yell?” Most people are magnanimously inclined to regard this rumor as simply a “gag” on the Buckeye boys; but it isn’t.  The Ohioans are to the manner born; the “Buckeye yell” is a tangible fact.  All along the Maumee it resounds in my ears; nearly every man or boy, who from the fields, far or near, sees me bowling along the road, straightway delivers himself of a yell, pure and simple.  At Perrysburg, I strike the famous “Maumee pike"-forty miles of stone road, almost a dead level.  The western half is kept in rather poor repair these days; but from Fremont eastward it is splendid wheeling.  The atmosphere of Bellevue is blue with politics, and myself and another innocent, unsuspecting individual, hailing from New York, are enticed into a political meeting by a wily politician, and dexterously made to pose before the assembled company as two gentlemen who have come — one from the Atlantic, the other from the Pacific — to witness the overwhelming success of the only honest, horny-handed, double-breasted patriots — the... party.  The roads are found rather sandy east of the pike, and the roadful of wagons going to the circus, which exhibits to-day at Norwalk, causes considerable annoyance.

Erie County, through which I am now passing, is one of the finest fruit countries in the world, and many of the farmers keep open orchard.  Staying at Eidgeville overnight, I roll into Cleveland, and into the out-stretched arms of a policeman, at 10 o’clock, next morning.  “He was violating the city ordinance by riding on the sidewalk,” the arresting policeman informs the captain.  “Ah! he was, hey!” thunders the captain, in a hoarse, bass voice that causes my knees to knock together with fear and trembling; and the captain’s eye seems to look clear through my trembling form.  “P-l-e-a-s-e, s-i-r, I d-i-d-n’t t-r-y t-o d-o i-t,” I falter, in a weak, gasping voice that brings tears to the eyes of the assembled officers and melts the captain’s heart, so that he is already wavering between justice and mercy when a local wheelman comes gallantly to the rescue, and explains my natural ignorance of Cleveland’s city laws, and I breathe the joyous air of freedom once again.  Three members of the Cleveland Bicycle Club and a visiting wheelman accompany me ten miles out, riding down far-famed Euclid Avenue, and calling at Lake View Cemetery to pay a visit to Garfleld’s tomb.  I bid them farewell at Euclid village.  Following the ridge road leading along the shore of Lake Erie to Buffalo, I ride through a most beautiful farming country, passing through “Willoughby and Mentor-Garfield’s old home.  Splendidly kept roads pass between avenues of stately maples, that cast a grateful shade athwart the highway, both sides of which are lined with magnificent farms, whose fields and meadows fairly groan beneath their wealth of produce, whose fructiferous orchards arc marvels of productiveness, and whose barns and stables would be veritable palaces to the sod-housed homesteaders