you.
FALLS IN SOME VERY WET WATER.
Did you ever ride a bicycle over a tow-path? The mule’s feet cut the surface up until it resembles the side of a waffle. In rainy weather the hoofs sink a little deeper, then the sun comes out and bakes it hard, and there you are. I would rather ride the ties. To build a railroad one has to exercise considerable engineering skill, but the railroad man is not ia it with the canal-builder, from my point of view. To run a level stream of water through a hilly country is somewhat of a trick, and it was while riding along the tow path of the Oswego canal and admiring the engineering skill there displayed that I got wet. I was going along a narrow path, presumably made by the mule-driver, right on the extreme edge of the tow-path, along the "water front,” gazing at the water instead of the path, when my wheel dropped into a small drain, and I dropped into the canal with the suddenness and intensity of a thunderbolt going through a shingle roof. Differing somewhat from the little girl in the nursery rhyme with the curl in the middle of h<tr forehead, who, wht^s. she was good, was very, very good, I w'as wet, very, very wet, an3 instead of a curl in the middle of my forehead, I had canal moss all over and canal water all through me. • • * I have, of course, feasted my eyes on all kinds of landscapes, bold, ragged and jagged—then tame and uninteresting; but one of the prettiest views of rural life and nature combined that I ever saw is to be had from the brow of a big hill Just out of Oswego Falls. Before and to the right is the valley, with the placid river and the turbulent canal, the farm-house and the wooded nooks; to the rear the big mills of the village; to the left a red barn and half an acre of sunflowers. Now isn’t that a picture containing both poetry and straight reading matter!
LARGEST BLOCK OF STORES IN THE WORLD.
Watertowm, N. Y., is peculiarly laid out. It has the longest square, or block, of business houses, unbroken by alley or street, of any city in the world—54. The streets are wide, paved with asphalt. Some of the residence streets have four rows of shade trees. It is a beautiful town. * • * Up in this country the farmers buildtheir fences of stone; in Michigan they take stumps and stand them on edge; in Washington they use poles; in North Dakota they use nothing at all. I do not know which is the most economical way. This part of New York, so it looks to me, is good for nothing but stone-quarries; yet farm houses are everywhere. What the farmers grow or how they grow it is a mystery to me beside which the William Patterson affair sinks into dreary desuetude. * • * The roads were good and bad, the only trouble being in the fact that the good spots only lasted for a square or so. Two miles from Clayton a rain, hail, thunder and lightning storm happened along. I had a new waterproof coat and had been wishing it would rain for several days. As the lightning played tag on my handle-bars and the hail stones beat a tatoo on the shield covering the rear wheel, I buttoned up that rain-proof coat and didn’t do a thing but get wet.
ALONG THE ST. LAWRENCE.
Clayton, N. Y., is a nice town. It’s chief distinction is in being situated on the St. Lawrence river, which, as you know, is famous for its Thousand Islands, which, including the visible rocks, number upwards of 2,300. There are 1,300 islands large enough to build houses on. * • * I did not get out of Clayton until 2 p. m. headed for Ogdensburg, 50 miles away. I had to plug along right merrily or get caught after dark. The heavy rains had made the clay delightfully soft and slippery and my wheel would skip from one point to another with the motions of a man throwing a sack of meal over the back of an uneasy mule. Twenty miles out I got out of the rain belt and found the roads some better. The country is hilly and stony. Many places, in blasting the wagon roads, the rocks form steps, from the layers in which nature placed it, so that walking up hill is like climbing a stairway, and riding down is a series of bumps. Farming is a lost art.
NORTH OF THE ADIRONDACKS.
I left Malone early next morning headed for Rouse's Point, 60 miles away. It had rains almost all night and I was uncertain about the roads. Beyond Chateaugay they became most deplorable, and eventually I found myself walking In the sand and the rain falling in torrents. Oh, the roads were not so awfully bad, either, for at no time did my wheel disappear entirely from view. I followed the Chnzy river, and from the country It runs through I think the river must be crazy. Nobody lives up there excepting a fewFrench-Canadians, who put in their time raising geese and in murdering the English language. Fully one fourth of the little farm houses are deserted. It is a wild, desolate region, and I cannot figure out why the other three-fourths are not closed down. Over towards Champlain things brighten up a little, including the skies. The road from this place to Rouse’s Point is a good, straight one, four miles long. Rouse’s Point is a combination of summer resort, railroad center and jumping-off place. Situated on the north, or bottom, end of Lake Champlain, its main street conforms to the shore line. One side has the houses built to “meet the curve,” while the opposite side has the houses placed “square front,” causing the street to look like a huge stairway laid on edge. To get out of town I had to walk the railroad bridge, over one mile long, across Lake Champlain to Grand Isle. At the bridge draw the United States custom house is situated. About two miles down, at the head of Richelieu river, is a fort belonging to the United States. The roads on Grand Isle are superb; simply hard and smooth. It is seven miles across the island by railroad and nine by wagon road, and I would not have said a word had it been 19. At East Alberg another bridge a mile long connects the island with the mainland. The fleet doing business on Lake Champlain is composed of old canal boats, towed by steam tugs, and the “draw” here is made on the principle of a canal gate. I had to pick up my wheel and walk the iron rails across 50 feet of water. I did it, but I was expecting to hear something drop all the time.
IN THE GREEN MOUNTAIN STATE.
The roads on the Vermont side of Lake Champlain are not so good as they might be. When they planted the towns up there they were short on names, so you find Sheldon, Sheldon Station, Sheldon Springs, East Sheldon and North Sheldon. It’s the same way with the Swantons, Enosburgs and almost every other name in the state. I don’t like the way they have of building their residences and barns all in one. No doubt it is handy in cold weather, and of course a horse is Just as good as a man—and a bicycle is better than two men—but I wouldn’t live in a house with the cow. Nothing suits me up there anyhow. I had been in the habit of going from 40 to 150 miles between towns and thus getting an occassional breath of country air; while in Vermont I but fairly got a start out of one village until I would be plump onto another. It kept me bobbing around like a step-ladder in a whirlwind to aviod running over some town. I followed the Missisquoi river all the way from plain Swan-ton to North Troy, perhaps 80 miles. It is a fine stream, and takesyou right into the mountains. Anyhow, that’s what they call them up there. They are, however, simply infringements, and '‘out west” would not be considered as decent foot-hills. From Sheldon Station to Richford I was in no danger of getting lost, for I had the river, the wagon road, the railroad and five different lines of telegraph and telephone poles to guide me. For thd simple reason that there is no road over the mountains, I had to go over into Canada to get around them. This fact brought me to East Richford for the night. This town is right on the line. The post-offlce is 50 feet from the line, and the hotel is built half and half. I ate supper in the United States and slept in Canada, and when I paid the man in good money he gave me Canada money in change. * * * But the good men who settled Vermont are all right, even if they are dead. For miles at a time the country roads are shaded by rows of maple trees, and the orchards are all planted near the public highways.
TROUBLE WITH THE WEATHER MAN, AGAIN.
Vermont has when they are dry, the best country roads I have yet found. They are “made roads,” clay and gravel, rounded up like a city street, hard and smooth. But when it rains they become soft, sticky and slippery, and as usual, wherever I go it rains. Skirting one end of Lake Memphremagog, just out of Newport, I had to cross a big marsh. It had now been raining for 48 hours, and the road in the long fill across this marsh was simply horrible. I could not ride an inch, and I floundered arcund in the mud, pushing my wheel as best I could. Five miles of this and I came to a railroad track, and not caring where it would lead me I followed on—anything to get out of the mud. The ties stuck up from one to two inches, so that even here I could not ride. I walked and it rained; oh, how it did rain! I was soaking, sopping wet—so were my clothes. Not a house or a barn was in sight. For two miles I walked through a perfect deluge of water. Then I saw a barn in a distant field and sought its shelter. I entered from a hill side which brought me in on the second floor, and as I stood there the water ran from my clothing in streams, until pretty soon the farmer man came up from the ground floor and charged me with being the cause of drowning his chickens, which had been roosting on the stalls below. The horses had broken their fastenings and swam out. • • • Just think of a large, able-bodied man having to go to bed at 5 o’clock in the afternoon! That’s what I did at the little town of Barton Landing that afternoon. I had to do It In order to get away from my wet clothing, which were hung about the kitchen range In order to dry out.LIKES VERMONT, AND IS GOING BACK.
I really enjoyed my ride through Vermont, even if the most of it was in the rain. Everything is so different from everyplace else. The quaint old houses, the queer old wagons, the funny fences, the greenest grass and verdure you ever saw, the hills—and I do not believe there is an acre of level ground in the state—the old-fashioned wells, with the ‘‘moss-covered bucket,” the rushing streams, with the bridges with shingled arches, the people—a little antique, polite, good-natured—and the sign-boards. At every cross-roads you will find them. In no state have I found them so numerous as in Vermont. I am going back there again, some day, and ride over every road in the state. I am becoming quite gay as a rider of a bicycle, anyhow. In a long trip like this of mine, one encounters many startling situations, which have to be overcome. Now the other day I rode over 50 feet of half-inch rope, and never fell off at all. The rope was laying in the street.
CROSSES THE TOP OF NEW HAMPSHIRE.
The roads in New Hampshire are not so good as Vermont’s—more sand. Soon as I crossed the Connecticut river at South Sunenburg I could tell I was in another state. The sand was very deep until I came to the hills, where I had valleys and rough roadways of granite boulders to engage my attention. Farm houses and villages are far apart. Mountains of granite are all around, and people can’t farm on such stony places. A little hay grows here and there but it has to be cut with an ax. Up through the top part of New England the farm wagons are all painted blue. This may be but a remnant of the old blue laws. Most all the wagons are for one horse. The majority of the vehicles are two-wheelers, and heavy enough for artillary purposes. The four-wheelers are light, have no boxes, but a sort of beach-basket hay-rlck affair, which serves to keep the little load from falling off. • * * The lovely valley of the Androscoggin spreads out before me, clothed in blossoming grasses and dotted with ancient trees. I followed the valley for over 50 miles, and for charming river scenery it is unsurpassed. The road along the stream is a fine one.
IN THE FAR CORNER.
To look at the map you would think Maine was a very large state, but it is not so large as Indiana, and that isn’t so wonderfully big. There are said to be 65,000 farms in the state. I have not countedthem, but I expect that number is about right. The state has 1,58* lakes, and some of them have names longer than the lake. There are over 1,000,000 head of live stock, and all the grave yards are well patronized. I have been agreeably disappointed in Maine. I had expected and had been told that I would find the roads bad. Instead they are as good and better than those of New York state; they follow the valleys, and are very well supplied with guide-posts. There are many far-worse places than Maine. The buildings are mostly wood, notwithstanding the fact that every man has a stone quarry in his back yard. People residing Inland imagine Maine is a sort of semi-civilized part of the country, with ten feet of snow eight months of the year; but such is not the case. I found the country a summer paradise, the people extremely hospitable, and business enterprise at the head. • * • During my Journey through the state of Maine T have been in dally combat with such names as Moopelnokmeguntlc. Wallechunkamuck, Cupsuptic, Umbago, Pamacree, and Welokennabacook. The lakes which bear such tidy names are beautiful bits of water, but I am fearful that their names will never become household words. From Skowhegan, a bustling little city, with zig-zag streets and two policemen, my route was eastward to Bangor, over a very good road, a little hilly to be sure, as some of the hills are nearly a mile up; but think of the coasting down! There is one beauty of wheeling in Maine and that is the roads over the hills are moit always straight and one can see just what is before him, making coasting perfectly safe, and as the loose rocks are kept off the roadway, there is no danger of striking one of those generally aegravatlng obstacles. • * • 1 fovnd Bangor to be like all other cities in Maine—built up hill and down. It has many old buildings, the gables fronting the street; the chimneys built in a row along the roof ilne, and the windows filled with little 6x8 glass. Bangor is said to be the home of more beautiful women than any other place of like size in New England. I was unahle to find out the cause of it, whether it was the climate or wHether they were more adept to the use of the palnt-pulT.
MONEY IN EVERY CELLAR.
Several big hills and fairly good roads are encountered on the way to Belfast. At the little town of Searsport, on Belfast bay, I was surprised to learn that every house had money buried in the cellar. It seems that Searsport furnishes one-tenth of the captains sailing on American vessels and when the old men quit the sea, they come home and bury their money. Searsport has more money than any other place of its size in the country. It is a small town and nopolice. This is for the information of any of my readers who may wish to “touch” any of the cellars. A winding road along the bluffs gives one an excellent view of the bay and its many islands, and the “rock-bound" shore for which Maine is famous.
MAKES AN ERROR AND ITS RESULT.
t
I think the worst road I found in Maine was between Belfast and Augusta, and it was not so awful bad. It was on this run that the New England habit of having half a dozen towns of the same name caused me to make several extra miles. I wanted to get to Sears-mont, but instead got on the road to North Searsmont, then discovering my error, I set out anew and finally landed in West Searsmont. To sum the whole thing up, I made seven extra miles and never got into plain, common, everyday Searsmont at all. This calls to mind a story I heard on this multiplicity of names. On one of the old-time boats plying on the Connecticut river chanced to be an English tourist, and at every town he would inquire its name of the captain. They came to the Haddams, and finally the tourist's Christian spirit was ruffled, and with an oath he declared that first “they all Haddam, then North Haddam, and East Haddam, and West Haddam, and then Middle Haddam, and now he wished the devil Haddam.”
AN ADVENTURE IN THE DEEP WOODS.
Maine is a paradise for the hunters. I had heard much about “bears in the heavy woods,” and at almost every town I was asked if I had met any bears, until I was beginning to feel put out with the fact of not meeting Bruin. Now that I knew bears were harmless, and would run at a whistle sound, I was rather anxious to meet one. I was on the rough road between Belfast and Augusta, as spoken of before, that I Imagined I was going to see my bear. I was in a low, wooded valley, the trees growing up close to the roadside, and overlapping above, making just the place for meeting a bear. It was an ideal spot for Bruin. I had begun to climb the grade leading to the hill-top, when I heard the creaking and cracking of the underbrush on my right. I could see nothing, and notwithstanding the fact that I was anxious to meet a bear, I sort of unconsciously pushed a little harder on the pedals. The aoise became louder, nearer. I actually hurried. I didn’t know but it might be two bears, perhaps more. How could I tell? The hill was now quite steep, the road rough, my wind nearly gone, and the footsteps right at my heels, so it seemed. Yes, great heavens, they were right opposite, coming right at me! There could be nomistaking the tread of a bear. The noise stopped, and I turned my eyes in the direction, and, would you believe it, there stood a cow! That night, through the long, dark hours, a presence, grim and terrible, sat on the foot-board of my bed. I heard the ceaseless cracking of the twigs and branches; an iciness, a sickening of the heart, an unredeemed dreariness overspread all. A low, brutal face grinned eternally at me through the darkness. It was that cow.
WHERE THEY MAKE GOOD SHOES.
At Auburn I was the guest of Lynn, Ashe and Noyes, makers of the bicycle shoes I had used on this ride. I was really anxious to meet them, for the shoes they sent me were so good, wearing eternally, and just as easy when new as old shoes, that I knew the firm must be composed of splendid men. And they are; royal fellows, as well as makers of the best shoes for the use of bicycle riders. After a pL-asant half day here, Mr. W. A. Noyes, the junior member of the firm announced that he would accompany me to Portland, next morning. I was delighted with the idea, and urged him on— telling him what fun we would have. Now, Mr. Noyes is an amateur rider; he had never been out in the country on a wheel, and at the end of the first few miles he began to think he was no rider at all. I oiled up his machine, and endeavored to make him believe that was the trouble, but his spirit lagged and finally died with a dull, hard thud, like a boot and shoe drummer hit on the cheek. We stopped at a farm-house and had a little green-apple pie, fried cakes and milk, but they did not revive him, so 20 miles from Auburn he walked across country to a railroad station, where he took the first train for Portland, while I rode on, reaching the city about 6 p. m. * * • Odd as it may seem, Portland is 12 hours’ sail nearer Europe than any other Atlantic port, and j'et lies at the extremity of the shortest railroad route to the Pacific coast. * * •
I was extremely fortunate in meeting Mr. Harry M. Milliken, editor of "Maine Outings,” a monthly magazine containing stories and sketches of interest to all who love out-door sports or recreation.
IN DANIEL WEBSTER’S TOWN.
Portsmouth, N. H., claims to be the most "foreign looking” city on the continent, and I guess that is right. There are only four roads leading in or out of the city, and on three of these a toll is collected. The streets are narrow, crooked and lined with houses that look like pictures of old English towns. Most all the buildings date back into the 17’s. The people are cautious about taking up anythingnew, and so with the population of nearly 10,000 people, they have no street-railways or telephones. I saw the building in which Daniel Webster had his first law office. Some of the houses have hand-carved columns supporting the porches, while others have ancient carvings showing in the window caps and sills. The streets are unpaved and the sidewalks narrow and uneven, made for the most part of flag-stones laid “hit or miss.” * • * At Portsmouth I begin to get away from those hills whose presence has been with me for four or five weeks, and which for the most part have been so numerous that they fall all over each other trying to find room.
ON SAND-PAPERED ROADS.
