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Around the World on a Bicycle V1

T >> Thomas Stevens >> Around the World on a Bicycle V1




As I lean on my bicycle on this mountain-top, drinking in the glorious
scene, and inhaling the ozone-laden air, looking through the loop-holes
of recent experiences in crossing the great wonderland to the west; its
strange intermingling of forest-clad hills and grassy valleys; its barren,
rocky mountains and dreary, desolate plains; its vast, snowy solitudes
and its sunny, sylvan nooks; the no less strange intermingling of people;
the wandering red-skin with his pathetic history; the feverishly hopeful
prospector, toiling and searching for precious metals locked in the
eternal hills; and the wild and free cow-boy who, mounted on his wiry
bronco, roams these plains and mountains, free as the Arab of the desert -
I heave a sigh as I realize that no tongue or pen of mine can hope to do
the subject justice.

My road is now over Cheyenne Pass, and from this point is mostly down-grade
to Cheyenne. Soon I come to a naturally smooth granite surface which
extends for twelve miles, where I have to keep the brake set most of the
distance, and the constant friction heats the brake-spoon and scorches
the rubber tire black. To-night I reach Cheyenne, where I find a bicycle
club of twenty members, and where the fame of my journey from San Francisco
draws such a crowd on the corner where I alight, that a blue-coated
guardian of the city's sidewalks requests me to saunter on over to the
hotel. Do I. Yes, I saunter over. The Cheyenne "cops" are bold, bad men
to trifle with. They have to be "bold, bad men to trifle with," or the
wild, wicked cow-boys would come in and "paint the city red " altogether
too frequently. It is the morning of June 4th as I bid farewell to the
"Magic City," and, turning my back to the mountains, ride away over very
fair roads toward the rising sun. I am not long out before meeting with
that characteristic feature of a scene on the Western plains, a "prairie
schooner;" and meeting prairie schooners will now be a daily incident
of my eastward journey. Many of these "pilgrims" come from the backwoods
of Missouri and Arkansas, or the rural districts of some other Western
State, where the persevering, but at present circumscribed, cycler has
not yet had time to penetrate, and the bicycle is therefore to them a
wonder to be gazed at and commented on, generally - it must be admitted -
in language more fluent as to words than in knowledge of the subject
discussed. Not far from where the trail leads out of Crow Creek bottom
on to the higher table-land, I find the grassy plain smoother than the
wagon-trail, and bowl along for a short distance as easily as one could
wish. But not for long is this permitted; the ground becomes covered
with a carpeting of small, loose cacti that stick to the rubber tire
with the clinging tenacity of a cuckle-burr to a mule's tail. Of course
they scrape off again as they come round to the bridge of the fork, but
it isn't the tire picking them up that fills me with lynx-eyed vigilance
and alarm; it is the dreaded possibility of taking a header among these
awful vegetables that unnerves one, starts the cold chills chasing each
other up and down my spinal column, and causes staring big beads of
perspiration to ooze out of my forehead. No more appalling physical
calamity on a small scale could befall a person than to take a header
on to a cactus-covered greensward; millions of miniature needles would
fill his tender hide with prickly sensations, and his vision with floating
stars. It would perchance cast clouds of gloom over his whole life.
Henceforth he would be a solemn-visaged, bilious-eyed needle-cushion
among men, and would never smile again. I once knew a young man named
Whipple, who sat down on a bunch of these cacti at a picnic in Virginia
Dale, Wyo., and he never smiled again. Two meek-eyed maidens of the
Rockies invited him to come and take a seat between them on a thin,
innocuous-looking layer of hay. Smilingly poor, unsuspecting Whipple
accepted the invitation; jokingly he suggested that it would be a rose
between two thorns. But immediately he sat down he became convinced that
it was the liveliest thorn - or rather millions of thorns - between two
roses. Of course the two meek-eyed maidens didn't know it was there, how
should they. But, all the same, he never smiled again - not on them.

At the section-house, where I call for dinner, I make the mistake of
leaving the bicycle behind the house, and the woman takes me for an
uncommercial traveller - yes, a tramp. She snaps out, "We can't feed
everybody that comes along," and shuts the door in my face. Yesterday I
was the centre of admiring crowds in the richest city of its size in
America; to-day I am mistaken for a hungry-eyed tramp, and spurned from
the door by a woman with a faded calico dress and a wrathy what - are?
look in her eye. Such is life in the Far West.

