180
Rheims, France.
1897.
July 13.
  Another bright, beautiful day with strong, cool breeze,
the air as clear and free from haze as it often is in America.
  At daybreak several birds sang freely in the terraced
garden behind the house but I recognized only two, a Wren and
Chiff-chaff. Even the Wren puzzled me at first for its voice
wholly lacked the fine quality of our Winter Wren's and more
resembled that of our Song Sparrow. We continued our journey
southward at 11.45 A.M. going to Charleville (57 miles) and
to Rheims (60 miles) reaching the latter place at 5 P.M.
  Just before reaching Charleville we left the hill country
behind and entered a region very similar in general appearance
to the plains of Nebraska with long gently sloping swells ris-
ing and falling as far as the eye could reach. Despite the
fact that there were no woods and but few scattered trees to
interrupt the view we often rode for miles without seeing a
house or even a human being. Nevertheless the country was of
the most fertile character and all under cultivation, chiefly
devoted to fields of oats, rye and other grains with some En-
glish hay. The farmers, E. told me, live in the towns and not
on or near the lands which they till. As most of the crops
were not quite ready for harvesting the country was practical-
ly deserted.
  The whole region was unfenced and there were but few
hedgerows. From the car windows I saw Skylarks, Wagatils,