Splendid gravel roads lead from Crum’s Point to South Bend, and on through Mishawaka, alternating with sandy stretches to Goshen, which town is said — by the Goshenites — to be the prettiest in Indiana; but there seems to be considerable pride of locality in the great Hoosier State, and I venture there are scores of “prettiest towns in Indiana.”  Nevertheless, Goshen is certainly a very handsome place, with unusually broad, well-shaded streets; the centre of a magnificent farming country, it is romantically situated on the banks of the beautiful Elkhart Eiver.  At “Wawaka I find a corpulent 300-pound cycler, who, being afraid to trust his jumbolean proportions on an ordinary machine, has had an extra stout bone-shaker made to order, and goes out on short runs with a couple of neighbor wheelmen, who, being about fifty per cent, less bulky, ride regulation wheels.  “Jumbo” goes all right when mounted, but, being unable to mount without aid, he seldom ventures abroad by himself for fear of having to foot it back.  Ninety-five degrees in the shade characterizes the weather these days, and I generally make a few miles in the gloaming — not, of course, because it is cooler, but because the “gloaming” is so delightfully romantic.

At ten o’clock in the morning, July 17th, I bowl across the boundary line into Ohio.  Following the Merchants’ and Bankers’ Telegraph road to Napoleon, I pass through a district where the rain has overlooked them for two months; the rear wheel of the bicycle is half buried in hot dust; the blackberries are dead on the bushes, and the long-suffering corn looks as though afflicted with the yellow jaundice.  I sup this same evening with a family of Germans, who have been settled here forty years, and scarcely know a word of English yet.  A fat, phlegmatic-looking baby is peacefully reposing in a cradle, which is simply half a monster pumpkin scooped out and dried; it is the most intensely rustic cradle in the world.  Surely, this youngster’s head ought to be level on agricultural affairs, when he grows up, if anybody’s ought.  From Napoleon my route leads up the Maumee River and canal, first trying the tow-path of the latter, and then relinquishing it for the very fair wagon-road.  The Maumee River, winding through its splendid rich valley, seems to possess a peculiar beauty all its own, and my mind, unbidden, mentally compares it with our old friend, the Humboldt.  The latter stream traverses dreary plains, where almost nothing but sagebrush grows; the Maumee waters a smiling valley, where orchards, fields, and meadows alternate with sugar-maple groves, and in its fair bosom reflects beautiful landscape views, that are changed and rebeautified by the master-hand of the sun every hour of the day, and doubly embellished at night by the moon.  It is whispered that during " the late unpleasantness " the Ohio regiments could out-yell the Louisiana tigers, or any other Confederate troops, two to one.  Who has not heard the “Ohio