Gradually the Rockies have receded from my range of vision, and I am
alone on the boundless prairie. There is a feeling of utter isolation
at finding one's self alone on the plains that is not experienced in the
mountain country. There is something tangible and companionable about a
mountain; but here, where there is no object in view anywhere - nothing
but the boundless, level plains, stretching away on every hand as far
as the eye can reach, I and all around, whichever way one looks, nothing
but the green carpet below and the cerulean arch above-one feels that
he is the sole occupant of a vast region of otherwise unoccupied space.
This evening, while fording Pole Creek with the bicycle, my clothes, and
shoes - all at the same time - the latter fall in the river; and m my wild
scramble after the shoes I drop some of the clothes; then I drop the
machine in my effort to save the clothes, and wind up by falling down
in the water with everything. Everything is fished out again all right,
but a sad change has come over the clothes and shoes. This morning I was
mistaken for a homeless, friendless wanderer; this evening as I stand
on the bank of Pole Creek with nothing over me but a thin mantle of
native modesty, and ruefully wring the water out of my clothes, I feel
considerably like one. Pine Bluffs provides me with shelter for the
night, and a few miles' travel next morning takes me across the boundary-line
into Nebraska My route leads down Pole Creek, with ridable roads probably
half the distance, and low, rocky bluffs lining both sides of the narrow
valley, and leading up to high, rolling prairie beyond. Over these rocky
bluffs the Indians were wont to stampede herds of buffalo, which falling
over the precipitous bluffs, would be killed by hundreds, thus procuring
an abundance of beef for the long winter. There are no buffalo here now
- they have departed with the Indians - and I shall never have a chance to
add a bison to my game-list on this tour. But they have left plenty of
tangible evidence behind, in the shape of numerous deeply worn trails
leading from the bluffs to the creek.

The prairie hereabouts is spangled with a wealth of divers-colored flowers
that fill the morning air with gratifying perfume. The air is soft and
balmy, in striking contrast to the chilly atmosphere of early morning
in the mountain country, where the accumulated snows of a thousand winters
exert their chilling influence in opposition to the benign rays of old
Sol. This evening I pass through "Prairie-dog City," the largest
congregation of prairie-dog dwellings met with on the tour. The "city"
covers hundreds of acres of ground, and the dogs come out in such
multitudes to present their noisy and excitable protests against my
intrusion, that I consider myself quite justified in shooting at them.
I hit one old fellow fair and square, but he disappears like a flash
down his hole, which now becomes his grave. The lightning-like movements
of the prairie-dog, and his instinctive inclination toward his home,
combine to perform the last sad rites of burial for his body at death.
As, toward dark, I near Potter Station, where I expect accommodation for
the night, a storm comes howling from the west, and it soon resolves
into a race between me and the storm. With a good ridable road I could
win the race; but, being handicapped with an unridable trail, nearly
obscured beneath tall, rank grass, the storm overtakes me, and comes in
at Potter Station a winner by about three hundred lengths.

In the morning I start out in good season, and, nearing Sidney, the road
becomes better, and I sweep into that enterprising town at a becoming
pace. I conclude to remain at Sidney for dinner, and pass the remainder
of the forenoon visiting the neighboring fort.






CHAPTER IV.





FROM THE GREAT PLAINS TO THE ATLANTIC.

