A STRENUOUS HOLIDAY 



A privation, which I think Mr. Edison and I 

 felt more than did the others, was the scanty or 

 delayed war news ; the local papers, picked up here 

 and there, gave only brief summaries, and when in 

 the larger towns we could get some of the great' 

 dailies, the news was a day or two old. When one 

 has hung on the breath of the newspapers for four 

 exciting years, one is lost when cut off from them. 



Such a trip as we were taking was, of course, a 

 kind of a lark, especially to the younger members 

 of the party. Upon Alleghany Mountain, near 

 Barton, West Virginia, a farmer was cradling oats 

 on a side-hill below the road. Our procession 

 stopped, and the irrepressible Ford and Firestone 

 were soon taking turns at cradling oats, but with 

 doubtful success. A photograph shows the farmer 

 and Mr. Ford looking on with broad smiles, watch- 

 ing Mr. Firestone with the fingers of the cradle 

 tangled in the oats and weeds, a smile on his face 

 also, but decidedly an equivocal smile — the trick 

 was not so easy as it looked. Evidently Mr. Ford 

 had not forgotten his cradling days on the home 

 farm in Michigan. 



Camp-life is a primitive affair, no matter how 

 many conveniences you have, and things of the 

 mind keep pretty well in the background. Occa- 

 sionally around the campfire we drew Edison out 

 on chemical problems, and heard formula after 

 formula come from his lips as if he were reading 



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