on Nebraska’s frontier prairies.  Prominent among them stands the old Garfield homestead — a fine farm of one hundred and sixty-five acres, at present managed by Mrs. Garfield’s brother.  Smiling villages nestling amid stately groves, rearing white church-spires from out their green, bowery surroundings, dot the low, broad, fertile shore-land to the left; the gleaming waters of Lake Erie here and there glisten like burnished steel through the distant interspaces, and away beyond stretches northward, like a vast mirror, to kiss the blue Canadian skies.  Near Conneaut I whirl the dust of the Buckeye State from my tire and cress over into Pennsylvania, where, from the little hamlet of Springfield, the roads become good, then better, and finally best at Girard-the home of the veteran showman, Dan Rice, the beautifying works of whose generous hand are everywhere visible in his native town.  Splendid is the road and delightful the country coming east from Girard; even the red brick school-houses are embowered amid leafy groves; and so it continues with ever-varying, ever-pleasing beauty to Erie, after which the highway becomes hardly so good.

Twenty-four hours after entering Pennsylvania I make my exit across the boundary into the Empire State.  The roads continue good, and after dinner I reach Westfield, six miles from the famous Lake Chautauqua, which beautiful hill and forest embowered sheet of water is popularly believed by many of its numerous local admirers to be the highest navigable lake in the world.  If so, however, Lake Tahoe in the Sierra Nevada Mountains comes next, as it is about six thousand feet above the level of the sea, and has three steamers plying on its waters.  At Fredonia I am shown through the celebrated watch-movement factory here, by the captain of the Fredonia Club, who accompanies me to Silver Creek, where we call on another enthusiastic wheelman-a physician who uses the wheel in preference to a horse, in making professional calls throughout the surround-in’ country.  Taking supper with the genial “Doc.,” they both accompany me to the s.ummit of a steep hill leading up out of the creek bottom.  No wheelman has ever yet rode up this hill, save the muscular and gritty captain of the Fredonia Club, though several have attempted the feat.  From the top my road ahead is plainly visible for miles, leading through the broad and smiling Cattaraugus Valley that is spread out like a vast garden below, through which Cattaraugus Creek slowly winds its tortuous way.  Stopping over night at Angola I proceed to Buffalo next morning, catching the first glimpse of that important " seaport of the lakes,” where, fifteen miles across the bay, the wagon-road is almost licked by the swashing waves; and entering the city over a " misfit” plank-road, off which I am almost upset by the most audaciously indifferent woman in the world.  A market woman homeward bound with her empty truck-wagon, recognizes my road-rights to the extent of barely room to squeeze