Massuchusetts is supposed to have the finest roads of any state in the union. “Wait until you get into Massachusetts, then you’ll get good roads—sand-papered roads.” That’s what I heard for a month before I reached the state. The “sand-papered” roads must be inland, off my route, however, for I found the highways to be no better than those of many other states. The roads are good, but nothing out of the ordinary. Voters are required to read and write in this state; if all voters were required to ride a bicycle, the country would right speedily have good roads everywhere. The 50-odd miles from Newburyport to Boston make a nice easy run, giving time to look at what you may, and still get in without hurrying. I wandered along leisurely until I reached North Beverly, some eight miles from Salem, when, for the first time since leaving Minneapolis, I punctured a tire—and on “sand-papered roads,” too. I was tired of riding, so decided to walk to Salem rather than stop by the roadside to repair. I say roadside, but more properly I should say, streetside, for it Is really one continuous town for miles and miles going into Boston. The street-cars run for over 30 miles on the road I entered the city. It was while enjoying this walk that I was hailed by some one behind me, and turning, I saw a young man who introduced himself as Austin W. Pease, of the Press Cycling Club of Boston. He had been sent to Newburyport to meet me, and arriving an hour after I had left, had been chasing me for 20 miles. * * * Salem Is the “witch town,” you will rememebr. The former inhabitants had to burn up a few old women in order to break up the witch business. Making the repairs to my tires here, Mr. Pease and I started on. From Salem to Boston is 26 miles of city, a railroad track or a wagon road serving as boundary lines. We were in Lynn, where they make shoe-pegs by the car-load, climbed over the fence, as it were, and were in another town. So interested were we, that we rode from Salem to Boston without dismounting.RECEIVED IN STYLE BY THE BEAN-EATERS.
Boston lies between an “island strewn harbor” and a “landward chain of beautiful and venerable suburbs,” and to go down one of those cow-path streets and try to keep its direction in detail is enough to kill an ordinary man, so I did not try it. I was to remain one day in the city and the Press club had arranged a program for my entertainment. In the morning I was shown about the city, visiting the historic buildings, the public gardens and the famous old Common, where in the shade of the leafy elms the young men tell their spectacled dreams how life would be one vast wind-shaken sea of puree without them. * * * At 5 p. m. I sat dowe to a banquet in the private dining rooms of the Castle Square hotel, together with a number of officers of the club and the representatives of the press. The menu cards were very fine, the front leaf containing the words “a little lunch tendered to Tom W. Winder, the United States coast-line tourist, by members of the Boston Press Cycling Club, Castle Square Hotel, Monday, September 9, 1895.” On the second page was a picture of “the tourist.”. On the third page was the menu in five courses, and on the fourth page the names of the “committee of arrangements.” Each guest was provided with a souvenir badge of blue ribbon, with suitable inscription in gold letters. Three hours were spent in eating and talking, and at 8 o’clock the party went to the Castle Square theatre, where boxes had been reserved. * • * During my stay in Boston my “Eclipse’ ’bicycle was displayed in the window of a big store on Columbus avenue, and was the attraction which held a constant crowd of people. * * Taken all in all my Boston stop was exceedingly pleasant; I enjoyed it. I return my hearty thanks to all concerned, and to Captain Harrie Walker, A. W. Pease and C. H. Finley in particular.
STANDING ON PLYMOUTH ROCK.
Good roads lead all the way from Brockion to historic old Plymouth, the place where the Pilgrim Fathers first set foot on our land. No cyclist need fear to go over those roads. * * * 1 went down to the shore where the celebrated rock is kept. It used to lie out in the water, but when wharves were built it was brought up, placed at the foot of the hill, and a stone canopy built over it. Like every visitor, I climbed up on the rock and stood for a moment. The stone is broken into two pieces, which are now cemented together; "1620” is cut in on one side in figures six inches long. * • • At the foot of a steep hill the first church was built, and as of necessity at that time, everything was English, the graveyard had to be planted on the hill to the rear of the church. The little house ofWITH THE FOUR HUNDRED AT NEWPORT.
You see it was like this: In 1636 Roger Williams, a young clergyman, living in Massachusetts, got a little gay, and the good people ordered him out of the country, and told him to take his “new and dangerous opinions” along with him. Roger did as directed and also took some companions along with him. They traveled around the country for some time, when they decided to build a town and call it Providence. This proved a profitable business, so they organized a land syndicate and "boomed” several other towns, among them being Newport, which was begun in 1639, and is not finished yet When Roger and his crowd laid out the town, they were stingy with the ground, so the streets to-day are very narrow. The main business street, Thames, is so narrow that two teams can just pass without taking off the paint, and if a vehicle happens to have on two coats of varnish the driver has to pull up on the sidewalk in order to pass. The sidewalks are about five feet wide, and on some of the streets are not over three feet wide, and a team cannot turn around in the streets without backing up on the walks. The street cars are not allowed on the business street because there is not room. It is an actual fact that I could not turn my bicycle around without stopping the whole procession of carriages—and Newport is the place to see swell outfits in the horse and cart line. * « • You have all heard of clam-bakes, of course, but perhaps have not attended one. Newport is a good place for clam-bakes. Large, fiat stones are heated hot; then sea weeds or moss is strewn over them, then the clam—a sort of second cousin to the oyster—is laid on the moss, and in turn is covered with more weeds. Then they are left for a short roasting after which they are "good enough to eat.”
worship has long since disappeared, but the graveyard still stays. I put in an hour or more reading the strange inscriptions and looking at the funny angels on the headstones. The oldest grave bears date of 1672, while the oldest stone, now bound in sheet iron, Is dated 1681. * * * The country round about is sandy and unproductive, especially to the south of Plymouth, and the Pilgrims must have found it hard work making both ends meet. I admire their style, and must admit that the National monument, "erected by a grateful people,” which stands on a hill overlooking the scene of the Pilgrim’s hardships, is not half large enough, compared to what those hardy people underwent. I am glad I was not a Pilgrim.ALONG LONG ISLAND SOUND.
Soon as I crossed into Connecticut at Westerly I found the soil harder—anyhow the roads are firmer. I stopped for the night at the little town of Mystic and early next morning resumed my travels toward New Haven. Southern Connecticut reminds me somewhat of New Hampshire, with far-veiwing, rock-covered hills, pastoral valleys and sequestered ponds. At New London I had to wait an hour and half for a ferry boat to cross the Thames river, and at Lyme I again had to use the ferry across the Connecticut river, which is the longest stream in New England, being about 400 miles long. The state gets its name from this river, which in Indian means “the long tidal river.” To the west of the old town of Say-brook I found good roads, a side-path and sidewalk running most all the way from New Haven, some 30 miles. Most of this distant e Long Island sound, the "Mediterranean of the west,” is in sight. The waters of the sound are perhaps used more than any other on the continent, for they are constantly traversed by commercial fleets and various lines of passenger steamers.
A PEW MOMENTS AT YALE.
In New Haven the buildings of Yale occupy very nearly the central portion of the city. Yale was first founded in 1701 at Say-brook, but in 1718 was removed to New Haven. The oldest building now standing on the campus bears date of 1750. It is a domitory, and on the backs of the closet doors are written the names of students who have occupied the various rooms. These lists contain many illustrious names. The gymnasium is said to be the finest In the world. The grand stairway, of white marble, cost $50,000. The "trophy room” contains all the flags and pennants won in the many contests. In cases along the walls are all the base balls used in the various games, painted with the Yale colors and having the score marked on.
WHKKK HATS ARE MADE.
South Norwalk is the place where they make hats, and the chances are that that derby you have on now came from that town. • • • The road leads out and over an aggregation of hills that are very aggrevatlng to an already-aggrieved and much imposed upon nature. I climbed hill after hill and so far as I can tell I am on top yet. for I do not remember having gone down any. I started about 7 a. m. in a drizzling rain, and some two miles out of there I think the was a steady rain, and some two miles out of there I think thestop must have been pulled out entirely, for the water came down in large-sized sheets. I felt better after this, however, for I have to be just so wet before I can do a good day’s work, and so I had to make 46 miles through the mud that day, it was absolutely necessary that 1 get soaked early.
IN NEW YORK	TOWN.
I	struck granite block pavement at	169th street,	and	crossed	the
Harlem river, on to Madison avenue at 138th street. Just imagine pedaling over rough block pavements in the rain for 15 miles. From the time I reached granite pavements in upper New York I had an almost unbroken stretch of it until I got out of Elizabeth, N. J., some 36 miles. * * • My entry into New York city was far from being a "triumphal” one. As it was raining none of the wheelmen were foolish enough to come out and get wet just in order that I might have company, (letting down towards 5th avenue 1 thought 1 would go over to the asphalt. Hut for a mile or two is was being “repaired,” and w hile debating in my own mind whether to go over to 6th	or back to Madison, a wheelman	came along	and	told me to
ga	down through Central Park. Now	the park is	full of hills,	but
it has good driveways. I had been told to keep on the. east side, accordingly I took the first road showing wagon tracks. I had gone perhaps a half mile when I was stopped by a good policeman, who informed me I was "risking my life, 14 years in jail and a fine of $1,000,” for riding on the paths or w'alks. I showed him the wagon tracks, and he said those had "been made by the superintendent’s buggy.” and that the "superintendent could go anywhere.” 1 had been actually riding on the walks In Central Park, but it so happened that the proper policeman saw’ me first, or I might even now be in jail. I am, perhaps, the only bicyclist w ho over accomplished the feat.
ALONG THE NEW JERSEY COAST.
There is only one thing about New’ Jersey roads—they are either awfully good or terribly bad . Naturally, they are bad, sand and • lay; but when this is covered with crushed stone and it becomes worn and hard, they are simply elegant. Going into Newark the road crosses the Hackensack meadows—a low, marshy fiat some miles in extept The road across is filled in and planked. Newark is some cleaner than Jersey City, but not much. Broad street is a fine thoroughfare, and saves the town. • * * At Perth Amboy I had a mile bridge across the Raritan river to walk and when across I had seven miles of sand, most of which I had to walk, be-fore I came to the “stone road” leading: into Matawan. I found the roads very good from Matawan to Long Branch, from which place I was told I would have the “finest roads in the country,” to the south for many miles, but I am becoming skeptical about these "finest roads,” and always receive such information with a few grains of doubt.
	FINDS	A VERY, VERY GOOD TOWN.
The “finest road” out of Long Brunch was no better than most good roads, but it took me down the coast, bordered with cottages and fine mansions. The New Jersey coast is one long, continuous town or summer resort. * * * Ocean Grove, the camp meeting town, has Sunday laws that are astonishing. Now I passed down that way on a Sunday, and when I reached Ocean Grove I found every street barricaded--a fence extended clear across. Inquiry elicited the information that no bicycles, or teams of any kind, not even the milk wagon, were allowed on the streets of Ocean Grove on a Sunday, and I had to go to the west of the town in order to get by. I could not see on the ocean side, but I suppose the town was fenced there also, to keey the tide from coming in,

PICTURESQUE OLD TOM'S RIVER.
Odd and dcidedly picturesque is the half-rural, half-maritime life of some of the New Jersey towns. Take Tom’s River, for Instance. This place had the aspect of a Duch village the sunny September afternoon I reached there. The river is “fenced in” by low docks, whre are moored the innumerable sailing craft of the fishermen. Between the tree-shaded cottages of the citizens and the expanse of marsh leading over towards Barnegat bay is a fllled-in road, to the sides of which lay, scattered here and there amid the marsh grass, the blackened hulls of many small vessels, driven ashore or abandoned for one cause or another. In the deep inlets, invisible to the onlooker from the road, sailboats were jm8S‘nK to and fro, looking for all the world as If they were gliding over the grass; other boats where are moored the innumerable sailing craft of the fishermen, tidying up the boats. It all made a pleasing picture, but have you heard of the New Jersey mosquito that inhabits these marshes? The men on the boats did not seem to pay any attention to this pest, but perhaps they have become so inoculated with the poison that they no longer regard it. But to the tender stranger it is something terrible. The New Jersey mosquitoes are of good fighting size, plump and (lufTy. They descend on the new-comer like a llock of English sparrows with bills like snipes. They waste notime in reconnoitering, but are out for blood, and with a noise that usually requires a boy, an empty tomato can and a stone tied to a string to produce, they settle down to making punctures so wicked that one has hard work to refrain from making remarks. They keep to the marshes, though, not venturing on the higher ground, but I had many stinging reminders of my trip. Aside from the mosquitoes New Jersey is not much of a hunter’s paradise, for the only other wild animal I saw on my ride through the state was a turtle.
BUSY WIPING OFF THE SUNSHINE.
From Tom’s River I found it would be a “case of walk” to attempt to cross the state towards Camden in a direct line, as the road was sandy and lay through a pine forest which was then being burned over by fires, so I had to make a detour of over 20 miles in the attempt to find a ridable road and then I had to walk over 8 miles of most annoying sand. The day was hot; the sun was coming down fiercely, and on those glaring sands it reflected with a vengeance, and I had to devote a considerable portion of the time in wiping the sunshine off my face. I made only some 40-odd miles that day. It was during this day that my rear tire sprung a slow leak, and every two or three miles I had to stop and inflate, and you know what that means with one of those small pumps. Of course I could have removed the tire and repaired it then and there, but I could not bring myself around to the starting point, so I suffered on. • * Six o’clock found me at Mt. Holly, and that evening I answered more questions than would fill a peck measure. The road from that city to Camden is only fair. Some five miles of it is paved with rough stones—a toll road. At Moorestown bicycle are allowed the use of the sidewalks every day but Sundays. The streets of Camden are paved with rubble, or cobble-stones, placed just any way, and to attempt to ride through the streets Is equivalent to inviting a case of lock-jaw. I walked the side-walks until I reached the ferry across the Deleware river.


I	FOOLED THE QUAKER WHEELMEN.
At Philadelphia the Century Wheelmen, the largest club in the city, having a membership of over 400, and owning a four-story, stone-front club-house on Broad street, had made all preparation to go out and meet me, escort me in and give a banquet in my honor. But I fooled them. While they were telegraphing and pulling their hair in one direction, I came in from another, went to my hotel, had a good night’s sleep and never made myself known until the fol-lowing day. * * * In company with Mr. W. J. Walker I visited the United States mint, and found out how to make money—saw $20,000,000 in one pile of gold and silver—was presented with a gold souvenir of my visit, and I think I’ll start a mint after I get through with this trip. * * * Philadelphia covers the entire county, and is about 20 miles long and 12 to 15 miles wide. At 4 p. m. in company with Lieut. It. D. Porter of the Century Wheelmen who was to escort me to the city of Wilmington, the start was made from “bicycle row” on Arch street. At the suburbs of the city we had to pay toll. This was the first time I had such an experience, bicycles always being allowed the use of roads free. The roads between Philadelphia and Wilmington, a distance of 30 miles, are only fair. The city of Chester has paving similar to that of Camden—cobble-stones placed hit-or-miss—and slow time was made over several miles of the stuff, and it was 7 p. m. when we reached the hotel in Wilmington. After supper and a short rest it was train time, and my friend, Mr. Porter, was soon numbered among the long list of “jolly good fellows” whom I have known for a day and then placed on the “tablets of my memory.”
NOT GIVEN A FAIR CHANCE IN DELAWARE.
Delaware is such a little state, you know, almost as small as Rhode Island, and I was barely enabled to get a good headway when I was out of the state and into Maryland. But then I had the little end of the state, which made some difference. At Perryville I had to cross the Susquehanna river, and right here is a case where a railroad company did not get everything in sight. When the state granted permission for the railroad to bridge the river, the charter was made to read that “for and in consideration” of the right tween the two towns of Perryville and Houvre de Grace free. This tween the two towns of Perryville and Houvre de Grace free. This does away with ferry boats and all one has to do to go from one town to the other is to get on the first train that happens along and go over. I have heard some tall stories in my time, and formerly doubted some of them. But I don’t any more. I can believe anything nowadays. In 1855, before the bridge here was built, and trains were ferried across the river, they had a cold day during the winter, and I guess the river was froze solid, for when it was found the boats were fast in the ice, the railroad company laid down a track on the Ice, and for some five or six weeks trains were run across the river just the same as on the good hard ground, and they found it to be so inconvenient that, they decided to build a bridge, even if they would have to run a free ferry in connection.FROM BALTIMORE TO WASHINGTON.
Baltimore, with its half million people, is a fair sort of town, even even if some of its streets are not paved for the exclusive use of bicycles. It is a great shipping point, in fact it is the fourth maritime city in the country, and at the same time is the eighth city in manufactures. It is running over with parks and monuments. From Baltimore to Washington is 40 miles, through a country at times low, Hat and decidedly uninteresting. I can call to mind many places that would have been superior to these marshes for building a capital, but the originators of the scheme did not consult me at the time, and it is too late now to remedy the matter, but I wouldn’t be surprised to hear of the malaria coming up extra strong some day and removing some of the citizens as rapidly as a change of administration does. * * • It has always been my misfortune to find the elevator in Washington monument being “repaired.” But I was not going to be bluffed any longer, so in company with two Pittsburg boys, I climbed to the top. When you understand that there are 865 steps going up and the same number coming down you can see we had no snap. But when you get up you can look down on everybody, and that is some satisfaction. The monument is 555 feet high, and the interior walls are ornamented and sometimes disfigured by tablets and stones donated by different states, cities, countries and societies.
IN OLD ALEXANDRIA.
At Alexandria. Va., I made a short stop to see Christ church, where George Washington worshipped. The old grave-yard and stones are kept in good condition, and the church is covered with vines. The yard is surrounded by a high, iron picket fence, with brick posts. Near-by is the old court house, which contains many valuable documents, some of which bear Washington's signature. Alexandria, at one time, was “the” city of this section of the country, and Baltimore and Washington merchants came there to buy goods. The streets are miserable. I wralked on the sidewalks in preference to riding on paving that was as jagged as a wire hair brush.
FINDS A SCIENTIST OUT OF A JOB.
I met the man in the public highway. He had every appearance of being a member of the Dusty Rhoades Club, but I found he could talk United States, so I lingered while he told his tale of woe. He proved to be a scientist out of a Job, and this fact alone cost me a quarter. But he was a kind-hearted scientist and offered toanalyze me In return for the loan of the coin. I had never been dissected, so I consented. Ever been analyzed? It’s a good deal like attending a spiritualist camp-meeting, but there is considerable satisfaction in knowing just how you stand. Now, according to this good man, I am made up as follows: Good-nature, 38; hangtoitive-ness, 37; hunger, 07; foresight, 02; sand, 10; bicycle craze, 06—100, Isn’t that a combination to beat the band?
GEORGE WASHINGTON’S MT. VERNON.
