the fact that two-thirds of my long tour across the continent is completed.  Crossing the “Father of Waters” over the splendid government bridge between Davenport and Rock Island, I pass over into Illinois.  For several miles my route leads up the Mississippi River bottom, over sandy roads; but nearing Rock River, the sand disappears, and, for some distance, an excellent road winds through the oak-groves lining this beautiful stream.  The green woods are free from underbrush, and a cool undercurrent of air plays amid the leafy shades, which, if not ambrosial, are none the less grateful, as it registers over 100° in the sun; without, the silvery sheen of the river glimmers through the interspaces; the dulcet notes of church-bells come floating on the breeze from over the river, seeming to proclaim, with their melodious tongues, peace and good-will to all.  Eock River, with its 300 yards in width of unbridged waters, now obstructs my path, and the ferryboat is tied up on the other shore.  “Whoop-ee,” I yell at the ferryman’s hut opposite, but without receiving any response.  “Wh-o-o-p-e-ee,” I repeat in a gentle, civilized voice-learned, by the by, two years ago on the Crow reservation in Montana, and which sets the surrounding atmosphere in a whirl and drowns out the music of the church-bells it has no effect whatever on the case-hardened ferryman in the hut; he pays no heed whatever until my persuasive voice is augmented by the voices of two new arrivals in a buggy, when he sallies serenely forth and slowly ferries us across.  Riding along rather indifferent roads, between farms worth $100 an acre, through the handsome town of Genesee, stopping over night at Atkinson, I resume my journey next morning through a country abounding in all that goes to make people prosperous, if not happy.  Pretty names are given to places hereabouts, for on my left I pass “Pink Prairie, bordered with Green River.”  Crossing over into Bureau County, I find splendid gravelled roads, and spend a most agreeable hour with the jolly Bicycle Club, of Princeton, the handsome county seat of Bureau County, Pushing on to Lamoille for the night, the enterprising village barber there hustles me into his cosey shop, and shaves, shampoos, shingles, bay-rums, and otherwise manipulates me, to the great enhancement of my personal appearance, all, so he says, for the honor of having lathered the chin of the “great and only—­” In fact, the Illinoisians seem to be most excellent folks.  After three days’ journey through the great Prairie State my head is fairly turned with kindness and flattery; but the third night, as if to rebuke my vanity, I am bluntly refused shelter at three different farm-houses.  I am benighted, and conclude to make the best of it by “turning in” under a hay-cock; but the Fox River mosquitoes oust me in short order, and compel me to “mosey along” through the gloomy night to Yorkville.  At Yorkville a stout German, on being informed that I am going to ride to Chicago, replies, “What.