oice and catch the gleam of its tumbling
current.

They will all be there when you go--all the quaint nooks, all the delights
of leaf, moss, ripple, and shade, of your early memories. And in the
half-hour, too,--less if you are quick-footed,--from your desk or shop in
the great city.

No, you never heard of it. I knew that before you said a word. You thought
it was the dumping-ground of half the cast-off tinware of the earth; that
only the shanty, the hen-coop, and the stable overhung its sluggish
waters, and only the carpet shaker, the sod gatherer, and the tramp
infested its banks.

I tell you that in all my wanderings in search of the picturesque, nothing
within a day's journey is half as charming. That its stretches of meadow,
willow clumps, and tangled densities are as lovely, fresh, and enticing as
can be found--yes, within a thousand miles of your door. That the rocks
are encrusted with the thickest of moss and lichen, gray, green, black,
and brilliant emerald. That the trees are superb, the solitude and rest
complete. That it is finer, more subtle, more exquisite than its sister
brooks in the denser forest, because that here and there it shows the
trace of some human touch,--and nature is never truly picturesque without
it,--the broken-down fence, the sagging bridge, and vine-covered roof.

But you must go _now_.

Now, before the grip of the great city has been fastened upon it; before
the axe of the "dago" clears out the wilderness of underbrush; before the
landscape gardener, the sanitary engineer, and the contractor pounce upon
it and strangle it; before the crimes of the cast-iron fountain, the
varnished grapevine arbor, with seats to match, the bronze statues
presented by admiring groups of citizens, the rambles, malls, and
cement-lined caverns, are consummated; before the gravel walk confines
your steps, and the granite curbing imprisons the flowers, as if they,
too, would escape.

Now, when the tree lies as it falls; when the violets bloom and are there
for the picking; when the dogwood sprinkles the bare branches with white
stars, and the scent of the laurel fills the air.

Touch the button some day soon for an hour along the Bronx.

ANOTHER DOG

Do not tell me dogs cannot talk. I know better. I saw it all myself. It
was at Sterzing, that most picturesque of all the Tyrolean villages on the
Italian slope of the Brenner, with its long, single street, zigzagged like
a straggling path in