Taking the city of Pawtucket as a base――and you’ll find it due north of Providence, on the upper reach of the river――and, going westward, about half-way across the county and state, you’ll find yourself in a region of lakes and rivers and streams, a region as full of queer-sounding Indian names as a pudding is full of plums. Here is Moswansicut pond and Pochasset river, and Pockanosset branch, and many others. And, among them, if you’ll look very, very closely, you’ll find Fountain lake, which, being smaller than the surrounding bodies of water called ponds, is by the law of contraries termed a lake. And, from Fountain lake, trailing south into the Pawtuxet, is Fountain river. It is a small stream and unimportant. In fact, in its upper reaches it is hardly more than a good-sized trout brook, although, unfortunately, the trout have long since left it. Twelve miles below Fountain lake is the town of Audelsville, named many years ago for a certain German farmer, whose holdings at that time comprised thousands of acres thereabouts. Audelsville to-day is a big and busy town of some six thousand inhabitants. There are two big mills there, one manufacturing paper, and one cotton cloth, and these mills, with the railroad repair shops, account for fully half of the population. Audelsville has some of the ear-marks of a city. There’s a local street railway, which, starting at the railroad station by the river, proceeds somewhat leisurely to the business center of the town, and there forms a loop before it returns. And the main trolley line between Providence and Graywich runs right through Main Street, past Dunlop & Toll’s Mammoth Department Store, and the Common, with its white, clapboarded Court House, and its red brick Town Hall, and the post-office――which occupies a corner of the Centennial Block――and Meechin’s Hotel, and Hall & Dugget’s Cut-Price Drug Emporium, and within a quarter of a block of the Opera House, which stands out of sight up Main Street Court. Take it on a busy day, say a Saturday, at about eleven in the morning, when two of the big trolleys are passing at the siding almost in front of the hotel, and the station car is waiting at the corner of Main and Walnut streets for the track, and there are a lot of folks in from the country, why, you might almost think at first glance that you were in a real city, like, say, Pawtucket!