Let us choose a morning in spring, when red bud and dogwood are in bloom, and the fruit trees are fluffy masses of pink and white clouds, and the tender green of new life is showing on hill side and forest, and the "hills of Maryland" stand out like lapis lazuli against a turquoise sky. It is a fair country, and one can understand why the early settlers tarried in this valley in their march westward, over the very National Road that we shall drive over today; a road full of historic meaning, a road that has seen the covered wagons of the emigrant tide, that has resounded to the tread of advancing and retreating armies, and that is now a thoroughfare for motor cars. We see little, or no actual poverty, occasionally the down-at-the-heels farm of a "poor white," but thrift and comfort are the rule. We spin gaily along in our motor wagon, stopping at the farm houses along the way; occasionally horses shy at us, and children stick their fingers in their mouths and stare, for automobiles are still somewhat of a novelty on cross roads and lanes, and country horses and children are not so sophisticated as their city brethren. Sometimes we go a mile or more off the main road, to reach one house; we are rewarded in one such case, for we find a girl of sixteen, who has never read Miss Alcott, and we leave her with Little Women in her arms. A swarm of "sunbonnet babies" greets us here, too, and we find a picture book for the older sister to read to them. At one house we have some difficulty in enticing the farmer's wife out to look at our wares. "He" is out on the farm, and there is not much time for reading. We discover a boy of twelve or thirteen, however, lurking in the background, with a dog at his heels, the dog is a convenient topic of conversation, and Beautiful Joe happens to be in the wagon. An inquiry as to the family elicits the information that this boy is all, except an "orphant boy we took." After some difficulty the "orphant boy" is brought forth from the recesses of the barn, where, we strongly suspect, he has had an eye at a crack all the time, and proves to be the regulation "bound boy" of Mary E. Wilkins, tattered straw hat, patched overalls and all; he, too, has a fondness for animals, and so we drive away, leaving boys and dog looking after us, with Seton-Thompson as a companion. One wide detour, up a hilly lane, brings us to a house, commanding a wonderful view of hills and valleys, and the Potomac, a winding silver thread in the distance. Here we find the mistress of the house, and a girl of sixteen or eighteen, who "lives there;" they used to get books from the old wagon, they tell us, and it has seemed a long time since they had any. Accordingly, we bid them help themselves, and as we are preparing to drive away, one of them, hugging a huge pile of heterogeneous literature, says to the other, "Law, Bess, we'll fergit to listen on the 'phone!" an unconscious tribute both to us and the rural telephone system.