Whenever The Machine Skidded
Dangerously Near A Steep Ravine, He Was Seen To Cling In Alarm
To The Seat.
He was informed, however, that this was not even A
B C of what the rest of the party were used to, and his fears
somewhat subsided.
This way and that ran wavering lines of low rail fences - some
recently builded, others rotting beneath and thickly covered
with wild roses, blackberry vines and numerous shrubs, forming
an almost impenetrable hedge. Now and then distant hills rose,
clothed with dark green woods. On nearer hilltops the wheat
shimmered in the light, and all around grew green forests which
gave them the appearance of a lake of gold in a setting of
emerald. The blue green of the oats with the brighter green of
meadows, blending imperceptibly together, made a rare picture
enhanced by the blue haze of distance.
Kinkaid Spring is well worthy of a visit, for here is a spring
whose water would be sufficient to run a grist mill. It is
situated in charming woods, where grow fine old walnut, maple
and tulip trees. A gentleman told us that the man on whose farm
the spring is located dammed up its water, only to find that he
had lost his spring. He tore away the dam and recovered it.
So many fine old trees were passed that someone remarked of the
wondrous beauty these woods present at autumn-time. He did not
repeat the words of the poem we shall quote, but he meant it
all.
INDIAN SUMMER
"Now all the woodlands round, and these fair vales,
And broad plains that from their borders stretch
Away to the blue Unica, and run
Along the Ozark range, and far beyond
Find the still groves that shut Itasca in,
But more than all, these old Miami Woods,
Are robed in golden exhalations, dim
As half-remembered dreams, and beautiful
As aught or Valambrosa, or the plains
Of Arcady, by fabling poets sung.
The night is fill'd with murmurs and the day
Distills a subtle atmosphere that lulls
The senses to a half repose, and hangs
A rosy twilight over nature, like
The night of Norway summers, when the sun
Skims the horizon through the tedious months."
- From Poets of Ohio.
It is not strange that you do not find yourself recalling fair
mornings spent among the far-famed Alps. True, you do not feel
that awe-inspiring sublimity that their snow-clad peaks produce,
but as you joyfully gaze out over the quiet beauty of these fair
Ohio hills and vales clothed in magnificent stretches of golden
harvest field and green forest, through which lead winding roads
and sinuous streams, you ask yourself this perplexing question:
Where have I ever beheld a more lovely or more quiet landscape
than this? To be sure it is not thrilling, but sweet and
soothing, like the view you get at Intervale, above North Conway
in New Hampshire. This fair picture brought to our memory the
scenery among the hills and valleys of the Meuse, as seen from
Fort Regret.
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