Through the courtesy of the commanding officer at Fort Sidney I am enabled
to resume my journey eastward under the grateful shade of a military
summer helmet in lieu of the semi-sombrero slouch that has lasted me
through from San Francisco. Certainly it is not without feelings of
compunction that one discards an old friend, that has gallantly stood
by me through thick and thin throughout the eventful journey across the
inter-mountain country; but the white helmet gives such a delightfully
imposing air to my otherwise forlorn and woebegone figure that I ride
out of Sidney feeling quite vain. The first thing done is to fill a poor
yellow-spotted snake - whose head is boring in the sand - with lively
surprise, by riding over his mottled carcass; and only the fact of the
tire being rubber, and not steel, enables him to escape unscathed. This
same evening, while halting for the night at Lodge Pole Station, the
opportunity of observing the awe-inspiring aspect of a great thunder-storm
on the plains presents itself. With absolutely nothing to obstruct the.
vision the Alpha and Omega of the whole spectacle are plainly observable.
The gradual mustering of the forces is near the Rockies to the westward,
then the skirmish-line of fleecy cloudlets comes rolling and tumbling
in advance, bringing a current of air that causes the ponderous wind-mill
at the railway tank to "about face" sharply, and sets its giant arms
to whirling vigorously around. Behind comes the compact, inky veil that
spreads itself over the whole blue canopy above, seemingly banishing all
hope of the future; and athwart its Cimmerian surface shoot zigzag streaks
of lightning, accompanied by heavy, muttering thunder that rolls and
reverberates over the boundless plains seemingly conscious of the
spaciousness of its play-ground. Broad sheets of electric flame play
along the ground, filling the air with a strange, unnatural light; heavy,
pattering raindrops begin to fall, and, ten minutes after, a pelting,
pitiless down-pour is drenching the sod-cabin of the lonely rancher,
and, for the time being, converting the level plain into a shallow lake.
A fleet of prairie schooners is anchored in the South Platte bottom,
waiting for it to dry up, as I trundle down that stream - every mile made
interesting by reminiscences of Indian fights and massacres - next day,
toward Ogallala; and one of the "Pilgrims" looks wise as I approach,
and propounds the query, "Does it hev ter git very muddy afore yer kin
ride yer verlocify, mister?" "Ya-as, purty dog-goned muddy," I drawl
out in reply; for, although comprehending his meaning, I don't care to
venture into an explanatory lecture of uncertain length. Seven weeks'
travel through bicycleless territory would undoubtedly convert an angel
into a hardened prevaricator, so far as answering questions is concerned.
This afternoon is passed the first homestead, as distinguished from a
ranch-consisting of a small tent pitched near a few acres of newly
upturned prairie - in the picket-line of the great agricultural empire
that is gradually creeping westward over the plains, crowding the
autocratic cattle-kings and their herds farther west,. even as the Indians
and their still greater herds - buffaloes - have been crowded out by the
latter. At Ogallala--which but a few years ago was par excellence the
cow-boys' rallying point - "homesteads," "timber claims," and "pre-emption"
now form the all-absorbing topic. "The Platte's 'petered' since the
hoosiers have begun to settle it up," deprecatingly reflects a bronzed
cow-boy at the hotel supper-table; and, from his standpoint, he is
correct. Passing the next night in the dug-out of a homesteader, in the
forks of the North and South Platte, I pass in the morning Buffalo Bill's
home ranch (the place where a ranch proprietor himself resides is
denominated the "home ranch" as distinctive from a ranch presided over
by employes only), the house and improvements of which are said to be
the finest in Western Nebraska. Taking dinner at North Platte City, I
cross over a substantial wagon-bridge, spanning the turgid yellow stream
just below where the north and south branches fork, and proceed eastward
as " the Platte " simply, reaching Brady Island for the night. Here I
encounter extraordinary difficulties in getting supper. Four families,
representing the Union Pacific force at this place, all living in separate
houses, constitute the population of Brady Island. "All our folks are
just recovering from the scarlet fever," is the reply to my first
application; "Muvver's down to ve darden on ve island, and we ain't dot
no bread baked," says a barefooted youth at house No. 2; "Me ould ooman's
across ter the naybur's, 'n' there ain't a boite av grub cooked in the
shanty," answers the proprietor of No. 3, seated on the threshold, puffing
vigorously at the traditional short clay; "We all to Nord Blatte been
to veesit, und shust back ter home got mit notings gooked," winds up the
gloomy programme at No. 4. I am hesitating about whether to crawl in
somewhere, supperless, for the night, or push on farther through the
darkness, when, "I don't care, pa! it's a shame for a stranger to come
here where there are four families and have to go without supper," greet
my ears in a musical, tremulous voice. It is the convalescent daughter
of house No. 1, valiantly championing my cause; and so well does she
succeed that her "pa" comes out, and notwithstanding my protests, insists
on setting out the best they have cooked. Homesteads now become more
frequent, groves of young cottonwoods, representing timber claims, are
occasionally encountered, and section-house accommodation becomes a thing
of the past.

