Kenneth surprised himself this morning by greeting several of his neighbors with unusual cordiality.  He even stopped a man who was driving along the highway to inquire about his horse, which he perceived was very lame.  The boy knew something about horses and suggested a method of treatment that he thought would help the nag; a suggestion the farmer received with real gratitude.

This simple incident cheered Kenneth more than you might suppose, and he was actually whistling as he rode through the glen, where the country road wound its way beside the noisy, rushing stream.

Pausing in front of the picturesque “table rock” that he had come to inspect, the boy uttered an exclamation of chagrin and disappointment.  Painted broadly upon the face of the rock, in great white letters, was the advertisement of a patent medicine.  The beauty of the scene was ruined—­only the glaring advertisement caught and held the eye of the observer.

At first Kenneth’s mind held only a feeling of disgust that such a desecration of Nature’s gifts to humanity should be allowed.  Then he remembered another place further along the glen which was almost as pretty as this had been before the defiling brush of the advertiser had ruined it.  So he spurred his horse and rode up the winding way to the spot.  There a red-lettered announcement of “Simpson’s Soap” stared him in the face.

This was too much for his temper, and his disappointment quickly turned to resentment.  While he sat on his mare, considering the matter, the man with the lame horse, whom he had passed, overtook him.

“Can you tell me,” Kenneth asked, “who owns this property?”

“Why, I do,” replied the man, reining up.

“And you permitted these vile signs to be painted on the rocks?” demanded the boy angrily.

“O’ course,” replied the man, with a grin of amusement.  “I can’t farm the rocks, can I?  An’ these ’ere signs pays me ten dollars a year, each.”

Kenneth groaned.

“I’ll give you fifteen dollars a year each if you’ll let me wash off the letters and restore the scene to its original beauty,” he declared.

“I’m willin’,” was the response.  “But ye see they’re contracted.  I’d git into trouble with the sign-painter.”

“Who is he?”

“Lives in Cleveland.  I’ve got his name up t’ th’ house, if you’ll come along.  He comes up here every spring and paints fences an’ rocks, payin’ spot cash fer th’ privilege.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Then he contracts with the soap man an’ the medicine man to paint up their ads.  You’re the young ’un from Elmhurst, ain’t ye?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’d like to earn that extra five, well enough.  My name’s Parsons.  I’ve got three signs let on my property in the glen.  Ef ye’ll jest ride up t’ the house I’ll giv’ ye the feller’s name.”

“All right.  Come along,” said Kenneth, with sudden resolve.