life of a Western farmer to the restraints of a position at an Eastern desk.  They are more conversant with cycling affairs than myself, and, having heard of my tour, have been on the lookout, expecting I would pass this way.  At Kearney Junction the roads are excellent, and everything is satisfactory; but an hour’s ride east of that city I am shocked at the gross misconduct of a vigorous and vociferous young mule who is confined alone in a pasture, presumably to be weaned.  He evidently mistakes the picturesque combination of man and machine for his mother, as, on seeing us approach, he assumes a thirsty, anxious expression, raises his unmusical, undignified voice, and endeavors to jump the fence.  He follows along the whole length of the pasture, and when he gets to the end, and realizes that I am drawing away from him, perhaps forever, he bawls out in an agony of grief and anxiety, and, recklessly bursting through the fence, comes tearing down the road, filling the air with the unmelodious notes of his soul-harrowing music.  The road is excellent for a piece, and I lead him a lively chase, but he finally overtakes me, and, when I slow up, he jogs along behind quite contentedly.  East of Kearney the sod-houses disappear entirely, and the improvements are of a more substantial character.  At “Wood River I “make my bow” to the first growth of natural timber since leaving the mountains, which indicates my gradual advance off the vast timberless plains.  Passing through Grand Island, Central City, and other towns, I find myself anchored Saturday evening, June 14th, at Duncan — a settlement of Polackers — an honest-hearted set of folks, who seem to thoroughly understand a cycler’s digestive capacity, though understanding nothing whatever about the uses of the machine.  Resuming my journey next morning, I find the roads fair.  After crossing the Loup River, and passing through Columbus, I reach-about 11 A.M.- a country school-house, with a gathering of farmers hanging around outside, awaiting the arrival of the parson to open the meeting.  Alighting, I am engaged in answering forty questions or thereabouts to the minute when that pious individual canters up, and, dismounting from his nag, comes forward and joins in the conversation.  He invites me to stop over and hear the sermon; and when I beg to be excused because desirous of pushing ahead while the weather is favorable His Reverence solemnly warns me against desecrating the Sabbath by going farther than the prescribed “Sabbath-day’s journey.”

At Premont I bid farewell to the Platte — which turns south and joins the Missouri River at Plattsmouth — and follow the old military road through the Elkhorn Valley to Omaha.  “Military road” sounds like music in a cycler’s ear — suggestive of a well-kept and well-graded highway; but this particular military road between Fremont and Omaha fails to awaken any blithesome sensations to-day, for it is almost one continuous mud-hole.  It is called a military road simply from being the