boon in bad weather, but to the driver
of an automobile the stations are a great nuisance; one is
scarcely passed before another is in sight; it is stop, stop,
stop. There are so many old toll-roads upon which toll is no
longer collected that one is apt to get in the habit of whizzing
through the gates so fast that the keepers, if there be any, have
no time to come out, much less to collect the rates.

It was cold the next morning when we started from Syracuse, and it
waxed colder and colder all day long.

The Endurance Contest followed the direct road to Rochester, going
by way of Port Byron, Lyons, Palmyra, and Pittsford. That road is
neither interesting nor good. Even if one is going to Rochester,
the roads are better to the south; but as we had no intention of
visiting the city again, we took Genesee Street and intended to
follow it into Buffalo.

The old turnpike leads to the north of Auburn and Seneca Falls,
but we turned into the Falls for dinner. In trying to find and
follow the turnpike we missed it, and ran so far to the north that
we were within seven or eight miles of Rochester, so near, in
fact, that at the village of Victor the inhabitants debated
whether it would not be better to run into Rochester and thence to
Batavia by Bergen rather than southwest through Avon and
Caledonia.

Having started out with the intention of passing Rochester, we
were just obstinate enough to keep to the south. The result was
that for nearly the entire day the machine was laboring over the
indifferent roads that usually lie just between two main travelled
highways. It was not until dusk that the gravelled turnpike
leading into Avon was found, and it was after seven when we drew
up in front of the small St. George Hotel.

The glory of Avon has departed. Once it was a great resort, with
hotels in size almost equal to those now at Saratoga. The Springs
were famous and people came from all parts of the country. The
hotels are gone, some burned, some destroyed, but old registers
are preserved, and they bear the signatures of Webster, Clay, and
many noted men of that generation.

The Springs are a mile or two away; the water is supposed to
possess rare medicinal virtues, and invalids still come to test
its potency, but there is no life, no gayety; the Springs and the
village are quite forlorn.

At the St. George we found good rooms and a most excellent supper.
In the office after supper, with chairs tipped back and legs