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.
Fifteen miles of good riding and three of tough trundling, through deep
sand, brings me into Indiana, which for the first thirty-five miles
around the southern shore of Lake Michigan is "simply and solely sand."
Finding it next to impossible to traverse the wagon-roads, I trundle
around the water's edge, where the sand is firmer because wet. After
twenty miles of this I have to shoulder the bicycle and scale the huge
sand-dunes that border the lake here, and after wandering for an hour
through a bewildering wilderness of swamps, sand-hills, and hickory
thickets, I finally reach Miller Station for the night. This place is
enough to give one the yellow-edged blues: nothing but swamps, sand,
sad-eyed turtles, and ruthless, relentless mosquitoes. At Chesterton the
roads improve, but still enough sand remains to break the force of
headers, which, notwithstanding my long experience on the road, I still
manage to execute with undesirable frequency. To-day I take one, and
while unravelling myself and congratulating my lucky stars at being in
a lonely spot where none can witness my discomfiture, a gruff, sarcastic
"haw-haw" falls like a funeral knell on my ear, and a lanky "Hoosier"
rides up on a diminutive pumpkin-colored mule that looks a veritable
pygmy between his hoop-pole legs. It is but justice to explain that this
latter incident did not occur in "Posey County."
At La Porte the roads improve for some distance, but once again I am
benighted, and sleep under a wheat-shock. Traversing several miles of
corduroy road, through huckleberry swamps, next morning, I reach Cram's
Point for breakfast. A remnant of some Indian tribe still lingers around
here and gathers huckleberries for the market, two squaws being in the
village purchasing supplies for their camp in the swamps. "What's the
name of these Indians here?" I ask.. "One of em's Blinkie, and t'other's
Seven-up," is the reply, in a voice that implies such profound knowledge
of the subject that I forbear to investigate further.
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 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 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 past between her wagon and the ditch; and holds her long,
stiff buggy-whip so that it " swipes " me viciously across the face, knocks
my helmet off into the mud ditch, and well-nigh upsets mo into the same.
The woman-a crimson-crested blonde - jogs serenely along without even
deigning to turn her head. Leaving the bicycle at "Isham's "-who volunteers
some slight repairs-I take a flying visit by rail to see Niagara Falls, returning
the same evening to enjoy the proffered hospitality of a genial member of
the Buffalo Bicycle Club. Seated on the piazza of his residence, on
Delaware Avenue, this evening, the symphonious voice of the club-whistle
is cast adrift whenever the glowing orb of a cycle-lamp heaves in sight
through the darkness, and several members of the club are thus rounded
up and their hearts captured by the witchery of a smile-a " smile " in
Buffalo, I hasten to explain, is no kin whatever to a Rocky Mountain "smile"
- far be it from it. This club-wliistle of the Buffalo Bicycle Club happens
to sing the same melodious song as the police - whistle at Washington, D.
C.; and the Buffalo cyclers who graced the national league - meet at the
Capital with their presence took a folio of club music along. A small
but frolicsome party of them on top of the Washington monument, "heaved
a sigh " from their whistles, at a comrade passing along the street
below, when a corpulent policeman, naturally mistaking it for a signal
from a brother "cop," hastened to climb the five hundred feet or thereabouts
of ascent up the monument. When he arrived, puffing and perspiring, to
the summit, and discovered his mistake, the wheelmen say he made such
awful use of the Queen's English that the atmosphere had a blue, sulphurous
tinge about it for some time after. Leaving Buffalo next morning I pass
through Batavia, where the wheelmen have a most aesthetic little club-room.
