CHICAGO TO DAVENPORT. 337 



Clifton House, 

 Ottawa, Illinois, 

 September Twentieth. 



I rode out of Morris in the morning just as the pub- 

 lic school bells were ringing nine o'clock. My journey 

 now lay along the north bank of the Illinois Riv^er, 

 and took me through some of the finest cornfields I 

 had ever seen. Acres and acres, miles and miles 

 stretched in all directions as far as the eye could reach 

 whenever the elevation of the road was high enough 

 above this waving sea of grain to permit of my look- 

 ing about. Otherwise I passed through it completely 

 shut in, except as I could look ahead and behind 

 and see the avenue of giant stalks. My horse, six- 

 , teen hands high, did not elevate me sufficiently to 

 enable me, sitting in the saddle, to look over the corn 

 tops, and they still towered above my head like so 

 manv small trees. 



Those who are privileged to see this agricultural 

 wonder must, however, associate it with that other 

 source of pride among Illinois farmers — the " hogs " — 

 for most of this splendid harvest is fed to these ani- 

 mals and they, well-fattened thereb}-, are driven to 

 market. Thus the enterprising farmer is saved the 

 expense of hauling his corn to Chicago or other points, 

 as the pork, into which it has been transformed, is able 

 to carry itself. 



All along my route across the '^Sucker State," I 

 encountered, day after day, white hogs and black hogs, 

 hogs of every grade and shade, my horse often step- 



