nerve thrills and vibrates, and the happy songs of the birds,
the myriad insect voices, the softly singing pines, make no more
music than our own happy hearts.

What a place is this in which to dine, while the noonday sun
sends his sweltering rays on the valley below! Away with your
grand hotels with their pretentions of cleanliness and comfort,
away with your stuffy restaurants with semi-intoxicating odors
of beeves long slaughtered and fish long hooked or chicken a-la-
King, whose husky voices have long since ceased to awaken the
sleeping farm hands. Away with all these, we say, and let us
dine in Nature's terraced roof garden at Hotel de Roadside at
the Sign of the Running Board or White Pine Bough. Give us some
fresh baked buns with country butter and honey, a dish of
delicious berries picked by our own hands fresh from the bushes,
a drink of sparkling ale from Nature's fountain among the cool
fern-clad rocks, and we shall not lament the fact that we are so
far removed from the public boarding house! Here in place of
soulless melodies issuing from automatic players we have the
heavenly notes of the woodthrush, the clear call of the crested
titmouse, and the wild ringing notes of the cardinal. A
matchless trio, accompanied by the vagrant breezes played upon
the tree-harps, seconded by the singing of distant waterfalls.
With greater reverence one breaks bread out here where spicy
aromatic fragrance drifts by. Here you have become a pilgrim
unawares, for before you are stately tulip poplars and graceful
hemlocks like long sought shrines, both reflecting the Creator.
Our table flowers were the pungent burgamot amid its border of
sweet- scented fern, but it would have been useless to tear them
from their places so near to our table did they grow. Other