48 SUMMER IN A BOG. 



stopping-place, half a mile or more away. I 

 had come out on the car that day. 



"We are to have a new stop at this place — 

 or not far off," said Mrs. Wier. "Have you 

 ever been at my son's workshop? I guess he 

 won't mind you, if you care to come with us. 

 He has some special things to see to to-day that 

 were to keep him there; but usually you can 

 hardly tell where to find him of late, his work 

 is so scattered around through the country. It 

 grows very rapidly." 



The invitation was accepted promptly and 

 gratefully. The path led around an embank- 

 ment above a small stream, a tributary of Mink 

 Eun, which became a torrent at times of freshet, 

 and through a thick grove of willows which hid 

 from the road the sheds and buildings of 

 "young Wier's concrete plant," as it was now 

 spoken of through the country. 



Blonde, well built, five-feet-ten or more in 

 height, the proprietor of the plant was found 

 in the office, or weather-proof inner room, ar- 

 ranging on a shelf sitadry blocks which had just 

 been taken from moulds. He was delighted with 

 the visit of his former instructor, and the Pro- 

 fessor was soon busy inspecting the products 

 of the young man's skill, as were we all. 



They were representations of plant, flower, 

 fruit, in fine, smooth sand. Some of them were 



