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,