Mt. Vernon is a beautiful place, on a hill, overlooking the Potomac. No wonder George liked to live there. The various rooms, and there are a lot of them, are furnished by the different states, either in fac-simile or in furniture of Washington’s time. No doubt you have looked at pictures of the place and know just how it is, but the carpenter, gardener, overseer and butler all had homes apart from the main building. Then there is the spinning room, and the kitchen, connected to the house by a covered way. In the big fire-place in the kitchen hangs the original crane, but a soft-coal stove now takes the place of the open fire. All the buildings are white. Down near the base of the hill is the tomb. Washington and his wife are buried therein, while some others of the family have common graves and marble shafts, facing the tomb. Nearby are some trees planted by the Emperor of Brazil, the Prince of Wales and others. Further up towards the house, overlooking the river, is situated the old tomb. The grounds are beautifully laid out, and I dare say if Washington were to come back, he would not really recognize the place. Visitors are not allowed to break off the flowers, but you can buy all kinds of souvenirs. For my I art I got something original and carried away some walnuts that grew on a tree close to the well—a tree that Washington was wont to sit under. * * * There must have been fully 200 visitors at the house at the time I was there, and as my wheel leaned up against a tree in the yard is was constantly surrounded by a crowd and I had to tell of my wanderings just the same as if I was attending a wheel-club reception. But I am glad I saw Mt. Vernon, from the roof to the original brass knocker on the door.
i	"IN OLE VIRGINNY.”
From Mt. Vernon to Accotink the roads are good—hard and hilly. This portion of Virginia reminds me not a little of Eastern Washington. The soil is the same, the same kind of hills, and timber nearly alike,—pine and oak; the only difference being that the westert\state is more rugged, the hills higher, the timber heavier and the people fewer. At the little village of Pohick, on a small eminence some four miles from Mt. Vernon, stands a small brick church which was built and presented to the people by Mr, Washington. The old floor, seats, pews and furnishings are still used. The bricks were brought from England. Washington was a regular attendant there. The building is now almost entirely covered with ivy. * * * It has not rained down this way since June and the dust is greatly in use everywhere. Up on the hill-sides are springs, from which the water issues and runs out on the dust, and that is why I had both heavy dust and mud neighboring each other. * * • It is dark here by half past 5, and at a quarter past 6 I reached the town of Oecuquan, a plate of less than 300 people, where I decided, to stop for the night. The only ‘‘hotel” was in a queer old house, with a big open fire-place, in which the fire burned cheerfully, and I sat and dozed and listened to war stories from the “landlord,” until way past bedtime; and when I reached my room I found neither of the two doors had locks or even knobs, the outside door not going shut by half an inch, and when I demurred, th3“good man informed me that there “were no robbers in town,” and that I "could keep warm by putting more clothing on the bed.” The bed was one of those ancient wooden affairs invented by the most high worthy torturer in the days of the inquisition, one of those innocent looking couches whereof the wooden sideboard, sharp as a razor, cheerfully looms up two inches above the top of the counterpane and chips off a few ounces of cuticle as you get in. I did as he directed, but the rats played foot-ball in my room all night. * * * I have, during the past few months encountered all kinds and sorts of beds, and I have sometimes wondered if landlords ever sleep In their own houses. There is not only the bed which peels and abraids you, but there is the bed that creaks and the bed with the short covers, from beneath which the feet protrude until stopped In their retreating by the cold, remorseless foot-board. This is always deplorable, but a weary sleeper can get more inhuman treatment out of a creaking bed than hot plow shares copld bestow. Unsuspiciously and entirely innocent one approaches a bed of this kind and leaps humbly in, and immediately the sound of a sawmill in full swing ensues and continues for several minutes. You essay to coil yourself in a more comfortable position and the moment you draw your left foot a fraction of an inch upward there is a sound like a human skeleton having a fit on a hard wood floor. You are annoyed and resolve that in preference to tearing down the house you will lie still in your present position, but in eight seconds after deciding upon this you find that your attitude is becoming Irksome, simply intolerable, and you move a finger, and Instantly there is a sound like a ship straining at her ropes. A forgotten flea bite on theTHE SOLDIERS DID NOT HAVE A SOFT JOB.
The old town of Fredrlcksburg Is full of historic items, and a good many of the houses are full of bullets, and holes made by cannon balls and shells. One of the hardest battles of the war was
calf of your right leg begins to manifest itself and you feel in duty bound that you must either scratch that bite with the toes of the left foot or speedily develope Into a gibbering idiot. But that is nothing, there's my friend Mac, who once occupied a bed that in >ne night changed the color of his hair from a raven black to a vermlllion red. At that time he was a cheese maker in a little place called Etna Green, Indiana, and had heard much of the robber ways of city people. On his first visit to the neighboring city of Atwood he went to bed with all his clothes, including his boots, packed away under the pillow. Putting the light out he plunged into bed and immediately a yowling “C-r-r-r-e-e-e-e-e-k!” went out, and Mac knew it was some desperate character opening a disused panel in the wall. He rolled over to avoid the thrust of the descending knife, when a shrill creaking sound told of a yawning trap door in the floor. He realized that he was a lost man, but as the thought of his wife and babies rushed through his tortured brain, he reached for one of his boots to use as a weapon of defense, and the movement set up a noise such as can only be made by the speedy approach of armed thugs upon a loosely laid floor. Mac shuddered and with each shudder new visions of approaching doom were registered by the bed. He trembled, and ghoulish, gloomy forebodings screeched back at him. He knew that his end was near, that the whole world was armed with death-dealing weapons and was after his $23. Poor Mac was afraid to either get up or lie still. In a moment of mental abberation and abject dread, he conquered his fear, and with a sudden motion, which brought on a racket like a country militia grounding arms, he leaped to the floor and jumped out of the window. When he told his story to the policeman on the corner who was going to run him in for parading around under the electric light without clothing, one officer summoned help and a posse surrounded the house and with great fear and trembling approached the room, only to find Mac’s clothing and boots in the bed. • • * Many deserted farms are hereabouts. The ground has been farmed for so many years that it is actually worn out. The homes have been forsaken by the white people, and the houses are going to ruin, or are occupied by negroes, which is practically the same thing down this way. Where the timber has but recently been cut away, the ground is good and in this way many are enabled to make a living—good or bad, according to the work bestowed.fought near here, at Marw’s Heights, and 15,000 Union soldiers are now buried in the National cemetery on Marye’s Hill. Twelve miles away the battles of Chancellorsville and of the Wilderness w'ere fought. The Rappahannock river is not two squares from the house where I am writing this, and at this point the Yankees crossed the river on three pontoon bridges; and from what little experience 1 have had in tramping over these hills, I want to say that the soldiers had no easy job, let alone taking the chances of getting hurt. Mary Washington, George’s mother, is buried here, and a monument marks her grave. Lafayette and Washington visited the place long ago, and I am here to-day. The streets are dusty, and covered with negro children. The wagons are two-wheeled and are drawn by two horses or it may be a horse and an ox, hitched tandem. Any old thing goes. As before mentioned the weather has been very dry. and sparks from the engines set fire to the dead grass, so the woods are full of smoke, and after chasing through several miles of it today, you could write your name on my cheeks, so thick was the soot. * * * To-day I have met more tramps than I have in a month. Like myself they want to get south.
BARELY ESCAPES NEEDING A WOODEN LEG.
The last time you saw me, if you then observed closely and now remember cleary, I was quite gray. There are four more gray hairs now. There is a fine long bridge, 78 feet high, over a ravine just north ef Richmond, and as I was walking over, gawking around, I put my left foot between the ties instead of on them. There was a sudden commotion; a fluttering in the air, a sharp pain, and I imagined I heard the piece broken off my leg strike the water in the creek below. I looked to see if the leg had really broken off and fallen far below, but thanks to my corduroys, the limb had remained steadfast. Rut the cuticle was sadly disfigured, and for several days my leg closely resembled a Chinese war map. It was the momentary dread of having to finish this ride with a wooden leg that caused the increase in my gray hairs.
SOUTHERN WAYSIDE OBSERVATIONS.
From Fredericksburg to Richmond, by way of the railroad it is t>2 miles, and much farther than thai by the winding wagon road. Most all the way a good side path leads along the track. In fact I depend entirely on these sidepaths now. The wagon roads are four or five inches deep in dust and sand, and as the negroes always walk on the tracks in preference to riding In those comicallittle ox carts, I am assured of fair roads all through the south, so I have been told, and I know they have been satisfactory so far. There is not much to see, the country is of a sameness—hills, lowlands and swamps, and about all I have to do is to keep my eye on the path and listen to the singing of the negroes in the field. The negroes do most all the work—and they do it well if you give them time. But, oh, so much time! I imagine Nature knew the negro when she made long seasons down here. Up north the crops would not be gathered until long after snow covered the ground if the farmers had the same move on them that is here displayed. Still, these colored people, that is, some of them, are thrifty, and have accumulated little fams of from two to 40 acres of their own. They have done well, when it is considered that the most of them were born in bondage, and did not know the value of a dollar, and had to hustle for themselves without previous experience. They beat the “poor white trash’’ all to pieces. About as worthless a set of people as are allowed to live, are the folks which the colored people designate as "poor white trash.” * * * The negro has a happy faculty of carrying great weights balanced on the top of the head. 1 have seen a colored woman take one of those 50-pound tin lard cans full of water, balance the same on her head and climb a hill too steep for me to ride. At another time a man was carrying mortar in a tub up a ladder. The tub was half full of mortar and he never flinched. He had a good head on him. To give you some Idea of the way they work I might mention that on this same building four men were laying brick and one man was “tending” them, carrying up the brick, eight at a time, laid on a board and balanced on his head. No wonder they are behind the times. It is night-time before they get the breakfast dishes washed.
IN HISTORIC RICHMOND.
Richmond, the capito], Is built on as many hills as Rome ever ■dreamed of. It is built on hills and surrounded by hills, still, from a, high elevation, such as the roof of the old capitol building, the landscape is even, reminding one of standing in the center of a huge bowl and looking over the rim—a perfect, unbroken circle. Aside from having been the headquarters of the confederacy, Richmond has enough within her limits to make her a famous city. Here the first capitol building built in the new world was constructed, out of brick brought from England in exchange for cotton and tobacco. The timbers were hewn by axes from the solid log, and now, in the upper portions of the building, where the feet of thousands have not worn away the marks, can be seen the print of the ax on theflooring. All the nails used In the building were wrought out by local blacksmiths. In this building, to the left of the main entrance, in the room now used by the state legislature, Aaron Burr was tried. Up stairs, immediately over this room, the confederate senate convened. In the hall surrounding the rotunda is the first stove ever brought to America, so far as is known. It is a huge affair, built in three sections, like one stove above another, telescope fashion, and is over seven feet high. As the old darky janitor said:	‘‘She am a long time a-heaten’, but she take de bark off when
she do get hot.” Nearby also sets the first presidential chair. It is an odd looking affair, some eight feet high, three broad and about 18 inches deep. It was brought to this country In 1700, being a present from Queen Anne to some noble family of Virginia. It was afterwards used at the capital at Willamsburg, and later on by General Washington. On the first floor, immediately under the dome, surrounded by a high iron railing, stands the one original Washington statue. It is an exact counterpart in marble, having been made ten years before George’s death. Washington himself has looked upon this statue and pronounced it good. The statue-was made by some Frenchman who was three years on the job. It is said that in making the cast he nearly smothered our beloved G. W. The people up at Washington town have long cast wishful eyes on this revered marble, with the idea of setting it up in their capltol building, but the Old Dominion would not sell It for $1,500,000, and nothing short of a civil war would follow its removal from Richmond. Had it not been for the Northerner’s love and reverence for this old statue the Itlchmondites declare the northern army would have destroyed the building. * * * Way out on Broad street is a little old church where Patrick Henry declared that they should either “give him liberty or death,” and not far away is the grave of that lovely Indian maiden Pocahontas, who did such a great favor to the Smith family. * * • Ever enjoy the sights and scenes of a southern market? It is worth while stopping your bicycle long enough to observe the quaint customs, costumes and carts of the southern hucksters—nine times out of ten a colored person, for the “poor white trash” are too lazy to raise the vegetables, let alone sell them. The produce, whether It be vegetables, fruits, eggs, chickens or wood, is brought to town in a two-wheeled cart, with a covering arched over, perhaps of muslin, duck or bed quilts, in various stages of decay, but absolutely nothing that has been new’ within the present decade. The motive power may be a cow, or a donkey, or in most rare cases, a horse. The carts are lined up and backed ugainst the curbing. A pan or kettle is brought out, set on the walk, and a small wood or charcoal fire sturted, in order that the owner may keep off the chill of the early morning while waintlng for the customers that will surely come.When you go “down south” this winter don’t fail to visit the market place of some pood-sized city.
WHERE WASHINGTON LIVED AND LOVED.
AVIlliamsburg is the second oldest town on the coast, and was at one time the capitol of Virginia. Williamsburg is just running over with historical data. It was settled soon after Yorktown— which is only 12 miles away—and was given a special charter by the English crown, and is still governed under the laws then laid down. The principal street of the town is known as the Duke of Gloucester steret, and during the rebellion some^00 soldiers were killed in front of the old church. The ground was so soft and muddy the men sank up to their knees in it, and eight cannons were abandoned by the Confederates, as the mules could not pull them through the mud. * • * William and Mary college the second oldest in the country, is located here, having been established in 1693. Harvard is the oldest having been founded in 1636. Under a charter from the crown the college was established and as long as the same should be “kept open for the education of the young,” it was to receive an annual grant from the English crown. And strange as it may seem the money is still regularly received to this day, although the school came near losing its grant during the war. The union forces had taken the town and burned the college building, but the walls still stood, and the old president, a descendant of President Tyler, every morning threw open the charred doorc, rang the bell, and offered prayers. Of course no students came, but the school was “open,” and the grant was saved. Presidents Tyler, Madison and Jefferson were educated at this school. * * • This is the scene of John Smith and Pocahontas incidents, familiar to every one. In the old church is the font In which Pocahontas received baptism. It is a rude slab of marble, with a hollow which might have been dug out with an ax. This old church was given a communion service and a bell by Queen Elizabeth, and both are yet in use. In the churchyard are many old tombs and queer inscriptions. Here the three children of Martha Custis, who became Mrs. Washington, are burled. In those days it was the custom to bury people of note under the church floors and erect tablets in the walls of the building. On one of the tablets it declares that Lord So-and-so attended the funeral and was "moved to tears as he reviewed the remains” of the dead man. The old church is almost entirely covered with ivy. originally brought from England, hundreds of years ago. The two parent vines are larger around than my body. • * • It was here that George Washington courted and married his wife. In early days George was badly gone on a Miss Smith, but he was only acommon surveyor with ordinary red hair, and as Miss Smith was looking for something better, she turned Mr. Washington down. * * * George then turned his love affairs over to Miss Custis. The house where she lived was long ago burned down, and nothing now remains but the three-cornered chimney which has four fire-place openings, and certainly 10,000 brick in it. Not far from this is the big. square brick house that Washington occupied and directed his campaign from. Near by is the old home of President Tyler, and just across “Castle Square” is the house Lafayette occupied during the war.
A REGULAR OLD ROBBER.
Long before the time of Mr. Washington, when the tirSt comers happened along here, an old duck came over, liked Williamsburg and built a castle. It was a huge affair, on the side of the hill, near where the Tyler house now stands. The owner was an old robber from away back, a regular Captain Kidd, and he stole the people blind, taking anything in sight, including the wives and daughters of the settlers. By and by the colony got mad about it, and decided that they would end the thing, even if the fellow was related to the crown. So they laid plans and did things and blew the castle sky high, raising it level with the foundation walls. His royal highness had got wind of what was going to happen and so escaped. Trees large around as a flour barrel now stand on the ground once covered by the castle. A few years ago < nough brick were dug out of the foundation walls to build a school bouse, and I saw the house and the old trenches. Not long ago workmen were digging dirt from the hillside near the tennis court when they came to a brick wall. They broke through the wall and found a chamber about 10 feet in diameter and perhaps 15 feet deep, with passageways leading off in different directions. The brick work and arches are perfect, and show that the brick layers of 300 years «r more ago knew a thing or two. No one, however, ever penetrated the passageways of knows where they go. The negroes are afraid of it; the white do not care to soil their clothes, and I had no ladder.
SCARING THE SUPERSTITIOUS NEGROES.
The colored people are most always singing of whistling— especially after dark, as they are great cowards. Superstition has a firm hand on them, and some declare they can see ghosts in the day time. Going along one night with my splendid “Search Light” lamp doing powerful duty, I heard a shuffling of feet ahead of me. andthen a run. The night was intensely dark; not a thing could be seen, and I supposed the darkies hearing no noise and seeing the light, with one red and one green eye, chasing along, imagined the devil was after them, as he is their especial dread. The race was continued for some time, and go fast as I could I could not catch up. Soon a crash in the bushes, and as I passed by I heard three ne-gros doing a good job of praying. Next morning in town I chanced to hear one negro telling another how himself and two chums had been chased the night before by the “debbil." The fellow declared that they finally got away when the light (lew by and swished ui> into the air. By the way the “Search Light” is a bird, and I not only derived lots of benefit from it but had lots of fun also by its help. Going into one of these little coast towns people imagined some ship’s search light was wandering down the street. Ox carts and mule teams crowded up on the sidewalks and every person with a guilty conscience hunted a dark spot in the cellar.
SEES OLD POINT COMFORT.
Newport News has one of the finest harbors, docks and shipbuilding yards on the coast. It is also a great coaling station, and when you know that it costs $400, $600 or $800 and upwards to coal an ordinary vessel, and that boats are always at the coal chutes, you will see what a big thing this is for the city. * * * Ten miles away is Fortress Monroe and famous Old Point Comfort. The fort is an old affair, and one shot from a modern war-boat would knock it all to little bits, notwithstanding that there is a row of 140 big guns along the water front, and that one gun out on the point will throw a projectile 7 miles. All the ground on the point is under military rule, and soldiers patrol the streets. The ground the big hotels are situated on belongs to the government, and is only leased. The “boys” have it mighty nice here to what the soldiers in the western posts do. • * • Fifteen miles by boat across Hampton Roads and I am in Norfolk, the second largest city in the state and the greatest peanut market in the world. From this city I ferry across Elizabeth River to Pinner's Point, where I plunge into doing 600 miles of Carolina sand and marshes.
