SEPTEMBER. 221 



region, the valley of Brush Creek, in Adams County, Ohio, 

 might boast. And my last ramble was one of greatest in- 

 terest. Passing over a monotonous stretch of bottom land, 

 now a forest of ripening corn, I came suddenly upon the 

 babbling creek that scarcely concealed the time-worn peb- 

 bles of its narrow bed. On either side tower gigantic syc- 

 amores and grand old elms, a wealth of autumn flowers 

 clustering about their trunks. For a narrow space, nature 

 had outwitted the grasping farmer, and wildness reigned 

 supreme. 



Whatever might be in store, I could not pass hurriedly 

 by the creek that I had found. I tarried long, lulled by 

 the music of its rippling waters that, singing the same sweet 

 song, cheers many an idle hour at home. Nor was I alone. 

 Strange, indeed, if ever so sweet a spot should be deserted. 

 As I strolled slowly down the stream, a lone wood-duck 

 from a grassy cove sped like an arrow into leafy depths. 

 Quails called to their mates, vireos warbled, the titmice 

 gave warning, and cardinal redbirds flashed through the 

 thickets, whistling as they went. My shadow startled 

 many a timid fish wee minnows that I wonder should 

 have any fear ; and anxious crayfish, from the mud-lined 

 dens, hastened to muddier and to deeper caves. My pres- 

 ence was a source of trouble to all the life about me, and 

 thought of this alone was the shadow, sure to be, that 

 dimmed my joy. Wild life seldom stops to argue the 

 question whether you are friend or foe, but forms its 

 own conclusions when at a safe distance. 



But the day was fast closing, and I had yet other fields 

 to explore. Threading a tangle of rich autumn bloom, I 

 was stopped by a crumbling wall of jutting rock, deeply 

 scarred and caverned by corroding time. A hundred feet 

 in height, or more, it frowned in the glittering light of 

 the setting sun and denied my further progress. 



I was in no humor to be denied. The valley soon 



