only four hours earlier, and we passed stoically by, intending to go as far as Indian Rock, a mile further. But at a little waterfall, by the Wises Mill road, we halted with a common instinct. We turned backward and sought that gracious veranda at Valley Green. There, in a pot of tea and buttered toast with marmalade, we forgot our emunctory woes.
We set match to tobacco and strode upward on Springfield road, through thickets where the sunlight quivered in golden shafts, toward the comely summits of Chestnut Hill. Let Madrigal have the last word, for he has known and loved this bonniest of creeks for forty years:
There earliest stirred the feet of spring,
There summer dreamed on drowsy wing;
And autumn's glories longest cling
Along the Wissahickon!
ON THE SIGHTSEEING BUS
A feeling of sour depression, consequent upon mailing the third installment to Ephraim Lederer, led us to seek uplift and blithe cheer. The sightseeing bus was filled except one seat by the driver, and we hopped aboard. The car was generously freighted with Sir Knights and their ladies, here for a convention of Templars. There was also one baffled gentleman from South America, who strove desperately to understand what was happening to him. From some broken remarks he let fall we