Besides being jovial and whole-souled fellows, they are awfully sesthetic;
and the sweetest little Japanese curios and bric-d-brac decorate the
walls and tables. Stopping over night at LeBoy, in company with the
president and captain of the LeBoy Club, I visit the State fish-hatchery
at Mumford next morning, and ride on through the Genesee Valley, finding
fair roads through the valley, though somewhat hilly and stony toward
Canandaigua. Inquiring the best road to Geneva I am advised of the
superiority of the one leading past the poor-house. Finding them somewhat
intricate, and being too super-sensitive to stop people and ask them the
road to the poor-house, I deservedly get lost, and am wandering erratically
eastward through the darkness, when I fortunately meet a wheelman in a
buggy, who directs me to his mother's farm-house near by, with instructions
to that most excellent lady to accommodate me for the night. Nine o'clock
next morning I reach fair Geneva, so beautifully situated on Seneca's
silvery lake, passing the State agricultural farm en route; continuing
on up the Seneca Eiver, passing-through Waterloo and Seneca Falls to
Cayuga, and from thence to Auburn and Skaneateles, where I heave a sigh
at the thoughts of leaving the last - I cannot say the loveliest, for all
are equally lovely - of that beautiful chain of lakes that transforms
this part of New York State into a vast and delightful summer resort.
"Down a romantic Swiss glen, where scores of sylvan nooks and rippling
rills invite one to cast about for fairies and sprites," is the word
descriptive of my route from Marcellus next morning. Once again, on
nearing the Camillus outlet from the narrow vale, I hear the sound of
Sunday bells, and after the church-bell-less Western wilds, it seems to
me that their notes have visited me amid beautiful scenes, strangely
often of late. Arriving at Camillus, I ask the name of the sparkling
little stream that dances along this fairy glen like a child at play,
absorbing the sun-rays and coquettishly reflecting them in the faces of
the venerable oaks that bend over it like loving guardians protecting
it from evil. My ears are prepared to hear a musical Indian name -
"Laughing-Waters " at least; but, like a week's washing ruthlessly intruding
upon love's young dream, falls on my waiting ears the unpoetic misnomer,
"Nine-Mile Creek." Over good roads to Syracuse, and from thence my route
leads down the Erie Canal, alternately riding down the canal tow-path,
the wagon-roads, and between the tracks of the New York Central Railway.
On the former, the greatest drawback to peaceful cycling is the towing-mule
and his unwarrantable animosity toward the bicycle, and the awful,
unmentionable profanity engendered thereby in the utterances of the
boatmen. Sometimes the burden of this sulphurous profanity is aimed at
me, sometimes at the inoffensive bicycle, or both of us collectively,
but oftener is it directed at the unspeakable mule, who is really the
only party to blame. A mule scares, not because he is really afraid, but
because he feels skittishly inclined to turn back, or to make trouble
between his enemies - the boatmen, his task-master, and the cycler, an
intruder on his exclusive domain, the Erie tow-path. A span of mules
will pretend to scare, whirl around, and jerk loose from the driver, and
go "scooting" back down the tow-path in a manner indicating that nothing
less than a stone wall would stop them; but, exactly in the nick of time
to prevent the tow-line jerking them sidewise into the canal, they stop.
Trust a mule for never losing his head when he runs away, as does his
hot-headed relative, the horse; who never once allows surrounding
circumstances to occupy his thoughts to an extent detrimental to his own
self-preservative interests. The Erie Canal mule's first mission in life
is to engender profanity and strife between boatmen and cyclists, and
the second is to work and chew hay, which brings him out about even with
the world all round. At Rome I enter the famous and beautiful Mohawk
Valley, a place long looked forward to with much pleasurable anticipation,
from having heard so often of its natural beauties and its interesting
historical associations. "It's the garden spot of the world; and
travellers who have been all over Europe and everywhere, say there's
nothing in the world to equal the quiet landscape beauty of the Mohawk
Valley," enthusiastically remarks an old gentelman in spectacles, whom
I chance to encounter on the heights east of Herkimer. Of the first
assertion I have nothing to say, having passed through a dozen "garden
spots of the world " on this tour across America; but there is no
gainsaying the fact that the Mohawk Valley, as viewed from this vantage
spot, is wonderfully beautiful. I think it must have been on this spot
that the poet received inspiration to compose the beautiful song that
is sung alike in the quiet homes of the valley itself and in the trapper's
and hunter's tent on the far off Yellowstone - "Fair is the vale where
the Mohawk gently glides, On its clear, shining way to the sea." The
valley ia one of the natural gateways of commerce, for, at Little Falls -
where it contracts to a mere pass between the hills - one can almost throw
a stone across six railway tracks, the Erie Canal and the Mohawk River.
