On calling for my bill at the Robertson House, Joliet, in the morning, Mr. Conklin the proprietor, declined to accept any pay for my accommodations, and when I insisted, said he wished the pleasure of making me his guest during my stay. I did not get a very early start, as a family by the name of Horner, upon hearing of my arrival, called at the hotel and at their solicitation I made them a short visit. They knew of my journey and interest in the Custer Association, and being patriotic made this their reason for wishing to meet me. Their friendliness was but another proof of the hospitality of the people of Joliet, among whom I had come the day before as a comparative stranger, but whom I left with the kindliest of feeling. Before leaving, Mr. Conklin suggested that I ride along the tow-path of the Michigan Canal from Joliet to Chanahon, and I followed his advice, having dinner at the latter place. It happened that the innkeeper was well supplied with sweet cider and I helped him to dispose of it by drinking the contents of six well-filled glasses. Beyond Chanahon, on the Illinois River, I borrowed a hook and line of a farmer who was fishing and caught twenty-three perch in half an hour. At four o'clock I reached the summit of a hill on the border of a prairie from which I could look off for fifteen or twenty miles over a fertile country through which two silver streams wound to unite just below--the Kankakee here paying tribute to the Illinois. The atmosphere was perfect--clear and pure; the trees were tinged red and yellow with the first frosts, and to all this was added the glory of the sunset which I lingered to admire before turning away from so charming a scene. Such a view leaves a deep impress on the memory, and stirs recollections of more youthful days. Emotions like these have a purifying effect upon all men. [Illustration: AN ILLINOIS HOME.] One hundred and Thirty-second Day. _Clifton House_, OTTAWA, ILLINOIS, _September Twentieth_. I rode out of Morris in the morning just as the public school bells were ringing nine o'clock. My journey now lay along the north bank of the Illinois River, and took me through some of the finest cornfields I had ever seen. Acres and acres, miles and miles stretched in all directions as far as the eye could reach whenever the elevation of the road was high enough above this waving sea of grain to permit of my looking about. Otherwise I passed through it completely shut in, except as I could look ahead and behind and see the avenue of giant stalks. My horse, sixteen hands high, did not elevate me sufficiently to enable me, sitting in the saddle, to look over the corn tops, and they still towered above my head like so many small trees.