Near Willow Island I come within a trifle of stepping on a belligerent
rattlesnake, and in a moment his deadly fangs are hooked to one of the
thick canvas gaiters I am wearing. Were my exquisitely outlined calves
encased in cycling stockings only, I should have had a "heap sick foot"
to amuse myself with for the next three weeks, though there is little
danger of being "snuffed out" entirely by a rattlesnake favor these
days; an all-potent remedy is to drink plenty of whiskey as quickly as
possible after being bitten, and whiskey is one of the easiest things
to obtain in the West. Giving his snakeship to understand that I don't
appreciate his ''good intentions " by vigorously shaking him off, I
turn my "barker "loose on him, and quickly convert him into a "goody-good
snake; " for if "the only good Indian is a dead one," surely the same
terse remark applies with much greater force to the vicious and deadly
rattler. As I progress eastward, sod-houses and dug-outs become less
frequent, and at long intervals frame school-houses appear to remind me
that I am passing through a civilized country. Stretches of sand alternate
with ridable roads all down the Platte. Often I have to ticklishly wobble
along a narrow space between two yawning ruts, over ground that is
anything but smooth. I consider it a lucky day that passes without adding
one or more to my long and eventful list of headers, and to-day I am
fairly "unhorsed" by a squall of wind that-taking me unawares-blows
me and the bicycle fairly over.

East of Plum Creek a greater proportion of ridable road is encountered,
but they still continue to be nothing more than well-worn wagon-trails
across the prairie, and when teams are met en route westward one has to
give and the other take, in order to pass. It is doubtless owing to
misunderstanding a cycler's capacities, rather than ill-nature, that
makes these Western teamsters oblivious to the precept, "It is better
to give than to receive;" and if ignorance is bliss, an outfit I meet
to-day ought to comprise the happiest mortals in existence. Near Elm
Creek I meet a train of "schooners," whose drivers fail to recognize
my right to one of the two wheel-tracks; and in my endeavor to ride past
them on the uneven greensward, I am rewarded by an inglorious header. A
dozen freckled Arkansawish faces are watching my movements with undisguised
astonishment; and when my crest - alien self is spread out on the prairie,
these faces - one and all - resolve into expansive grins, and a squeaking
female voice from out nearest wagon, pipes: "La me! that's a right smart
chance of a travelling machine, but, if that's the way they stop 'em, I
wonder they don't break every blessed bone in their body." But all sorts
of people are mingled promiscuously here, for, soon after this incident,
two young men come running across the prairie from a semi-dug-out, who
prove to be college graduates from "the Hub," who are rooting prairie
here in Nebraska, preferring the free, independent 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 route formerly traversed
by troops and supply trains bound for the Western forts. Besting a day
in Omaha, I obtain a permit to trundle my wheel across the Union Pacific
Bridge that spans the Missouri River - the "Big Muddy," toward which I
have been travelling so long - between Omaha and Council Bluffs; I bid
farewell to Nebraska, and cross over to Iowa. Heretofore I have omitted
mentioning the tremendously hot weather I have encountered lately, because
of my inability to produce legally tangible evidence; but to-day, while
eating dinner at a farm-house, I leave the bicycle standing against the
fence, and old Sol ruthlessly unsticks the tire, so that, when I mount,
it comes off, and gives me a gymnastic lesson all unnecessary. My first
day's experience in the great "Hawkeye State" speaks volumes for the
hospitality of the people, there being quite a rivalry between two
neighboring farmers about which should take me in to dinner. A compromise
is finally made, by which I am to eat dinner at one place, and be "turned
loose" in a cherry orchard afterward at the other, to which happy
arrangement I, of course, enter no objections. In striking contrast to
these friendly advances is my own unpardonable conduct the same evening
in conversation with an honest old farmer.