THE STRANGEST TLACE YET.
Scarcely less than three miles from Suffolk, Va., going out by way of the main street of the city, brings you to the edge of the great Dismal Swamp, which covers 800 square miles and extends into Virginia 25 miles north of the state line and into North Carolina for21 miles south of the state line. I had always been desirous of seeing this big swamp, and now took advantage of my nearness to it to get at least a glimpse. Strange as it may appear this great sponge, for such it surely is, is nine feet above the level of the surrounding country. It is nothing more than black, decayed vegetable matter, or in other words the rich mold of centuries of rotton trees, vines, flsh, fiesh and fowl, but scientists declare that the great Dismal was formed by some convulsion of nature in the distant Polaee-rystic age. That may be right, but I think the 15 to 18 feet of mold has been formed just as I said—by many years accumulation. The “ground” will not bear the weight of a man, and you sink in up to your knees. “Hogbacks,” or ridges of hard ground, run through the swamp, some of them being several acres in extent, and on these grow oak and beech trees, not tall, as we are wont to see them, but spreading. Game is said to be plenty on these “islands,” although they are lor the most part “undiscovered” or unexplored domains. Five long rivers cross this swamp and Lake Drummond, one of the largest bodies of water in Virginia, is near the center of the swamp. The water is amber-;Colored, caused by the pine roots, no doubt, and is quite good to drink. The lake is about 12 feet deep, being 10 feet two yards from the shore. The bottom is of sand and mud, and another strange thing is that the debris of years is constantly flowing into this lake, and yet it never fills up. * • • There is no dry ground, and rain will wash a “hoghole” into a pond. Game, such as bears, deer, wildcats, raccoons and rabbits, is plenty on the ridges, while snakes of almost all kinds abound, rattlers growing to be as large as healthy fence rails. Over 50 species of birds have been found in the swamp, and mice are numerous. Small, dark-colored, wild cattle, supposed to be the progeny of stray cows that have wandered in, are often found, and are hunted like deer. The mosquitoes are large as bats and exceedingly hungry.
WHEELING THROUGH THE CAROLINAS.
For many miles the road skirts the big marsh, and the scene is one of great monotony. In many places the road is bordered on both sides with swampy ground, the entire surface covered with water, which splashes up against the tree-trunks as each little breeze comes by. These swamps are all covered with cypress trees and fallen logs. Nature has provided the trees with great spreading roots, and a tree not over six inches in diameter, ten feet above the ground, will have a “butt” two feet in diameter, from which the roots spread in all directions in the soft ground or muck. Bridges are numerous. I have this day walked over five miles of trestles. * * • The rivers, and they are many, have no banks in particu-lar, but wash around most any place. The waters are inky, a good representation of the river Styx, caused by the sap from the pine and cedar roots. They look like rivers of root beer. Big snakes come up on the dry ground of the track to sun themselves, and I have several times run over them. * * * For long distances the road runs between walls of cane-brake. This grows close together like timothy hay, at an average height of 12 feet. I can readily imagine what it would mean to be “lost in the cane-brake.” No towns are met with in miles and miles, and that night I had to apply at a farm house, if it might be so-called, for food and shelter. The man had a long, full beard, wore leggins, spurs and a steamer cap. I got a cold supper, lodging and breakfast, and when I came to pay the bill, I found, instead of a farmer, a highwayman. He seemed to want me to pay his losses sustained by the confederacy having run aground. So that you may be able to form some idea of what it is to ride a track through a swampy country, I will state that in making 68 miles I had to dismount 381 times, for bridges, culverts guards, switches and crossings. I counted ten different miles and then averaged. * * * The water for drinking is horrid. No pumps are used. The wells are only eight or ten feet deep; a hollow log on end serves as a wall and a bucket on the old-fashioned sweep does the rest. The water is milky-looking, caused, I suppose by the white clayish ground, and most of it has a piney taste. It has made life interesting for me. If the stuff was bottled and put on the market, pills ‘‘wouldn’t be in it.” * * * For several weeks I have missed the birds, but I am catching up with them now. Black birds, Jays and larks are numerous. They do me more good than any other thing about the place.
COME SEE "DE FENNY TRAIN."
The poorer people down this way, and that means most everybody, do not have glass for windows. They do not have windows in their houses. A hole is left where the windows should be, but a shutter of tight boards fits in, and when it is night, they do not need windows and the shutter is closed, and in day-time it is generally warm enough to have the doors open, so again no windows are needed. * • * Corn is the staple food product. Nothing but white grained corn is raised, and the negroes grind it up so tine that it looks like wheat flour. Corn is used for everything—for making whiskey, for bread three times a day, and for feeding the stock. When wheat Hour is used it is for biscuits, and wherever I eat I have biscuits pushed out at me. I long for a slice of bread. • * * Pome portions of the state that I have passed through are evidently new to the bicycle, for passing a hut a day or so ago, I was amused tohear the lady of the house call out to the kids to come quick and see “de funny train.”
A GREAT DAY IN WILMINGTON.
At Williamsburg, Va., the clouds gathered and a little rain fell; at Suffolk, a two-hour shower greeted me, and this morning at Magnolia the whole thing gave way, and down it came. Of course I had no way of telling how long it was going to last, so I started out, made the 48 miles to Wilmington in the rain and then it cleared up. The railroad is banked up with a white earth that looks like wood ashes, and when it is wet it is just as slippery as can be. Coming to a pump house at a bridge I endeavored to dismount on the track side, but the wheel slipped and we both went down the bank through the white-gray mud. I was a comical looking object, I know, but after the pump-house man had had several spasms, I thought it was rubbing it in pretty hard when he called out his wife and children to see me. * * * The country around Wilmington is flat; almost level. Scattering pines grow here and there, and goats roam about as they best please. For 40 miles the track runs on without a curve, and four miles out I could see the spires of the churches. Wilmington is built on sand. Some of the streets are almost impassable. As soon as the mayor learned I was in town he issued a proclamation ordering a half holiday and that the flags on the city building be displayed.
“EDUCATING THE NEGRO.”
The “negro question” is still a prominent one in the south. I have talked with several gentlemen on the subject and they are all, or nearly all, “dead ag’in him.” One man declared that they were “increasing so rapidly that It would not be long before they would control everything." And the woods are full of negro babies —you can find them in eveiy stump. Another man said that “consumption would settle the question,” as more negroes die from this disease than from all other causes combined. And this in the “health-giving” pine country, where consumptives from the north are sent to inhale the balsam which these trees exhale, and which is said to be a specific for pulmonary and throat troubles. Another said that the negro “must be kept down; he must not have a chance of any kind.” While yet another man said: “You people up north are always talking about, educating the negro.’ Now the south Is full of negro school houses, and the whites pay for it all. The negro children have the same chances for education that the whites do; but the blacks do not pay a cent towards keeping up the school sys-tem.” But the wages that are paid to the negroes are hardly enough to keep one alive—that is if he lived in the north. The negro section men get $15 a month and their “board,” which consists of 14 pounds of bacon. The darkey can eat his “board” in one day or make it last the month—just as he sees fit. The negro does all the manual labor in the south, and he is seldom paid over 75 cents a day—lucky indeed if he gets that much.
“A nigger don’t care where he works, and wages are no account to him,” said a section boss to me. “He don’t want no money ’cept just a little, and he will work just as good for 50 cents a day as for 75 cents or $1. The bra’cemen work for nothing, just for the sake of riding on trains. You pay a nigger 40 cents a day and he is satisfied, and won’t kick, just so long as no one else in the gang gets no more. If he was get ing $5 a day he wouldn’t work over one day a week; if he were getting $2 he would perhaps work two days, but if he gets $2 for the week, he’ll work right along every day without grumbling. Just so long as he gets a good breakfast, that’s all he wants . He don’t care much for dinner or supper, but he won’t work until he has his breakfast. Feed a nigger well and treat him decent and ht is the best help in the world and never goes on a strike. I mean the ordinary black nigger. I don’t believe in educated niggers. When he is educated he is no good. He thinks then he should be governor, or go to the legislature or congress. Ordinary schooling does no harm, but when they become educated they are positively worthless.”
LEARNING A FEW THINGS.
Aside from the fact that I am finding out considerable regarding the wonders and possibilities of cycling, I am learning not a little regarding the proper construction of railroad tracks. Now when I left Wilmington, N. C., the "sidepath” which I had found along the roads to the north of that city, was noticeably scarce, and the ties were not covered by at least an inch. The road runs through swamps all the way to Florence, S. C., and tbe road-bed is of sand. I asked a section boss why they didn’t fill the sand in even with the ties and he told me because the engines “sucked” the sand, and that in turn cut out the machinery, so it was kept down below' the level of the ties. • * * Kain soon overtook me on my wav out of Wilmington, and a steady down-pour was kept up for the entire day.IN A SOUTHERN CROSS-ROADS HOTEL.
The room I had at Florence put me in mind of the ‘‘dungeon’’ in which the heroine in tho novel is imprisoned by the bad, tad man. The window-blinds were closed, the miserable excuse for a bed was backed up against the window, the wash-stand was short on legs and varnish, the one chain was minus a back, the wash-bowl and pitcher had had several bits broken out, do doubt bitten out by some imprisoned lodger; on a little shelf a tallow candle flickered and sputtered. The celling and side walls had been whitewashed and the drippings had been allowed to remain on the wood-work— they helped to cover up the dirt. It was a lonesome place, indeed, and I let my candle burn itself away, as an aid to cheerfulness. While outside the rain beat down, causing gloomy forebodings for the morrow. After a night of restless rest, I was out and away before daylight. It was till doing the drizzling rain act, but by 9 o’clock it ceased; the clouds hung heavy and threatening, but it did not rain. The road along the track improved and I was able to put 57 miles to my credit that day. The country is “all of a kind,” low and swampy. • * • It is such a land as this, sandy, muddy, swampy, that I have found the use of Dixon's chain graphite more than ordinarily beneficial. The soil seems to have a penchant for getting on the chain of my wheel, causing it to clog and run hard, but I always found that an application of the graphite removed the trouble. Some days I would apply the lubricant four or five times—in other portions of the country I have run several weeks with but one. • * The Santee river flats are seven miles across—mostly all trestle. At one time it wa3 not safe for men to enter these swamps during the summer season, on account of the venomous snakes, but of late years hogs have been turned loose and have aided greatly In ridding out the snakes. Then as the timber is cut away the reptiles leave. Another fact, new' to me, Is this: If a snake Is driven from the bank into the river, it will not enter, or land, again, at the same point, but will always go dow'n the stream. This has helped considerable in getting the snakes away, and they are leaving that portion of the state and going down into the rice fields. • * • That night I stopped at a private residence, there being no hotel, at Saint Stephens depot, where the “man of the house" chewed tobacco with all the noise, grace and dignity of a hog eating slop—and both feet in the trough.
ENJOYING SUNDAY IN THE SOUTH.
Sunday morning opened bright and clear, and as I had but 45 miles to make to Charleston, S. C., J was In no particular hurry, especially as the road bid fair to be all right I loitered along the way, ad-miring the flowers, and talking to the little darkies one is always meeting along the roads down here, and feeling sorry for “the folks up north’’ who no doubt were having cold winds and perhaps snow. Some ten miles out I was sorry to find that new rails had been laid down, and the old ones tossed to one side, completely obstructing the side-path. The track between the rails was rough, the ties not being filled in even by an inch of more, while the wagon-road, like all others in this region was an uncertain quantity. The sand is so deep that after a few wagons pass by on the same track the road is impassable, and as a result there is no regular road, each of the few teams that pass endeavoring to drive over the unbroken crust. So that there may be a hundred roads and yet no road, and a stranger is more liable to follow the wrong trail than he Is the right one, even were it possible to ride either. My advice to cyclists going south is to “stay by the railroad tracks.” Nothing was to be done but walk—and walk I did for 21 miles, according to the mile posts. I grew faint and hungry, but no house was in sight— nothing but “nigger huts”—and starvation alone would cause me to eat the food to be had there. I passed a country church where the colored people were having a "song service.” I sat on the end of a tie for an hour and listened to the sweetest negro melodies I had ever heard. It was the genuine article. Just at dusk, 12 miles from Charleston, I came to the end of the bad roads, and wras here met by two cyclers who were waiting for me. They escorted me Into town, and at 7 p. m. when the hotel was reached, I was nearly dead with hunger and fatigue.
IN QUIKT OLD CHARLESTON TOWN.
Charleston is the quietest town of its size in America. Every once in a while something comes along that makes things lively for a time, but that over, the good people settle down into the old ruts again and move on as before. It has suffered more dire calamities than most any other city. It has been laid waste by fire many times. In January, 1778, and in December, 1861, it was nearly wiped off the map by war. It has had the most destructive earthquake that ever Jarred this land. Cyclones have played hob with it, and tidal waves have buried the streets under water quite frequently; and yet none of these things disturbs the equanimity of the people, who Jog along in selfsatisfied prosperity, content with their own old-fashioned ways, and one-horse street-curs that move along so leisurely. No place else in all America can you find such primitive ways of conveyance, or the people who would submit to such inconveniences. Think of a city of over 50,000 people and horse-cars every 10 or 15 minutes. A stranger knowing no better would imaginethat the city had always been as calm—as placid and undisturbed as it was the warm November morning I first beheld it; flowering plants in full working order in the yards; the parks carpeted in bright green grass, and not a single person In a hurry. • * • The first step towards American independence was taken in Char’eston, anticipating Boston’s tea-party by some nine years. Without consulting her neighboring colonies the citizens kicked on the Stamp Act way back in 1765, and would not permit the landing of the stamped paper which his British majesty had sent over for their special use. The paper was seized and sent back to England. The Cooper river runs on one side of the city, and the Ashley on the other. In 1774 they “ditched” a cargo of tea in the Cooper river, and on September 15, 1775, raised upon a British flag pole In Fort Moultrie the first emblem of American independence that ever floated to the breeze. It was in Charleston that the first independent government of the American colonies was established, getting in ahead of the Declaration of Independence by several months. This Charleston has been doing something all the time, it seems, for they claim the sole “honor” of formally defying the authority of the United States Congress when the nullification convention met there during Mr. Jackson’s time. Here, also, in December, 1860, the first articles of secession were adopted, and a few months later the cadets in the military academy fired the first shots of the late war. Hasn’t Charleston done more than any other American city? Still, it’s a slow old town! It has perhaps as fine a harbor as there is to found in all the world. I went down to the Battery and walked along the sea wall, from which may be seen Forts Sumter, Moultrie. Johnson and Ripley, and Battery Wagner and Castle Pinckney. Along the Battery, which is the favorite residence section of the rich, are long rows of imposing palace® of marble, granite and stuccoed brick. The architecture is decidedly Frenchy—unique. Some of the older houses are models of the purest classic designs, with majestic columns, beautiful carvings and heavy cornices. The houses that face towards the south or west have wide piazzas or balconies, one above the other. They protect the living rooms from the hot sun, and in the afternoon and evenings are used by the family for receiving friends, doing sewing, reading and gossiping. These balconies look upon gardens filled with beautiful flowers and shrubberv. and these gardens are \n turn concealed from the public by high walls, and approached through ornamental Iron gateways, at once the object of much pride and emulation. The houses are nearly all built with their gable ends to the street, and many of the windows are covered with ornamental iron lattice work. Within these old homes—every ooo of which has the servants’ quarters In an adjoining lot—are many pieces of rare old China, crystal, old Mahogany and fine cabinet wrork, Colonial stuff, the same havingbeen handed down from generation to generation—from century to century—and no doubt much of it was brought over from England and France, by the ancestors of the present owners. The business houses are old-fashioned, rusty, but dignitied. The stairs are worn with the foot-prints of centuries, the ceilings cobwebbed, and tion of a city can so much of decay and dilapidation be found of them have to be held with iron rods. In no other business portion of the city can so mflch of decay and dilapidation be found. There are cuspidors In the street cars—not a bad idea, by the way— and among the stores and warehouses and around the city hall, several cheerful and withal comfortable-looking grave-yards are to be found, full of grave stones extolling the virtues of the dead, and warning the living to ‘‘be good.”
GETS A GOLD ‘ HAND OUT” FROM THE TRAIN.
Along these southern roads, seeing that I could easily reach New Orleans in time to come in under the wire, I was in no particular stress, and when rain found me in town, I was willing to stop over a few hours if there seemed to be any show for cessation of hostilities on the part of the weather man. For this reason I put in one day in Charleston, but on the morning of the second day, not deeming it wise to remain longer, I started at 6 a. m. in a drizzling rain. It is 115 miles from Charleston to Savannah, and almost every inch of it swamps; were it not for the railroad tracks one could not get anywhere with any certainty, as the wagon roads are very tame affairs, not as much used as “any old lane” up north. For six miles I followed the country road, through long avenues of spreading live oaks, hanging heavy with the long, gray Spanish moss, the branches interlacing overhead, forming a tunnel more nearly than anything else. Wild flowers all about, and gardens and fields green with the growing “winter vegetables.” Rut after losing myself twice in six miles I was glad to see a line of telegraph poles, and the way I "froze” to the track was a caution. The railroad is entirely overgrown with a kind of wire-grass. In many places not a thing Is visible but two bright streaks—the rails. The grass is encouraged to grow as it holds the sand in place, and the wind and rains do not have a chance to move the roadbed—as is the case in New Mexico and Arizona. Rut this grass makes hard bicycle riding. It catches in the pedals and in the wheels and makes it impossible to run at any speed. I pushed along slowly and as it quit raining along towards 10 o’clock my spirits rose to a pitch where I was tempted to whistle. There was no place to get anything to eat, and after my canteen was empty no water excepting as I might get it out of the swamp. When I came to a leaking water tank Iopened my mouth, standing under the drip, and let the dirty water fall in my mouth. It was better than to be neighborly with the snakes and other stuff in the pools. Along towards 4 o’clock I was becoming alarminglv hungry—the effects of my early breakfast, and early breakfast at a hotel doesn’t mean much, having long since disappeared —when as the evening train for Savannah passed me, I saw a package thrown off. By the time it stopped rolling I had come up with it. On a tag was written: “For Tom Winder, around the U. S. on a wheel. Compliments of Ely and Norton." And what do you suppose was in that package? Let me tell you: Four ham sandwiches, four fried cakes, two slices of cake and an orange. Just think of It, and I hungry. But I didn’t stay that way long! The package had been thrown off by two commercial travelers I had met in Charleston, and having been over the road, they knew' I would have no nlace tc get anything, so they had brought me something—like manna from heaven, was this “hand out” from the train. Messrs. Ely and Norton have my thanks, which are tendered just as heartily as I accepted the eatables.
