The Call Of A Quail Came Clear And Sweet From A Distant Wheat Field And, Like A Glorious Soloist, Ohio's Finest Songster, The Woodthrush, Was Casting Her "Liquid Pearls" On The Air.

We were loathe to leave a song carnival so fine, but Kinkaid Spring and Rockyfork Caves were some distance away and the recent rains made the dirt read very slippery and traveling uncertain.

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

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

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

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

INDIAN SUMMER

"Now all the woodlands round, and these fair vales, And broad plains that from their borders stretch Away to the blue Unica, and run Along the Ozark range, and far beyond Find the still groves that shut Itasca in, But more than all, these old Miami Woods, Are robed in golden exhalations, dim As half-remembered dreams, and beautiful As aught or Valambrosa, or the plains Of Arcady, by fabling poets sung. The night is fill'd with murmurs and the day Distills a subtle atmosphere that lulls The senses to a half repose, and hangs A rosy twilight over nature, like The night of Norway summers, when the sun Skims the horizon through the tedious months."

- From Poets of Ohio.

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

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

Here we found growing great masses of purple spiked loose- strife. The deep purple flowers that closely cluster on the long spikes give a rich glow to the lowlands. This flower we found growing in abundance in New Hampshire, New York, New Jersey, and Massachusetts. It is an importation from England. It is remarkable as an example of trimorphism, the two sets of stamens and pistil being of different lengths in the same flower. Every pistil, in order to affect fertilization, must receive the pollen from the same length in another flower.

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