"I see you are taking notes. I suppose you keep track of the crops as
you travel along?" says the H. O. F. "Certainly, I take more notice of
the crops than anything; I'm a natural born agriculturist myself." "Well,"
continues the farmer, "right here where we stand is Carson Township."
"Ah! indeed. Is it possible that I have at last arrived at Carson Township."
"You have heard of the township before, then, eh." "Heard of it!
why, man alive, Carson Township is all the talk out in the Rockies; in
fact, it is known all over the world as the finest Township for corn in
Iowa." This sort of conduct is, I admit, unwarrantable in the extreme;
but cycling is responsible for it all. If continuous cycling is productive
of a superfluity of exhilaration, and said exhilaration bubbles over
occasionally, plainly the bicycle is to blame. So forcibly does this
latter fact intrude upon me as I shake hands with the farmer, and
congratulate him on his rare good fortune in belonging to Carson Township
that I mount, and with a view of taking a little of the shine out of it,
ride down the long, steep hill leading to the bridge across the Nishnebotene
River at a tremendous pace. The machine "kicks" against this treatment,
however, and, when about half wray down, it strikes a hole and sends me
spinning and gyrating through space; and when I finally strike terra
firma, it thumps me unmercifully in the ribs ere it lets me up. "Variable"
is the word descriptive of the Iowa roads; for seventy-five miles due
east of Omaha the prairie rolls like a heavy Atlantic swell, and during
a day's journey I pass through a dozen alternate stretches of muddy and
dusky road; for like a huge watering-pot do the rain-clouds pass to and
fro over this great garden of the West, that is practically one continuous
fertile farm from the Missouri to the Mississippi. Passing through Des
Moines on the 23d, muddy roads and hot, thunder-showery weather characterize
my journey through Central Iowa, aggravated by the inevitable question,
"Why don't you ride?" one Solomon-visaged individual asking me if the
railway company wouldn't permit me to ride along one of the rails. No
base, unworthy suspicions of a cycler's inability to ride on a two-inch
rail finds lodgement in the mind of this wiseacre; but his compassionate
heart is moved with tender solicitude as to whether the soulless "company"
will, or will not, permit it. Hurrying timorously through Grinnell - the
city that was badly demolished and scattered all over the surrounding
country by a cyclone in 1882 - I pause at Victor, where I find the inhabitants
highly elated over the prospect of building a new jail with the fines
nightly inflicted on graders employed on a new railroad near by, who
come to town and "hilare" every evening. " What kind of a place do you
call this." I inquire, on arriving at a queer-looking town twenty-five
miles west of Iowa City.

"This is South Amana, one of the towns of the Amana Society," is the
civil reply. The Amana Society is found upon inquiry to be a communism
of Germans, numbering 15,000 souls, and owning 50,000 acres of choice
land in a body, with woollen factories, four small towns, and the best
of credit everywhere. Everything is common property, and upon withdrawal
or expulsion, a member takes with him only the value of what he brought
in. The domestic relations are as usual; and while no person of ambition
would be content with the conditions of life here, the slow, ease-loving,
methodical people composing the society seem well satisfied with their
lot, and are, perhaps, happier, on the whole, than the average outsider.
I remain here for dinner, and take a look around. The people, the
buildings, the language, the food, everything, is precisely as if it had
been picked up bodily in some rural district in Germany, and set down
unaltered here in Iowa. "Wie gehts," I venture, as I wheel past a couple
of plump, rosy-cheeked maidens, in the quaint, old-fashioned garb of the
German peasantry. "Wie gehts," is the demure reply from them, both at
once; but not the shadow of a dimple responds to my unhappy attempt to
win from them a smile. Pretty but not coquettish are these communistic
maidens of Amana. At Tiffin, the stilly air of night, is made joyous with
the mellifluous voices of whip-poor-wills-the first I have heard on the
tour-and their tuneful concert is impressed on my memory in happy contrast
to certain other concerts, both vocal and instrumental, endured en route.
Passing through Iowa City, crossing Cedar River at Moscow, nine days
after crossing the Missouri, I hear the distant whistle of a Mississippi
steamboat. Its hoarse voice is sweetest music to me, heralding 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. Ghigago mit
dot. Why, mine dear Yellow, Ghi-gago's more as vorty miles; you gan't
ride mit dot to Ghigago;" and the old fellow's eyes fairly bulge with
astonishment at the bare idea of riding forty miles "mit dot." I
considerately refrain from telling him of my already 2,500-mile jaunt
"mit dot," lest an apoplectic fit should waft his Teutonic soul to realms
of sauer-kraut bliss and Limburger happiness forever. On the morning of
July 4th I roll into Chicago, where, having persuaded myself that I
deserve a few days' rest, I remain till the Democratic Convention winds
up on the 13th.

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