A FOUR MILE BRIDGE AND A NEW SCHEME.
That night I was fortunate in meeting Mr. A. J. Weakley, station agent, postmaster, mayor and common council of the town of Sel-kahachie, S. C., who said I could stay over night with him. Mr. Weakley’s family are the sole residents of the “town.” The next morning was warm and cloudy. I made poor headway, as the side path w'as more rounding and I could not keep my wheel from going into the ditch. The land was more swampy, if possible, than that of the day before; many rice fields were passed and any number of long trestles crossed. By five in the afternoon I reached the four-mile bridge over the Savannah river and swamp. I started in to cross, but when about a mile out a freight train came on from the opposite side. I have a new scheme now, in this land of bridges. I carry a rope tied around the frame of my bicycle and when I have to let a train pass I fasten one end of the rope around a tie and let my good old "Eclipse” hang down, while I climb down on a “cap,” as the projecting support of the bridges aie called. That’s the way I was enabled to “hang on” while the freight passed me. It gives me more room and takes away the added weight of the bicycle. Try it some day. By the time I reached the Georgia side it was dark. I had been an hour and a half crossing the trestle. It was not only dark but It had begun to rain. The thunder and lightning served to keep me awake, and a thousand hooting owls and night birds kept me company. The road was so rough I could not push my wheel with any speed, and as it wasnow as dark as a black cat, I could do no better than to put the bicycle *on my shoulder and tramp on. In the far distance I could see a light. Three miles of travel brought me to the light—a lamp in the window of a country store. I asked for lodging, but none was in stock, and as I set out in the darkness again, I was called by name, and going back met Mr. J. B. Norton, the foreman of the bridge carpenters. He had read of and recognized me, and said he did not like to see me go on for ten miles more to Savannah on a night like the one then on, and if I would share his bed I was welcome to stay! Mr. Norton had a little room adjoining the grocery, sleeping there and getting his meals at the section house, two miles away. For supper that night I had he best the store afforded, ready-made-crackers and a can of peaches. Early morning found me getting over the ten miles of mud, slush and sand between my stopping place and Savannah—a task which consumed two hours of my valuable time, and it was a tough looking wheelman that showed up at the DeSota for breakfast that morning.
WHAT HAPPENED TO THE ATLANTIC COAST.
What I do not know would make a famous library, but I am positive that the entire Atlantic coast from New Jersey down, was at one time under water—much of it is even now. But in the long ago it was the feeding ground of the fishes, until one day the crowd got boisterously happy, the earth just humped itself up, and the water slid off, leaving the fishes and sand exposed to the sunshine that happened along next day, and that accounts for the finding of shells so far inland, and so much sand everywhere. The land didn’t hump quite enough and that is why so much of the coast is swampy. But by having the swampy land we are enabled to have rice—and everybody likes rice. The low land is cleared of the dense growth of underbrush, plowed and sowed by drill, just as wheat is planted. But to grow and llourish successfully the rice must have plenty of water, so irrigating canals are made and the rice fields kept under water most of the time. Great care must be taken with the growing crop to keep the weeds thinned out, and large numbers of negroes, barefooted, wade in between the long rows of growing grain, and keep the weeds pulled out. This is somewhat dangerous work, for the rice fields are the particular feeding grounds of snakes, and many a poor negro meets death by being bitten by venomous reptiles. The rice crop is ready to be cut along towards the lftst of September; the water is drained off, the crop cut and threshed much the same as wheat. There are many large rice plantations about Savannah, and that city is the headcenter of the rice business of this country.IN CRACKER LAND.
The Orackei is born, not made. I refer to the Georgia“Crackers,” the poor white trash of which there are two grades—the Wiregrass and the Mountain. It is in Georgia that this species of humanity exists in greatest numbers and richest development, rather a high sounding appellation for so sluggish a creature; yet this same Georgia cracker is said to have made the best military material in the confederate army. He was uncomplaining and capable of great endurance; was all bone and sinew; had no sense of fear and was more readily subject to discipline than were the better schooled men; who looked upon the cracker as an object of contempt. Just the same he could march farther and fight harder, and have less to eat than any other class of men in the army. He possessed a shrewdness and sharpness obtained by long contract with severe privation, prejudice and hatred of all that was not his class. In point of fact the cracker now is a vast improvement on the species of years ago, and I am not saying a word in praise of the species of to-day, but like an educated parrot, he is an improvement over the wild bird. His moral nature, however, if he had such a thing, is not a bit changed. With him association does not tend to Improve—he is a Cracker, and nothing can change him. The only “good Indian is a dead Indian,” and the only moral Cracker is a dead cracker. Their clannish hatred of anything and everything not Cracker, prevents an improvement. The Wiregrass variety lives on fried meat, black flower, home-made molasses and turpentine, which is his remedy for each and every possible ill that befalls him. He does his own “farming” in his own lazy, slovenly way. He is “small” in his dealings; a coward by nature, a murderer at heart and by tongue. He owns a dozen dogs, an old gun and a score of children—although more often to his wife the latter belong. The Mountain kind lets the women folks do the work, while he elaborates on the better way to run the government, and whittles pine boxes, to keep his high strung nervous temperament down to a normal condition. He hunts, .“swaps,” lives on corn bread and the same brand of illicit whisky; substitutes kerosene oil fo rtur-pentine comes to town in a two-wheeled curt, with a high-backed, rush-bottomed chair for a seat, and a heifer and a forlorn-Iooking donkey hitched side by side for his team. Cracker woman are sallow-faced, slender, lank, hopeless looking, carrying an air of weariness that is a second nature, and live lives of unceasing drudgery. Just as their mothers and grandmothers did before them. Like the men they chew tobacco, drink whisky, fight and dance, the latter in an alarming and extravagant manner, never having heard of the w'ord or meaning of modesty. The Cracker is brutally ignorant and vicious in the indulgence of his passions. Conventionalforms of matrimony are observed, but these little things cut no figure with either sex, when fancy leads in the opposite direction. No lapse from the path of virtue ever results in any inconvenience to either single or married women—sometimes the men folks get mad, but no redress is ever sought—and no tinge of disgrace ever results. They hold their high position among the neighbors and keep their pew in the church, which is either of the Methodist or Baptist denomination. One by one the daughters go a3tray and the father seems a little surprised at first but soon takes it as a matter of course, and only kicks on having more mouths to feed. While the girls are as readily courted by the neighborhood beaux as are their more innocent sisters. Crackers hate the colored people like fire, hence all Crackers are Democrats because all the negroes they know are Republicans, and a Cracker would rather commit suicide than to in any way imitate a colored person, and if there is anything on earth that the southern negro has a contempt for It Is this "worthless white trash,’’ as he terms the Cracker.
SCENES IN AND AROUND SAVANNAH.
Savannah is the typical old southern town, not much different in buildings and ways in general than Charleston. The streets are for the most part narrow, and poorly paved, but a few of the better residence streets are lined with big, spreading shade trees, paved with asphalt, and dotted with little squares or parks. One, Bull street, is so ornamented, and has a line of five monuments, mostly to the memory of some of the confederate generals. There are many beautiful resorts nearby, perhaps the most attractive being Bonaventure, four miles from the city. This is one of the oldest and at the the same time most striking of all the new world’s cemeteries. As you have no doubt observed, I have a fad in visiting old graveyards, and I devoted some hours to Bonaventure, where, as nowhere else, ‘‘the graceful Spanish moss is concentrated and artiscally and effectively displayed by Nature’s master hand.” Here, also, for more than half a mile extends a magnificent avenue of oaks, forming a leafy tunnel from the roof of which drop long stalacltes of lead-colored moss, swayed to and fro by every passing breeze. This moss is one of the beauties of this southern country. It grows in long festoons, and droops from every tree. It is a dull, gray-green color, and the effect is very pretty. One of the most romantic places in or about Savannah is the old Hermitage. This is the ruins of one of the richest plantations in the south "befo’ the wah.” Since that time nothing has been done to stay the ravages of time, and to-day the place is a mass of decidedly picturesque ruins. For more than a mile, approaching the oldmansion, one rides between two rows of immense, inoss-covered live oaks, forming an avenue perhaps unequaled in the world for beauty in its own particular way. The home of the overseer of the place is a two-story and a half stuccoed brick, with a two-story veranda. All about are the scattered and decaying farming implements in use on the place many years ago. The slave quarters, a long line of one story, square built, two windows and a door, brick and stone huts, are moss and vine covered. On many of the huts the roof has fallen in; on others the door hangs by one hinge, while others have no doors at all. Spanish bayonets and palmetto trees are growing about the gr< unds and greet the eyes of the wondering stranger, as harbringers of a tropical region.
TAKING CARE OF THE COTTON.
New Orleans is the Hist cotton shipping port in the United States, and last year shipped over 2,316,000 bales; Galveston, Texas, shipped more than 1,760,000, and Savannah only about 900,000. Savannah was at one time the greatest cotton shipping port in the United States and Georgia was the greatest cotton growing state, but of late years New Orleans has gained the ascendency as a shipping point, and Texas has more than doubled Georgia's cotton crop. It is just now that the new crop is coming into market, and while in Savannah 1 went down to the docks—a greater per cent of cotton Is shipped by boat—to see the men load the great big rectangular bales into the ships. It is considerable of a trick to store these big awkward bales away so that every cubic foot of room is used, and so much more skillful are some than others that It makes a difference of 300 to 500 bales in a boat of 2,000 tons; and consequently that much more profit on the voyage so that stevedores and "screw-men” receive better wages than any other class of negro laborers. Each wharf has its own gang of longshoremen or packers, and there is a vast amout of rivalry among them as to which can do the most work and get the most bales of cotton Into the hold of a vessel. There is a great rush and bustle, the rattling of trucks, creaking of windlasses, shouting of the foreman and the singing of the men—for a negro cannot work unless he Is singing. The scene is one of activity, and can only be seen at a cotton port. The gangs are divided into five men each, with a foreman, usually a white man; each gang occupies a hatchwray of the boat, and all are under the general direction of a boss, or superintendent. When the bales leave the plantation they are generally loosely packed, so that as soon as they reach the dock they are put into a hydraulic press and their size reduced about one-half. The work iJl done rapidly and the bales come out of the big press hard as rocks.Then a “truckman,” his hair generally filled with shreds of cotton, inserts the iron prow of his truck under the bale, and with a sudden jerk brings the bale into position and starts for the ship. The negro who touches the bale with his hands is not considered a good hand, and has to submit to the guyings of his companions. The man drops the cotton at the edge of the dock, or by a sudden jerk of the truck tosses the bale over the gunwales of the vessel, where a man adjusts the grappling iron, and shouting to the engineer at the windlass, the huge bale is hoisted into the air and then lowered swiftly into the hold, \v here the five men grasp it and swiftly pack it away. It is hot work down in the hold and the men are usually naked except cyfwp shdrlu teaoni vbgkqj xfizflff sweat rolls down their muscles in goodly-sized streams. Each has a hook, similar to the one your butcher uses in lifting the quarter sections of beef from his wagon, and they seize the bales and toss them about like the strong man in the circus does his paper-mache cannon balls. The instant the bale touches bottom five hooks are in it; the men work automatically, none pull against the other, and by a united effort the big package is lifted and drops into the very place where it is wanted. At intervals a big jack-screw is brought into use and the bales crowded together. One end of the jack-screw is placed against a bale and the other against the side of the ship or a stanchion, so that a good purchase can be obtained. The screw is worked by a double crank, and one man holds it in position while the others turn. This is called “nosing up,” and by its aid the bales are crowded together until the hold is one solid mass of cotton. The stevedores only have to work about half the year, but they get good pay when they do work. All work is done by the piece—so much money for putting away so rpany bales—and the foreman who gets the job, and selects his own men, gets one half more than they do. For 12 to 14 hours’ work he will average $7.50 a day and they $5, if they are skilled in the work. The truckmen are paid by the hcur—about ten cents being the average rate. A bale of cotton weighs from 350 to 500 pounds, and a skillful packer can get 9,000 or 10,000 bales in a 1,500 ton ship. The number of bales a ship will carry increases rapidly with its tonnage, for while a 1.500-ton ship will only hold 9,000 or 10,000 bales, a 3,000-ton ship will hold 30,000 bales.
SOUTHERN NIGGERS AND NORTHERN NEGROES.
This ride through the country gives me an excellent opportunity to study negro life, and there is Just as much difference between the "nigger” o* the south and the “colored person” of the north as there is between a jack-rabblt and an ocean steamboat. The “nig-gers” down here have no desire beyond their wants of to-day. They live in	huts that	look as if they would tumble down at	any
moment, the	chimneys	built up of mud and grass	intermixed	and
kept in position by a frame work of sticks, and baked by the heat of the sun on the outside. The family has no furniture beyond a table, and	a few boxes which serve as chairs.	Bedsteads	are
luxuries, the	entire lot	sleeping on the floors. The	cooking is done
in a big round kettle which Is set on the ground and the fire built around it. The usual size of one of these hovels is perhaps 10x12 feet, and must accomodate, on an average 10 people, for negro families are always large. In some instance two families live in the same room or house. And steal! That’s there falling. A southern negro will take what does not belong to him if It is lying around loose to offer him the temptation. Larceny is the prevailing crime among the race and keeps the jails and prison camps full all the time. They are especially fond of sugar cane, which is just now being harvested, and they make raids on the cane fields at night. I passed one place where a placard announced that the owner of the plantation would pay a reward of $5, or ten gallons of molasses, for every nigger that was killed in his cane fields. So fond are they of cane that the stores keep it for sale, at five cents a stalk.
EATS THE SECTION GANG’S DINNER.
Rain kept me indoors most of the one day I was in Savannah, but the next morning a faint streak of bright light in the clouds looked as if the sun might have a chance to shine, and caused me to feel much like the poor wretch on a water-logged plank, who, buffeted by the sea for days, discerns in the distance a stretch of beach. With an aspect almost merry I started away. I followed the bank of an old canal for some distance and then sought the railroad track. The road is a new one, having been built but two years ago. It leads through one vast swamp; has almost as much tressellng as It has fllled-in track, and not a town In all the 140 miles to Jacksonville, although of course, it has a few so-celled station. I did the best I could—rode when It was possible and walked when I had to—which seemed to be most all the time. In many places the road-bed is covered with a coarse, yellow sand that looks like sawdust, and In fact such I thought It was on first seeing it. There was nothing to eat, and all I had to drln': was got from a ditch. The first day out from Savannah I did not have a thing to eat after breakfast, excepting some crackers I got at a "store,” and they were so flat and dirty that they got "big in my mouth,” but they had to go. That night I slept In a hut that nodoubt had been used by the men during the building of the road. By 4 a. m. I was on the road, and still nothing to eat; wasn’t even raining, so that I could catch a few drops of clean water, but instead the sun came down with a fierceness that caused me to look and feel as dismantled and melancholy as a hotel hair-brush. About 11 o’clock I passed a gang of section men and farther on came to their hand-car. On the car were five dinner buckets. It was an hour until noon and the men were fully a mile away. Should I do it? Yes, I would; and I did! I went through the five buckets, taking the best from each, and, for goodness gracious that was bad enough. I ate anyold thing that I could bite, and I put half a dollar on the car beside the buckets, with a note telling the men I was sorry they did not have anything better, but they no doubt would when I came that way again. Then I hurried on, for there is no telling what a hungry section man will do.
FLORIDA—THE REPUTED FLOWER LAND.
Crossing the bridge over the St. Mary’s river, the dividing line between Georgia and Florida, I had to convince the watchman that I owned the road and had a right to cross the bridge. He wouldn’t believe me until I gave him a quarter, when he readily saw that he was in the wrong. Once across the river I took to the first wagon road I came to, arguing that Jacksonville being only 40 miles away, all roads must lead in that direction. My belief wras nearly correct, for I only got on the wrong road twice. I passed many little farms, the gardens containing vegetables ripe and ready for use; the sandy front yards having rose bushes in full bloom, besides other species of flowers. Sweet potatoes seem to be the principal crop of the fields. Not much attempt is made towards farming, although the white sand which covers all this part of the state will produce anything if it is properly attended to. But that’s the trouble. They don’t do anything. The farmer seems content to raise enough to keep himself and family from starving and resting the rest of the time. I passed several places where the industrious farmer was sitting on the fence filling the air with tobacco juice or smoke. I suppose it’s the climate that causes it. But I got into Jacksonville, coming in by way of the King’s road—a very poor one for a king to have. About a mile out I found a shell road, the greater part of which was freshly covered with brand new oyster shells, and the smell that they gave up was enough to scare the wild man of Borneo. • • • As I came to a halt in front of the new post office—one of the prettiest government buildings I have run across in many a day—I saw two figures coming up the street with a noise like a dog fight on a tin roof. It was iny two friends—Norton and Ely, who In their wild, dilettante way Informed me that they were glad to see me.
ANCIENT HISTORY MODERNIZED.
