Thanks, Dear Old Man, For The Lesson You Have Taught.

May you live many more years, if only to warn the sojourner upon the thorny road of life to set his face toward the distant city, that is only reached by the main highway of noble aims and self denial.

May the rippling music of the Little Miami be to you a friendly voice of comfort; may the golden notes of the thrush and the fragrant perfume of the flowers console you, until you hear the chanting of the angelic choir and breathe the perfume from flowers that never fade and die!

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

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

Leaving the land to its peerless vocalist and quiet repose we made our way toward Highland county. The road wound among green pasture slopes, from the summits of which a wide sweep of rolling country was visible. On reaching these heights, almost invariably new and surprising vistas opened before us. The hill roads dropped down to peaceful valleys over which we looked for many miles.

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