Spending an hour looking over the magnificent Capitol building at Albany,
I cross the Hudson, and proceed to ride eastward between the two tracks
of the Boston & Albany Railroad, finding the riding very fair. From the
elevated road-bed I cast a longing, lingering look down the Hudson Valley,
that stretches away southward like a heaven-born dream, and sigh at the
impossibility of going two ways at once. " There's $50 fine for riding
a bicycle along the B. & A. Railroad," I am informed at Albany, but risk
it to Schodack, where I make inquiries of a section foreman. "No; there's
no foine; but av yeez are run over an' git killed, it'll be useless for
yeez to inther suit agin the company for damages," is the reassuring
reply; and the unpleasant visions of bankrupting fines dissolve in a
smile at this characteristic Milesian explanation. Crossing the Massachusetts
boundary at the village of State Line, I find the roads excellent; and,
thinking that the highways of the " Old Bay State " will be good enough
anywhere, I grow careless about the minute directions given me by Albany
wheelmen, and, ere long, am laboriously toiling over the heavy roads and
steep grades of the Berkshire Hills, endeavoring to get what consolation
I can, in return for unridable roads, out of the charming scenery, and
the many interesting features of the Berkshire-Hill country. It is at
Otis, in the midst of these hills, that I first become acquainted with
the peculiar New England dialect in its native home. The widely heralded
intellectual superiority of the Massachusetts fair ones asserts itself
even in the wildest parts of these wild hills; for at small farms - that,
in most States, would be characterized by bare-footed, brown-faced
housewives - I encounter spectacled ladies whose fair faces reflect the
encyclopaedia of knowledge within, and whose wise looks naturally fill
me with awe. At Westfield I learn that Karl Kron, the author and publisher
of the American roadbook, " Ten Thousand Miles on a Bicycle" - not to be
outdone by my exploit of floating the bicycle across the Humboldt - undertook
the perilous feat of swimming the Potomac with his bicycle suspended at
his waist, and had to be fished up from the bottom with a boat-hook.
Since then, however, I have seen the gentleman himself, who assures me
that the whole story is a canard. Over good roads to Springfield - and on
through to Palmer; from thence riding the whole distance to Worcester
between the tracks of the railway, in preference to the variable country
roads.
On to Boston next morning, now only forty miles away, I pass venerable
weather-worn mile-stones, set up in old colonial days, when the Great
West, now trailed across with the rubber hoof-marks of "the popular steed
of today," was a pathless wilderness, and on the maps a blank. Striking
the famous "sand-papered roads " at Framingham - which, by the by, ought
to be pumice-stoned a little to make them as good for cycling as stretches
of gravelled road near Springfield, Sandwich, and Piano, Ill.; La Porte,
and South Bend, Ind.; Mentor, and Willoughby, O.; Girard, Penn.; several
places on the ridge road between Erie and Buffalo, and the alkali flats
of the Rocky Mountain territories. Soon the blue intellectual haze
hovering over " the Hub " heaves in sight, and, at two o'clock in the
afternoon of August 4th, I roll into Boston, and whisper to the wild
waves of the sounding Atlantic what the sad sea-waves of the Pacific
were saying when I left there, just one hundred and three and a half
days ago, having wheeled about 3,700 miles to deliver the message. Passing
the winter of 1884-85 in New York, I became acquainted with the Outing
Magazine, contributed to it sketches of my tour across America, and in
the Spring of 1885 continued around the world as its special correspondent;
embarking April 9th from New York, for Liverpool, aboard the City of
Chicago.