Jacksonville is a town of perhaps 17,000 people—a place where one out of every five houses is a hotel? three out of every five is a boarding house; four out of every five has rooms to let, and the fifth house is undecided. Aside from this one person in 16 owns a bicycle and the other 15 are going to. Jacksonville Is bulit or sand, but the streets are paved with vitrified brick, and many miles of fine riding car be en oyed. But anyone who brings a bicycle into Florida with the idea of ridirg it “out in the country” needs attention. There is no telling where such insanity may lead them. * * * Perhaps you do not just at this minute remember the fact, but Florida—meaning the “Land of Flowers”—was the first portion of North America to be colonized. Way back in 1513 Juan Ponce de Leon, wandering around loose, happened to stop off at a little bay Just to the north of St. Augustine—that is just north of the place where the city now is. It wasn’t there then. Mr. Ponce was favorably impressed with the outlook and decided to annex the place to Spain, which he did right then and there, notwithstanding the protests of the citizens, who claimed that they were not having a fair deal. For about a hundred years Spaniards with long names and marble hearts kept coming over and disturbing the peace of the natives. St. Augustine was begun in 1565, and to-diy a carpenter can not get work in the town because it was finished long ago. The city had an awful tough time of it for a long w'hile, as every old robber who happened along in a boat plundered the place, and to-day the plundering still goes on, only it’s the hotels doing the tourists now. In 1763 Spain traded Florida to England for Cuba; in 1783 England traded Florida back to Spain for the Bahamas and in 1819, after considerable thinking about the. subject Spain ceded Florida to the United States, and Andrew Jackson became governor. In 1835 the seven-year Seminole war began. It cost twenty millions of dollars and 1,500 Americans were killed. That goes to prove what a terrible effect this perpetual warm weather has on people. Just think of it taking the Indians seven years to kill 1,500 soldiers. This fighting was kept up until the the late war. By looking at the map you will see a lot of little islands down below the state. These are called Keys, and pronounced cays, and there are 10,000 of them, and some others that were covered with water when the count was made. Mosquitoes large as files grow on these islands, and constitute the principal population. Cocoanuts, bananas, pineapples and other fruits also grow splendidly, and muchattention is being paid to their cultivation. Sand Key is the southermost point in the United States, and is only 80 miles from Havana. * * * The rivers have pretty names, the Caloosahatchie, Withlacoochee, Chattahoochee for instance. While the lakes live under such names as Okeechoobee, Tohopekaliga and Kissimme. * • * While Florida was supposed to be only a place of bewitching scenery, fit only to live in during the winter months, to raise oranges, and to cater to the tourist trade, it has recently been discovered that long before man was ever thought of the megatherium, the mastodon, the glyptodon, and millions of beasts, birds and reptiles with huge bodies and larger names lived in Florida. They also died here, and not long ago some wandering paleontologist discovered bones—far down In the sands, bones of the departed whatnots that dwelled on this lovely spot when it was but a struggling coral reef. But to-day these bones, properly manipulated, make good fertilizers. They call the stuff phosphates down here, and people are going daft over it. I think it is the smell that causes the disarrangement. You can buy a ton of raw phosphate and get enough bones, scales, teeth and tusks to start a museum. Some counties in Florida are nothing more than antidiluvian graveyards, and they are digging them up and shipping to Holland for $7.50 per ton.
IN MR. P. M. DE AVILES’ TOWN.
Much of the distance between Jacksonville and St. Augustine— 36 miles—can be ridden on the beach, where a good hard surface is presented. St. Augustine, you know, is the second oldest town in the United States, and at the same time is conceeded to be the most attractive winter resort laying out of doors. On September 8, 1565, Don Pedro Menendez de Aviles was going along the ocast and the happy thought of building a town popped into his head, and he stopped right then and there, and began work. It was low and swampy there but Mr. P. M. de Aviles didn't care for that—if he were to look for a better site he might have gotten out of the idea of building a town, so he decided that any old place was good enough. He called his town San Augustin, but the Indians called the place Seloy—because it did not take so long to say it and time was beads to them. The first thing de Aviles did was to begin work on a fort. He imported a cargo of negroes, and thus slavery in America was inaugurated. He called the fort San Juan de Pinos. It was not completed until 1766 and by that time it was known as Fort San Marco, and in 1825 the United States changed the name to Fort Marion. It is, of course, the oldest fort in the country, and it is in good condition yet. It is a four-pointed star shape, surrounded by a moat, now not in use, the water having beendrained off, and the grass allowed to grow. It encloses an open space or court, from which the broad stairway leads to the broad stone roof and lookout towers. The windows opening on the court are all heavily barred with iron grating, and the massive iron locks on the door are wonders, being some 10 inches wide, 12 long and about three inches thick, while the key would do for a crowbar. In the corners under the watch towers are the dungeons. In one of these Osceola, the Indian chief who was a terror during the wars, was confined. He did not like his job, and was not pleased with his quarters, so he planned a plan whereby he might escape. The fort is made of coquina, a composite of sand and sea-shells, that underlay a large part of the East Florida coast. Coquina was the only building material the early Spaniards had. It is made by mixing the sand and shells with a cement. A sort of box is made, just as you have seen used by the cement sidewalk builders to mould the blocks. Layer upon layer is thus poured in and allowed to dry, and as it becomes hard it practically becomes one solid rock, so that the fort is really one single stone. Buildings made of coquina are moulded into one piece; are time and fireproof, and would astonish an earthquake should It happen along. But Osceola, in some manner, picked a small hole, about 8x10 inches, through the five-foot wall. Then the old man starved himself down until he fitted the hole, through which he crawled, swam the moat and gained his liberty. And now they name cigars and row boats in his honor. • * * Leading from the fort the sea wall extends the entire length of the town. It is built of coquina, capped with granite; was begun in 1690 and not finished until 1843. It makes a lovely cycle path. • * * It is a sure-enough foreign-looking old town with dirty, sandy, narrow streets. Some streets have no sidewalks at all, others have walks on one side only, wnile yet others have two-foot walks on both sides. For a single square. Treasury street is but 7 feet wide, then it spreads itself, and grows to 12 feet. The streets are crooked and turn about in all sorts of manner. For many miles in the vicinity it is swampy, and when the new-comers walked about they had to choose the dryest places, which eventually became recognized walks or roads, and I suppose the houses were built in to fit the walks. All the houses have balconies, and on many of the narrow streets these balconies nearly touch, keeping the streets nicely shaded all the time.
WESTWARD ONCE AGAIN.
For 130 miles to the w’est of Jacksonville the roads are sandy. Whether you go by the uncertain wagon road or the more sure railroad track, it is all the same. The scenery is the same; the people are the same, and the amount of walking required to be performedto be is about the same one day with another. Along the swamps the cypress trees, with gnarled, twisted and distorted limbs, remind one of the pictures which the late Mr. Dore made of the “bad place,” where wicked people finally become trees, take root, and suffer eight kinds of agony during the transformation. I really am of the opinion that Mr. Dore had made a trip through a cypress swamp and filled his imagination full of leafless trees, before he made his famous pictures. Along some of the streams the mangrove trees grow to huge proportions, the roots often extending upward from the surface of the water for several feet, like a huge spider, from the back of which the tree grows. * * * The ox cart is the only means of conveyance, and with a board placed crosswise, or chairs for seats, the “industrious” cracker or the “hard working” negro, his "team”fltted out in rope harness—a pair of lines extending from the neck yoke—sometimes moves as far as three miles a day, if he manages to get an unusually early start. * * * Goats are thick as flies down here. They make excellent mutton, and sell for 50 cents to $1 a head. * • * At one place the railroad crosses a creek three times in less than an eighth of a mile. It is a very crooked little river—almost as crooked as the track. Near Greenville I crossed the Suwanee river—famed in song and for romantic scenery. The banks here are high, bold and rocky—reminding one of Wisconsin's streams, with the added beauty of heavy sub-tropical foliage overhanging the rocky sides. Wild roses grow about in profusion, and the cultivated ones keep the yards and air laden with sweet perfume. Pecans and walnuts are most plentiful—too many to gather—so they are left to rot on the ground. Pears are the principal fruit crop.	Thousands of trees
are in the west central part of the state. This year the blight practically ruined the crop, and the fruit was flat and tasteless, and lay on the ground to the depth of a foot, rotting, as there was no market, and the razor-back hogs were not able to comprehend the situation. * * * Last year cotton was down to four cents a pound. This year the growers did not put out as large an acreage as usual; the crop was light and the small acreage caused a better price to prevail. Now cotton is bringing eight cents, and people who did not plant are standing around on the streets of the little towns kicking themselves. The way most of the cotton growing here is done is this: The land is owned mostly in large blocks, by the thousand or more acres. The owner lets it out in lots of a few acres each to the negroes, who tend the land and crop, and the laws are such that the landowner gets his rental In cotton whether the negro gets anything or not. By leasing the land out this way the owner is sure of a good rental and has nothing to do. The negro takes all the chances. Negro labor is here very cheap. I met a gentleman who had four negroes employed on his farm, or “plan-tation,” as they are called, and each one of these men receive $11 a month and board and lodge themselves. * * * From Madison to Monticello the land gradually becomes better; hilly, with streaks of clay, and the night I reached the latter place, tired and hungry, I was overjoyed to find a decent place to eat, and this is what I consumed for supper, not having had any dinner, and a mighty poor breakfast: An oyster stew, a quail, a steak, a fish roe, two biscuits, light bread, a bowl of grits, cup of chocolate, a glass of milk, two of water, and three pieces of cake—and then the supply ran out. * * * On towards Tallahassee, the capitol, the land becomes quite hilly, and consequently the roads better. I found this tcwn mostly built on one long street; perhaps 4,000 people. The capitol building is old and overgrown with moss. The government has just completed a fine building—the only modern looking one in the city.	From here on to	River Junction the roads are
hard and fairly good. Across the	Chattahoochee river	the	sand
begins again. For 150 miles there are nothing but sands and occasional swamps. A few miles to the east of Pensacola is a two mile bridge, and from here on into the city a reasonable good wagon road is to be found. Pensacola is a scattered, rambling, one-story town, with an Italian smell, fairly bad streets, and a conglomeration of nationalities that is simply awful. The harbor, though, is a good one, and I saw more ships anchored there than I have at any place since leaving New York. * * * A few miles from Pensacola are the ruins of the old forts built by the Spanish—Forts Barancas and San Carlos.	Like all old forts	they are picturesque	and	well
repay the visitors for the time and trouble expended.
FOOLING THE SECTION BOSS.
The various section foremen just new are making the center of the track soft and nice and pretty by piling up the loose sand and rounding it up evenly between the rails. It makes riding anything but a pleasure, and as I struggled down the track, the bicycle sinking Into the sand fully an inch, I left a trail behind that closely resembled the “foot prints’’ of a drunken sea-serpant, and I was not much surprised when a section man broke loose on me with a series of oaths that caused cracks to appear in the wood rims of my wheel. The man had been working his niggers for days in an efTort to secure the prize for the premium section, and r.ow a fellow with a bicycle had come along and spoiled the whole beautiful thing. I was so sorry I had marred his sand pile that I offered to ride back and go around the other way. The man thought it an excellent idea, and didn’t tumble to the "guy” until he saw me making another indenture alongside of the first one. Then I had to jump a ditch,climb a barbed wire fence and keep in the woods until I was out of sight of the boss. * * * This riding in the sand is a hard thing for the chain, but mine is doing splendidly, notwithstanding that it is badly worn. I put it on at Tacoma, Wash.,—a new one there because I changed the size of my gear, having started with a 56 and going up to a 63—and it will carry me safely in. It is a Morse rollei joint, and has in every way proved satisfactory. The gear of my wheel sounds small, but I have found it about right for all kinds of roads.
DISCOVERS A GOOD JOKE IN ALABAMA.
By way of the railroad Mobile is some 160 miles from Pensacola, but after following the track for 15 miles I met a gentleman who told me that by “cutting through by way of Gatewood” I could save from 35 to 40 miles, but I would have to take my chances on "finding the proper road, something to eat, and a place to sleep.” He directed me to an abandoned logging railroad that I could follow for some 16 miles. I found the road, and came to a point where three tracks led out. I tried one and eventually met a colored man who told me I was on the wrong track—I should have taken the center one, and then a few miles farther on come to another line. Now which one should I take? I figured out the way I thought I wanted to go, and went, only to bring up at the end of the track in the deep •woods. Clearly thai was not the way I was to go. I retraced my way again and headed out on the remaining track, which proved to be the one I was looking for. Some six miles out I had the rare misfortune of running over an abandoned track on that abandoned railroad. The very idea of finding a track In those deep woods, miles from anywhere, was enough to puncture a tire. And here is where a good joke on myself comes in. I stopped and repaired the puncture, but the thing would not hold. I Imagined I had not put the patch on good, so I went all through the process again. Still it wouldn’t hold air, and I was forced to the conclusion that the cement must be bad, and I would have to walk to town—how far I didn't know. I settled to walking, and a right good road It was, too —not a foot but what I could have ridden. At the end of ten miles I found the town of gatewood, like the track and the railroad-abandoned. But a signboard in the lone woods told me Bay Minette, where I would reach the railroad again, was 17 miles away. I was by this time terribly hungry, but there was not a thing to be had but a package of chewing gum and two coat buttons which I found in my pockets. I swallowed these but they did not seem to do much good. Darkness was making better time than I wras—so was a cold, frosty wind, which made me shiver. The road was so indistinct that I could not see to follow it through the deep forestof pine trees—the only bright spots showing being the “boxing” on the turpentine trees—when afar to the right in the woods I imagined I saw the flicker of firelight, toward which I made my way. I was not 20 miles from the gulf here, and the land is mostly “government, although a few hardy “crackers” have taken timber claims here, and the light I saw came from the cabin of one of those "pioneers.” I asked for food and shelter for the night, which was readily granted. The cabin was not over 10x12 feet in size. Through the numerous cracks between the logs and in the roof the wind came in frolicsome gusts. No windows were in the house, and the one door served to admit the occupants and light as well. A big fire-place occupied one end of the room, on which a bright pine-log fire was allowed to burn and then die out and then be built up again, as the spirit moved the man to put on more wood. The family consisted of the husband, wife, two children and two dogs, and this collection and myself slept in that cold storage chamber that night. I was given the little boy’s bed, made of boards and harder than iron. The boy was subject to fits, and as it was decided that he might disturb me during the night, he was placed on the foot of the family couch. As it was I did not fit the bed and the clothes did not fit me, and as a result I did more violent thinking than I did sleeping that long, cold dreary night. I slept with my clothes on, but out of due respect to the lady I went out in the cold, cold world while she prepared for bed. For supper we had corn bread, hard as a brick, just as palatable, and baked in the ashes on the hearth; sweet potatoes baked the same way, burned on the outside and full of water on the inside; beef, killed two weeks before and kept “fresh” by hanging out in the pine air; bacon, and gravy that would calm the troubled seas—and of all this I ate, and I live to tell the tale. But the “kids” had the measles and ten days afterward the measles had me. The lady, in honor of my visit, produced a chimneyless lamp as an ornament to the banquet table, and as It flickered and smoked I could readily believe myself to be following a political procession. This same good lady was a slave to snuff. She had a swab on the end of a pine stick, which she would swipe around in the bottle of snuff, and then chew the rag with all possible delight. And spit! She could hit a pine knot at ten feet, nine times out of ten, and as the fluid left her mouth. It hissed through her teeth like steam from a leaky steam-chest. The room was so small that I had to let my bicycle stand out of doors that night. The south may be a fine winter resort, but that December night ice formed to the thickness of half an inch on a bucket of water standing out of doors. Next morning everybody was up long before daylight, and as soon as I was able to see the trail, I was away, not waiting for breakfast. The morning was extremely cold and I suffered considerably from the biting winds. As the suncame up the warmth was spread over all, and I was all right again. Along about this time, after I had made another 10 mile walk, the thought suddenly occured to me that the tack had gone entirely through the inner tube, and perhaps that was why I could not make the patch work. I stopped right then and there, and sure enough that, was the trouble—there was the hole on the opposite side! I had walked 26 miles and was too tired to kick myself, so I fainted. Here I had been mending tires for months, and now at almost the last minute I had not had enough foresight to look on both sides of a tube for tack holeB. Of course It was a fine joke. The birds enjoyed it hugely, but I had to console myself with the knowledge that I w'ould have had to walk part of the distance anyhow. But I put on another patch.
ON A TURPENTINE FARM.
