extremity. It was evidently built in connection with the obliterated works on the third terrace.

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

ON THE ROAD TO BAINBRIDGE

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

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

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

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

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

     Ever charming, ever new,
     When will the landscape tire the view?

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

How the birds rejoiced after the shower! Two cardinals woke the echoes with their wild, ringing calls. Indigo buntings, using the telephone wires as a point from which to start messages, sent them