All along the Atlantic and Gulf coasts and for many miles inland, the long-needled pine is found. This *s said to be the most useful tree that grows, and serves more of the wants of man than any other. From the tips of the roots to the long, slender leaves, or needles, which grow from 8 to 12 or more inches in length, it is capable of doing a service, and not an atom need be wasted. These pines grow in scattered profusion, here, there and everywhere. Sometimes a dozen or more close together, then an open acre, but they will average ten feet apart. There is no underbrush In a pine forest. The ground is always smooth except where it is swampy, and is covered with a thick layer of decayed needles, that are aoft and slippery under your feet, and have a deep reddish brown color. The trunks stand like a series of colonades, sustaining a green canopy, as the trees are usually near enough to allow the branches to overlap at the top and furnish a perpetual twilight shade. Like the palm, which is the most picturesque of trees, the pine has a long, straight and slender trunk, rising to a height of 60 to 100 feet, without a curve or branch. At the top is a cluster of branches, bearing bush-like bunches of needles, long and always green. These needles decay and drop out annually, but nob near onough at a time to cause the tree to be deprived of its color or plumage. It knows no difference between summer or winter. It will grow densely on the sandy plains, or in the swamps where its roots and base are never dry, or it will grow alone on the sand dunes that the sea has piled up along the coast. These pines form a forest for 1,000 miles or more along the Atlantic coast, and ask no odds regarding the character of the soil or climate. The sound of the wind In the branches is inexpressibly sad, and is enough to cause one to have melancholia. Some people cannot endure it at all, and frequently the patients who come down from the north to in-hale this “pine air” cannot stand the peculiar monotone—the soughing that rises and falls with the winds. The timber Is light and enduring, and is easily worked. It stands the water and weather, holds paint or varnish longer than any other and wears as well out of doors as in. It has a straight, even grain, and takes a high polish. The roots have many well-known chemical properties. They make fine lamp-black, and good dyes. The bark makes the highest grade of charcoal, the sawdust carries a heavy per cent, of creosote and alcohol. Hogs grow fat on the seed, or “mast,” and the needles are used for a variety of purposes. The sap is the source of the greatest profit as the basis of “naval stores”—turpentine and rosin—but why they should be called “naval stores” I am at a loss to find out, no one seems to know. Pitch is a co-product of rosin and turpentine. These great pine forests are known down here as "turpentine farms,” and I have passed many turpentine stills, and am told that there are over 3,000 in the pine country, and that perhaps 5,000,000 trees have been “boxed”—or what we call "tapping” in our maple-sugar districts When the sap begins to “run” in the spring the bark of the tree is cut away with a tool, made especially for the work, until two or three feet of the trunk is laid bare. The sap, as it oozes out of the veins, and is exposed to the air, rapidly hardens, and forms a gum on the surface, or it may drip into the cavity cut at the base of the tree to receive it. Every morning and night the tree is scraped and the basins emptied, and about once a week a fresh cut is made and more surface exposed, until the sap has passed up into the branches and stops running. Trees can be "boxed” for 10 or 12 years without using them up, provided the trunks are not girdled, when, of course, like any other species, they will die. This gum is put in a cauldron and boiled—the steam is passed through a “worm,” a coil of pipe, just like that used in a whisky distillery oteshwae shdrlu cmfwypp mhb Into a tank and becomes the turpentine of commerce—the residue in the big pot is resin, or rosin, as we more frequently see it. This is put into rough barrels where it becomes solid. Savannah is the greatest market in the world for this class of goods, and I there saw «many thousands of barrels piled up on the wharves awaiting shipment. Tar is made by burning the resinous fiber of the pine tree in kilns similar to those used In making charcoal. As the wood is consumed the gum and sap are cooked, and escape into a receiver below the fire, from which they run Into a vat or pit. The green fiber is also boiled in vats, and the vapor, being distilled, is known as "wood spirits,” a sort of alcohol. A visit to a turpentine still is most interesting, and to see how so many different articles are produced from the same stock has given me “something to think about” for many long miles.ALONG THE MEXICAN GULF COAST.
A few miles farther on I came to the railroad track and found It ridable all the way to Mobile. In the last 12 miles I had to cross seven draw-bridges, some over a mile long, besides numerous trestles. Four miles from the city saw-mills begin and continue in an almost unbroken chain into town. * * * Mobile is a city of 40,000 or more people. For the most part the streets are rough and dirty, and if you want to do any cycling the best thing to do is to go to the shell road, which skirts Mobile bay for several miles. * * Saturday morning George E. Quinn, a local racing man, announced his intention of accompanying me to New Orleans, and at 1 o’clock accompanied by a good-sized escort, we left the city, via the track, which we followed for 40 miles to Scranton, Miss., where a stop was made for the night. Mr. Quinn and myself were both just a trifle hunry, and as we turned ourselves loose on the dining-room there was consternation on the faces of the waiters and a vacancy in the storehouse—for two hungry cyclists in a countrv hotel are more des-tractlve that the traditional bull in the china shop. * * • Sunday-morning an 8 o’clock start wt.s made, the very first thing being the walking of a two-mile bridge across the Pascagoula river. * * * The railroad was quite good, and at Biloxi we stopped for lunch. This is a sort of a southern Newport, and is a genuine southern town, situated on the gulf, the shore of which is lined with bathhouses. Along this portion of the “gulf-country” the long moss is scarcely visible, having for some reason forsaken the big live oaks. A few miles out of Biloxi, Beauvlor, the old home of Jeff Davis, is passed. * • * At Mississippi City a fine shell road follows along the coast to Pass Christian and beyond. The entire distance Is bordered on one side by the homes of winter residents, and while I have been in many pretty resorts, I take off my hat to Pass Christian—pronounced with much emphasis on the “an.” It was now raining and we stopped for the night, having made 42 miles for the day and being but 58 from New Orleans. During the evening it rained quite hard, and the company at the hotel sat on the porch without wraps, and this on the 8th of December. Next morning perhaps a mile to the west of Pass Christian, while crossing through a stretch of woods, we found the remains of an old fortification. Some five or six cannons, the same number of mortars, and many score of huge balls were scattered about the grounds and overgrown with weeds. The old earth-works still hold their original shape.
THE LONG HIDE FINISHED A two-mile bridge spans Bay St. Louis. No towns are met after leaving the town of Bay St. Louis, 52 miles out. The land Is one vast swamp, and the track being rough we had to do not a littlewalking. Small huts, occupied by negro fishermen, are frequent, and occasionally the club-house of sume gun club Is passed. * * * Darkness found us 20 miles from the city and no place In sight at which to stop. Coming to a switch and telegraph office, I sent in word that I would finish that night, and for some of the boys to met and guide me to the starting point. It was then nearly six and Quinn and I figured that we could do the twenty miles in three hours, anyhow. But we didn’t. Sixteen miles out the road was freshly rock-ballasted, and walking was not so extra good. For 12 miles we struggled on over the rocks in the dark, “a fitting ending to a tiresome task,” as Mr. Quinn put it. Four miles from the city the track was ridable once more. It was now way after 11 o’clock and the New Orleans boys having given us up for the night, did not meet us, and not knowing where to go, we stopped at the first hotel that we came to. Next morning my friends were found and I finished my long ride at 10:20—having done nothing wonderful but simply accomplishing that which I undertook to do.
I had been out 274 days. The greatest mileage for one single day was 108 miles: the smallest, 16 miles—the former made in Minnesota, the latter in the state of Washington. The first occupied 13 hours’ time, the latter 13 1-2 hours—Just a matter of roads. The longest trestle was four miles; the highest bridge 321 feet from the water line; the longest tunnel, two miles; the lowest level 265 feet; the highest pass 5,358 feet; the longest stretch of mountainous country 3,000 miles; the longest distance between towns with a population of 60 people or more, 800 miles; the longest day 20 hours.
At almost every town I was met by the local cyclists, both ladies and gentlemen; at every point I was enthusiastically received by the entire population, and the newspapers along my route treated me in the most liberal manner. I made it a point to stop at the best hotel in every city I visited, and in only two instances was I cnarged for the accomodations—but always by the country folks and section house people.
The wheel I rode was an ‘‘Eclipse.” It had not been specially made, but was a regular stock machine. It never failed me—when ■everything else seemed to be against me, I always had the satisfaction of knowing that my wheel would be equal to any emergency, and would truly "stand the test.” I used ten tires, three pair shoes, two suits of clothing, eighteen pair stockings, but the cap I started with I had at the finish. While I was happy in the knowledge that It was over, it was yet with a feeling of regret, almost sorrow, that I realized that no more would I hear the familiar question, “Where is he?” and the still more common exclamations, “‘There he is!” “There he goes!"
I am Just a plain, ordinary every-day citizen now.THE FIRST BICYCLE IN THE KLONDIKE.
Mine was undoubtedly the first bicycle that ever slid down the far side of the Chilkoot pass, or wondered what it was there for along the banks of the Yukon. And if a heedless public would only heed, my bicycle would have been the last, for of all places, the Klondike country is the worst for cycling.
True, in the winter time, which is most all the time, when the snow is six feet deep over everything and the frozen surface presents an unobstructed cycle path for a few hundreds of miles, by putting snow shoes on the wheels one cd.n manage to arouse an appetite for a breakfast of frozen dog. By getting a fair start one can make a mile in less than 1:38 1-5, unpaced, and it is no unusual feat to blow up one mountain and down another without the least exertion on your part. Sidewalk riding is permitted, as most of the streets in Alaska are poorly paved. I found the tow-paths along the Yukon and other streams badly torn up, but the prospectors informed me that they would be thoroughly overhauled soon as the frost was out of the ground.
When the thermometer is 70 or more degrees below what is considered polite form, the rivers usually freeze up solid. This is always a barrier to their circulation and consequently their influence is considerably interferred with, but when the waters are thus congealed, their surface makes good coasting, as all rivers in Alaska flow down hill. One can make the trip from the junction of the Klondike and Yukon rivers to St. Michael’s island at the rate of 100 miles a day, observing union hours, by simply allowing the wheel to slide along on a pair of ski, the technical name for snow shoes.
I returned from Alaska before the great strike, if I had known it was being arranged, I would not have been so hasty.
By the way if it had not been for a “tenderfoot” like myself the wonderful wealth of the Klondike would perhaps not now be known. The “experienced” miner digs into the earth until he reaches clay— and then he stops. He has been educated to the belief that the black dirt contains the washings from the mountains. The green miner didn't know this so he dug through the black dirt, reached clay and still kept on digging. Beyond the clay he found the great nuggets that have set the country wild, and caused a marked advance in the price of condensed foods and Indian draymen. So great was the find of this newcomer and so rap'dly did the news of his strike spread, that many men up around Circle City, who had a fairly good business bringing them in anywhere from $100 to $300 a day left their jobs and became neighborly in the new diggings. Some of them did not find what they hoped for or expected, and as their old claims had been taken by more modest men who were con-tent not to overwork the cash-register, and plod along on small profits, they are even yet looking for something to do.
The early spring of ’96 I was in Tacoma, Wash., with a bicycle and a little ready money. Even then there seemed to be a restlessness in the air, and people wanted to go to Alaska. I rode my wheel to Seattle, and there took passage for Juneau, making no particular preparations for the trip, aside from purchasing a cycle lamp, for I did not know how the lamp ordinance would be, and I did not want to get caught out in one of those six-month nights with no light. I also procured a bell, determined to be able to meet all requirements of the law. Then I put on a camera, which now lies on the bottom of the Yukon, unless it was fished up to use in carrying nuggets home by some lucky miner. That completed my outfit excepting a pair of mud guards and a tent, which I could erect over the bicycle In case of sudden necessity. I also had a cycle valise in which I carried my supply of heavy clothing, including two pair of ear-muffs. Like many who w’ere in the rush later I did not exactly realize what I was doing or what was going to be done with me. All I wanted to do was to get to Alaska. I had generally been in the habit of having enough to eat and a place to sleep, and I could not see why It would not be so everywhere.
The trip by boat was delightful. The scenery magnificent; we had plenty to eat; good berths; pleasant companions, all tourists, excepting fifteen of twenty others beside myself, and the whole thing looked rosy. I expected to return with money In every pocket, and a bag of gold in the best stateroom on the boat. I consider myself extremely lucky—and do yet, for I see no particular reason why my nice white bones were not left behind. Some of them would have proven useful in marking and staking off new mining claims but there are plenty others up there that can be used. I found that the bones left along the route by people who had unintentionally died near the path, make fairly good fuel for preparing a hasty meal, and save the necessity of unpacking to get an ax to cut a few branches. Care should be taken to select those which yet contain a little marrow, as this acts the same as rosin In a pine log. Bones from which the marrow’ has departed can be detected by their checked and dull appearance. By a little practice one soon becomen able to select the fresh ones.
Juneau was full of excited strangers and dirt. It is one of the dirtiest places I ever saw’. The mostly Russian-Indian-Slwash population seems to have a knack of accumulating filth. Wonderful stories had come down from Circle City, Fort Cudahy and other points, especially Dawson City, which is at the mouth of the Klondike river. People wanted to fly, and those who saw’ I had a bicycle looked upon me as a "deuced lucky fellow.” But they didn't know; neither did I.I became one of the party of twenty, who were to make the trip to Dawson City by way of the Chilkoot pass. We bought our supplies, which were then plenty and prices no higher than usual, and took boat to Dyea (Ty-a). Here our Indian packers, dogs and sledges were engaged. We paid but four cents a pound for packing. It is six miles to the base of the mountains where the real work begins. It is 3,500 feet to the summit, and every inch of it up grade. My bicycle and outfit weighed over forty pounds, aside from which ever man had to “pack” from forty to sixty pounds, according to’ his strength. Supplies had to be taken to last us at least 600 miles. I had fifty pounds as my share. Instead of placing it on my back I transferred it to my bicycle, which then made a total of ninety pounds, which I could push up the tortuous trail far easier than I could have carried forty pounds. I thus had a slight advantage over my companions, excepting when I had to carry the entire outfit, bicycle and all, over some particular rough stretch, which was not infrequent.
To a lover of Nature it is worth all the harships endured in going over the Chilkoot pass, for the wild scenery cannot be equaled in the world.
All mountain scenery has a grandeur that takes hours of faithful, humble, patient study. As I toiled along the narrow path, the roar of the rushing rapids far below, the towering peaks above, with their eternal snows glistening in the blight sun, I felt my in-signiflcence and absolute humility. To see the mountain lights and shades give a thousand different expressions to the face of Nature and to learn some new feature at every turn—these are the things that make the hurrying seeker for gold forget his greed; he becomes curious, then wonderings, then almost worshipful. But the trail is narrow (although I have no doubt it is now much improved), and one dare not let their thoughts dwell on the grandeurs of nature, but must attend strictly to the business in hand, for a misstep might have caused a “drop in bicycles,” for at that time of the year summer was Just getting a good start, causing the snow to be more or less slushy.
Ordinarilly, by that I mean in the summer time, I think the pass can be made in perfect safety, and would be no greater trial than any other mountain pass, were it not for the great loads the miners have to pack over. Much of this gush of "terrors at every’ step” is newspaper talk caused by the advertising of the transportation lines that go by way of St. Michaels and the Yukon. It Is to their interest to decry the pass. If I were going a dozen times I would go via the pass; save over 1,000 miles of travel, days of time, and not endure any great hardships. Of course I would not think of going at all at tny other time than summer. The ascent and descent is quite gradual, and the real danger is in trying toChe Best
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EASIEST AND LIGHTEST IN WEIGHT.cross in winter—between September 1 and June 1, when storms are frequent and terrible. Beyond the pass the traveling is fairly good, by boat and trail. The entire distance is a chain of lakes. Fish and game are plentiful, and mice are there by the thousands. The hills and valleys are covered with heavy timber.
Fort Selkirk, on Pelly river, is the first station from Dyea where supplies can, or could then, be purchased. At Fort Reliance (Sixty Mile), fifty miles from Dawson City, is an old man by the name of Harper, who came from Brooklyn eighteen or twenty years ago, and is	the one pioneer of all	that country. He runs	a trading
post there.	He greeted us	warmly, and we were glad	to eat of
his spread of moose steaks, frozen potatoes and real-for-sure yeast-cake bread. Our party stopped over night with him, and for all the favors he had bestowed he would take no pay, contenting himself with riding around on my bicycle—the first he had ever beheld— I of course holding him on, with the help of another man. Such hospitality Is what causes a glow of humanity in man's heart, for it was genuine. Anyhow, the men in Alaska were all hospitable. They could not do enough for a newcomer, and they always wanted the news and gossip of the last place you left. If they had a cabin or shack, be it ever so small, they would not permit you to put up your tent, if	they could by	any	means prevail upon you to stop^
with them.	But there are	more	people there now—and	that may
make a difference.
Dawson City—named in honor of Judge Dawson, who was appointed Judge of Alaska during Cleveland’s first term—was reached the next day. Here the party was to disband, each going their several ways in search of the precious metal. Dawson oily, whic is the supply station of the mines, at that time consisted principally of a bunk house, a ware-house and a saloon, but the few people there were glad to see us and heartily welcomed us among them.
For a month I remained in the vicinity of Dawson before going to Circle City. Parties of prospectors arrived every few’ days. Every one there was a millionaire, for all had from one to four claims staked off, and I am of the opinion that long before the news of the great find reached Seattle, this past summer, all the available land was taken, and the thousands of those who since rushed in will have to go elsewhere than along the Klondike river to begin their digging. Those who had the ground had the right to carry the airs of a millionaire, for the gold was there. From what I saw I do not in the least doubt any of the stories of fabulous wealth. One man I knew, from somewhere in Iowa, was bringing out dirt that panned from $4 to $6 every time. People were wild. Taylor offered $1.50 an hour to men to work for him. with but two takers. It was nothing unusual even then to pan out $1,000 a day, a thing whichRUBBER MUD GUARD.
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THE
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READ PAGE 4-3 OP THIS BOOK.
‘ I
HAVE
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“I
NEED
OJE”several were doing right along. Every one rushed around to find something for themselves—but many were the disappointed ones, for while the gold is there in fabulous quantities, It is not everywhere. While one man may have a claim that will yield half a million, his neighbors on either side may find nothing. There are perhaps thirty or fourty little creeks emptying into the Klondike, everyone of which seems to be in the gold producing territory.
The Yukon is a splendid stream even so far inland as Dawson. The water is a bluish tinge, and clear as crystal. It is a remarkable thing, but much of the surface ground along the streams is frozen solid to a depth of several feet. It is all the more so when you realize the fact that during the summer it gets quite warm, mosquitoes abound, and the summer I was in Alaska the miners found it not inconvenient to frequently go in swimming, and to seek shady places in which to rock out gold from the gravel. At the breaking up of winter the hours of sunshine rapidly increase, and continue so until mid-summer when the sun shines for 23 hours out of the twenty-four, and on the high mountain peaks there is a period of several days in June that the sun is never entirely out of sight. But during all this heat and all the long days of continued sunshine, the sun’s rays do not penetrate the heavy mosses that cover nearly the entire surface of the country, and consequently the frozen ground underneath lies in that state, at it packed in an ice house, which is nearly true in fact. After it once becomes frozen as any damp ground will do in the winter time, it quickly becomes covered with this moss, which I discovered is of a remarkable rapid growth and attains a depth of two feet or more. During the heat of summer the moss becomes dry to a depth of several inches, and the new miners naturally think that by a continuous burning of it as it becomes dry, they can soon reach the gravel bars along the creeks, being of the impression that when the rays of the sun reaches these deposits of gravel they will readily thaw out—but they don’t.
When the nine-months winter begins to show up the hours of sunshine gradually decrease until during the shortest days the sun shines but four hours out of the twenty-four. But at this time the aurora is most intense, and helps very materially in driving darkness from that dreary, desolate, but gold-bearing land. The thermometer goes down to seventy degrees in winter, but the atmosphere being dry it is not so cold as one might Imagine—still it Is cold enough to freeze. When It became so cold that I could stand out In the back yard and hear my teeth chattering with a noise like that produced by pouring a bucket of shelled peas down a shot tower I lost no time In Joining the first party homeward bound.SUPERB DINING CAR SERVICE.
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CLEVELAND, OHIO.MAKING THE TRIP OVER AGAIN.
During the early part of 1897, accompanied by my wife, I made
the circuit of the United States via train, as a correspondent of the Elmira Advertiser. In order that we might more fully enjoy the scenery of Southern California, Mrs. Winder and I decided to ride our good Eclipse bicycles from Los Angeles to San Francisco, Via the coast, in all 600 miles. That is why early risers saw two bicyclers trying to cut their way through several feet of heavy fog in a wild endeavor to find the way out of town and get on the “main road to Saugus,” for having crossed from Los Angeles to Ventura some two years before, via the mountain pass, and finding far from good roads and no place to eat or sleep for fifty miles, I decided to take the long way around this time, following near the railway and be sure of enough to eat and a place to sleep when night came. Reaching the city limits and finding the proper road, we settled down to work over a macadam road that was simply elegant. But like all good things, it didn't last. Some eight miles out we came to ordinary country roads that had but recently been plowed and “worked" In order to “make them good.” As a natural result our twelve-mile-an-hour pace was brought to a sudden stop, and after two hours’ work we found we had made another eight miles. By this time the sun was settling down to the day’s business the heavy fog fading away like sweet memories before old Sol’s beaming countenance; the many birds in the tree tops sending forth a volume of song that filled our hearts with gladness. The scene was beautiful, The pretty farm homes—more like summer cottages—the green fields, the groves of oranges; the many blossoming trees, the distant hills radiant In the morning dews and sunshine—Mrs W. emphatically declared that she was glad we had decided to come awheel. But ere long a little unexpected circumstance arose which made it really imperative for her to change her mind—which she promptly did. Before us lay a long stretch of sand. It was neither more nor less than a case of walk. For two miles we walked and pushed our Innocent wheels along. Those bicycles were absolutely worthless to us, but we held on to them in the hope that we might find an end to the sand somewhere. About this time we met a kind, Christian farmer whc informed us that if we would go back “a mile and a half, turn to the left, follow the lane across the ranch and take the first road to the left again” we would get a good road along the foot hills to the next town, ten miles away, every step of which he assured us was sand, via the road we were then on. In former times I have often met such advice and seldom heeded, but yielding to my wife’s plea that the man certainly knew more about the roads than I did, and that she could never walk ten miles more In that sand, we turned around and retraced our steps, following dl-There is probably more difference in the Chains used on the Bicycle than in any other part in regard to Ease of Running and Durability. There are three kinds of Chains, the block chain in which the bending of the chain subjects the joints to rubbing friction; the roller chain which also subjects the joints to rubbing friction but removes some of the friction on the sprockets, and the
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only to Rolling friction, as the chain bends around the sprockets. There are many types of the first two of these chains, but only one of the latter, the MORSE. The great objection to chains lies in the fact that they will lengthen by reason of wear in the joints. The MORSE alone overcomes this great objection, and at the same time overcomes the friction. You cannot afford to use a poor chain on your wheel.
Be sure and have your bicycle fitted with a MORSE Chain. Guaranteed not to lengthen to exceed one-fourth inch during a season's use. Send for catalogue torections closely, and finding the road just as we had been told with one exception—the sand, if anything, was worse here than on the other road.
MRS. WINDER CHANGES HER MIND.
We plodded along. Mrs. W.— whom I shall call Marguerite, for short—didn’t say much, but I think she was doing a good deal of hard thinking! Several times when we stopped to rest, I could hear her heart thumping with a sounc’ like a country militia grounding arms. It was now near 10 o’clock and as we left before breakfast, we suddenly discovered that we were hungry. The more we thought of it, the hungrier we became. Another mile and we came to a house—a deserted one, but we got a drink of water, which eased us up a little. Instead of a good, hard road, we were following the course of a dry river—a wash, as they are termed— which turned about the base of the hills. A half-mile beyond we espied a small house upon the hill-side, perhaps another half mile from the road, surrounded by fruit orchards, English walnut trees, and a general air of prosperity. To this we climbed, made known our starving condition, and the good lady, Mrs. Casper Maat, provided us with a loaf of bread, half a gallon of miik and some doughnuts, all of which disappeared with ease. Both of us ate feeling that whatever was worth doing at all, was worth doing well, so we left absolutely nothing, Marguerite even going so far as to take a bite out of the milk pitcher for desert. Mrs. Maat gave us a half dozen oranges and a number of doughnuts for future use, and assured us that we had less than ten miles of sand ahead, and would take no pay for the favors she had bestowed upon us. Less than ten miles of sand! We had already walked near six, and as we trudged on through the sand, the blistering sun, with naught to cast a shade except a prickly-pear cactus, perhaps a foot high, I discovered in Marguerite's face a wild, strange light glimmering through her tears, and there was in her sad, sweet face the expression of one long since having abandoned all hope.
She was changing her mind.
FINDS A HONEY FARM.
After a time thirst took possession; each step in the hot sands seemed to add fuel to the desire for water. It was high noon; the sun beat down with a fiery fury, and Marguerite’s in-door complexion was rapidly changing to a brilliancy that seemed fair to out-rival the sun. An hour of torture brought us to a stream of water, forming a Junction with the “wash.” These washes needa word of explanation. They are the bane of the wheelman of this country. Every few miles they are met, varying in width from fifty feet to four miles of soft sand and gravel, every inch of which must be walked. In the winter time they are torrents of rushing water. In our case the road followed the course of the river, instead of crossing over. At this stream we bathed our faces and drank until it seemed we could certainly store no more—then removing our shoes and stockings waded across. The road was some better here, but still impossible to ride, and in a short time we were again suffering for water. By and by we came to the camp of a “honey farm,” where we made bold to enter and quench our thirst from the tin can in which the water is brought out into these deserts. Honey farms are numerous on the hills, where wild flowers grow so plentifully, and one often sees many hundreds of hives clustered on the side of some gently sloping mountain. At this season men come and extract the honey from the comb—"strained” and bottled honey being the proper way of marketing it. In this case the men had pitched their camp at the foot of the hills, possibly so that they might be free from the annoyance of the bees when “off duty.”
AN UNRULY THERMOMETER.
Reaching the town of San Fernando, we discovered that th ether-mometer registered 115 degrees in the shade! No wonder we suffered for water walking out in the full strength of the hot rays. We had come twenty-eight miles, eleven of which we had walked, and were only twenty-two miles from Los Angeles by rail. From San Fernando the road was good; quite level and for several miles we again thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Now we came to a mountain range, which must be crossed—more walking. To follow the railroad track meant a mile tunnel and frequent trains, so the wagon road was chosen. Up, up, we went, on one of the steepest grades I ever ascended. At the summit the road has been cut through the hill to a depth of some eighty odd feet—at the top the sides of the cut seem to almost meet. It is a remarkable work in wagon road building. Poor Marguerite! I tried to cheer her up by quoting from Longfellow’s “Excelsior,” but she wavered, and her wheel often bobbed around like a step-ladder in a whirlwind. When at last the top was reached there was no word of mouth, but a common feeling of ecstacy, of deep, illimitable thankfulness. The descent was so steep that it was impossible to ride in safety—even with brakes, for the road was strewn with rocks, the curves sudden and sharp. The scenery was magnificent—a truly pastoral one, and as we sped along the hard level road leading from the base ofWigcoi^in Ceqfoal Liqe^’
FAST TRAINS RUN DAILY BETWEEN CHICAGO, AND MILWAUKEE j* j> J> AND ST. PAUL, MINNEAPOLIS, * ASHLAND AND DULUTH, CONNECTING WITH TRAINS SOUTH AND j> EAST, AT CHICAGO; AND WEST TO PACIFIC COAST POINTS, AT ST. PAUL AND MINNEAPOLIS. J> + NEAREST TICKET AGENT CAN GIVE YOU COMPLETE INFORMATION..*the mountains, we forgot our sorrows of the day In the enjoyment of nature as it revealed only to the bicyclist.
A MAN ALWAYS DOES THINGS WRONG.
Thinking to provide against possibility of hunger on our second day awheel, we had lunch put up before starting, and tied it on the handle bars of Marguerite’s bicycle. At Saugus we were advised to ride on the railroad track for the first forty miles on the way to San Buenaventura, as the wagon road was more of a reminiscence than anything else. We did this; the roadbed being just fairly smooth, the only big objection being the large number of culverts and drains across the track, at each one of which we had to dismount. The road runs along the base of the foot hills of the coast range, and as the waters come down from the mountain tops all of a sudden, when they do come, these drains must be provided every once in a while. They are numbered and after we had crossed 183 I firmly resolved to quit looking at the aggravating figures. No matter howr well a man plans, something is going to happen to knock things all out of shape. In crossing a high tressle the lunch package worked loose from the handle bars and fell to the ground far below—perhaps a hundred feet. I laid this dire misfortune to the possession of some opals we had smuggled in from Old Mexico, but my wife affirmed it was because I did not know how to do anything right, and had not tied the package on securely.
PAINTING PRETTY PICTURES.
In a perfect glory of sunshine we wheeled away from the Arlington hotel, at Santa Barbara, happy in the belief that we had naught to trouble us, but twenty-four miles to ride for the day, and nothing worse than a seven mile mountain to climb. We had been told that on the opposite side of the Santa Ynez range of mountains we would find suitable accommodations for a night’s lodging. The road leading to the summit was a big seven miles, the road leading down a rough six miles; and from the hotel to the foot of the mountain eleven miles. We figured that we could do this nicely and have time to squander. The first run to the base of the grade was but play—over a well-sprinkled road, amid fruit groves and forests of English walnut trees. At the bottom of the grade runs a little stream, where we stopped to admire nature, to be seen no where else in so many varying phases as here. Here also we saw the last of the orange groves, the good lady insisting that we carry all we could, and also throwing in a few lemons to be used alongthe route. Then the climb began. Did you ever walk up the side of a house? If you have you know what a goodly portion of those seven miles, as the road wound and twisted about the mountain, alway and ever upward, represented. But the view! Marguerite declared it to be the finest thing she had witnessed in all our miles of travel. Ten miles away from those hill tops could be seen the ocean; the spires and domes of Santa Barbara- the great Goleta marshes where the snipe wade so daintily in the streams; the newly plowed fields; the groves of orange trees, the fruit showing bright in the sun; the many hundreds of pretty homes, most always with bright red roofs, contrasting strikingly with the green foliage surrounding them; far below the picturesque canons and spurs of the Santa Ynez range, wooded with noble oaks, sycamores and elders, and with sparkling streams rippling down the gulches, close at hand in every direction—a paradise for the sportsman, a fascinating field for the naturalist or botanist, an inspiration for the dreamer— a revelation of beauty to us, who have done nothing but look upon the wonders and beauty of nature for many weeks.
We loafed along; stopping here, stopping there, every step turning the kaleldescope and unfolding something altogether different from what we had just declared to be unsurpassed. At each splashing stream, as it hastened across the roadway, on Its way down the mountain, we tarried, until 4 o’clock In the afternoon found us only at the summit, here crowned with great live oaks, whose spreading boughs cast a grateful shade. The opposite side of the mountains are In every feature different. The barren spots, the huge boulders, the scraggy trees, all show the influence the moisture of the dew has on vegetation on the ocean side. The road Is exceedingly rough—much of it had to be walked, but we even did this cheerfully, knowing that we were at the farthest but a few miles from the resting place.
AN ADVENTURE ON THE MOUNTAINS.
Just as the sun was casting long, slanting shadows and we were willing to own up to the feeling akin to weariness, we came to the “home station,” as the one little house and the big barn was called. All seemed quiet and deserted. Reaving Marguerite I went about to see if this was the place we were looking for. The house was empty; the barn was empty. I hallooed; then I did It again, and so harshly that I strained my voice. It awakened a man who was cutting wood for his evening’s fire up on the hill, however, and he came down to see who had been hurt. He had no place for us to stay unless we slept on the floor of the empty house, without fire or bed clothing. He stayed in the little shack back of the roadway. The “home” had been sold two weeks before, the former owner hadvacated, and the new one had not as yet taken possession. The next town was fourteen miles away—darkness was at hand, and a river must he forded ere rest could be found. I returned and reported, and while we were deciding whether to go on or roost in the trees, a team came rumbling along down the road. To my inquiry of the driver as to whether he knew of any houses nearby where we could stay over night he said:
“Why, yes; you can stay with our folks; we live only three miles back from ths road, five miles farther on. Get in; we’ll be glad to have ‘you.’’
Well, what luck, thought I. These mountain wagons are different from most any other kind of vehicle that ever happened. They are two stories high; the seat is on stilts up another story-ani-a-half, no springs aie used, and fn m four to six horses are required to haul a loaded wagon. This man was a typical mountaineer; told us he had always been in the mountains, and was now on his way home from Santa Barbara, where he had gone with a load of wood, which he had sold for $9. We scrambled up on the seat, after putting our bicycles on the empty box, and the parade started. Such bumping and jolting, thumping and Jarring I never experienced as that caravan fell down from one rock to another. I verily believe it is true that a mountain driver never runs his horses except when he Is going down hill. And the more stones in the roadway, the better. Marguerite was holding on to me and I was hanging onto the seat for dear life. The man was talkative; all we had to do was to listen and hang on to the wagon as best we could. We learned that "his folks” was himself and another man; that they lived in a shack three miles from the road in the deep woods; that they were wood-choppers; that they had no special provisions for entertaining visitors; that as he had first said, they would be tickled to death to have us stay with them; and that the driver was intoxicated, that the Jug wasn’t empty yet. I decided that bad as we wanted a place to stay, we couldn’t think of staying with “his folks.” We passed a party of campers and I wanted to get out and stop there, but he whipped up his horses and said he had lived a tough life, but he could never consent to seeing a lady remain in camp over night with a party of “wagon tramps.” And as the ripple of childish laughter and of female voices reached our ears, the glare of the camp-fire was lost to our view by a turn In the road. I made up my mind that we must get away somehow, even if we had to kill the man and drop his body down some ravine, so I began talking a little on my own account. I painted In heartrending pictures the hardships the three-mile walk would enforce on my wife in the morning from “his folks’ " house; how we were in a hurry and that it would be better for us to go on that night, rather than to remain over; that the five miles he was bringing us would be a big helpthat we appreciated; but to all my arguments he had an objection. Then he started off to tell of his life In his drunken way, eventually reaching the fact that he had been born in Indiana and had lived there until he was six years old, when his parents moved to Kentucky and began the manufacture of whisky, which beverage he had been indulging in ever since. I ventured to tell him I was from Indiana and no doubt knew many of his old-time friends. Did I? To be sure! Our friend, the enemy, named a dozen people, showing a remarkable memory for one who had moved away at the age of six years. But I knew them all, even if I had never heard of them before that minute, and I told him what had become of many others of his baby chums. He was delighted and talked away like a buzz-saw, until he finally brought his horses to a stop and said: "Stranger, here’s where we turn off the main road. Any man and his lady from Indiana who knows folks as I knows, can do just as they please while I am around. You can get out here and go on, or you can stay with our folks. You kin do just as you please.’’ Two people got down from his wagon without the aid of a fire escape, and bidding him a hasty good-night, faded away in the darkness.
NOT ALL FUN IN TOURING.
We had yet nine miles between us and a town; the road was fairly discemable in the darkness, but we did not dare ride, for wre might at any moment run into a stone or dash into one of the many little streams, so we walked along—my wife yet too scared to talk, and I straining every nerve to hear one of those mountain lions I had just that morning read about as infesting these roads, creeping about in the underbrush. None came, however, and we are short one nice large rug! After several miles of this suffering, we came to the banks of the Santa Ynez river, which we knew was only four miles from the town. To the lrtft we saw' a camp-fire and I wanted to go over, but Marguerite said: “No; they might be tramps,” and she began making preparations to ford the river. I started over flret, telling her to await my return. The stream must have been all of a quarter of a mile wide, and knee-deep. I hurried back for my wife, but in going over I had kept to the right, in going back I did the same thing, thus making a "V” and coming out far below where I started in. I called, but no answer, so started up the stream. I called again; still no answer, but hearing a gentle splash, splash. I started in the direction of the sound, and found Marguerite struggling with her bicycle and numerous refactory skirts that kept falling down in the water here and there. She was afraid the “tramps” would hear us, and had refused to answer my call. OnceI am personally acquainted with the officers of the Larkin Co., and know that their offers are genuine. The Larkin Soaps have been used in my family for years. The Soaps and premiums are of the best quality. TOM WINDER
The Whole Family supplied with Laundry and Toilet Soaps for a year at Half Price. Sent Subject to Approval and Payment after Thirty Days’ Trial.
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more ready to go on, we could not find the road In the halt-mlle of sand before us, as It was all cut up by wagon wheels. Going up to the edge of the woods we felt along in the sand with our hands until the main road was discovered. On and on we walked until It seemed several times four miles had passed; still no town. Had we taken the wrong road? After a while we could hear the barking of dogs, and arguing that where there were dogs there must be people, we crept along. The night was so black that we could lean our bicycles up against the darkness and they wouldn’t fall down. We were now in an open, hilly land; the only way we could keep In the roadway was by running the bicycles in the rut made by wheels of the wagons. At last, brave little woman, a light. The town was there, somwhere near. Following In the direction of the light we found It coming from the window of the “hotel.” Entering and finding no one, but seeing a light at the head of the stairs, we went up and began kicking on the floor, which was soon answered by a voice demanding to know what we wanted. I told it, and the voice answered by saying we "we could take any room we found empty," which we lost no tima In doing—as it was then a quarter after midnight. Thus the days came and went, each one having Its hardships, pleasure and experiences. Touring in a semi-wild and unsettled country Is far different than riding about the east, with Youses at every turn, and villages at every ^ross road.