Kinkaid Spring is well worthy of a visit, for here is a spring whose water would be sufficient to run a grist mill. It is situated in charming woods, where grow fine old walnut, maple and tulip trees. A gentleman told us that the man on whose farm the spring is located dammed up its water, only to find that he had lost his spring. He tore away the dam and recovered it. So many fine old trees were passed that someone remarked of the wondrous beauty these woods present at autumn-time. He did not repeat the words of the poem we shall quote, but he meant it all. INDIAN SUMMER "Now all the woodlands round, and these fair vales, And broad plains that from their borders stretch Away to the blue Unica, and run Along the Ozark range, and far beyond Find the still groves that shut Itasca in, But more than all, these old Miami Woods, Are robed in golden exhalations, dim As half-remembered dreams, and beautiful As aught or Valambrosa, or the plains Of Arcady, by fabling poets sung. The night is fill'd with murmurs and the day Distills a subtle atmosphere that lulls The senses to a half repose, and hangs A rosy twilight over nature, like The night of Norway summers, when the sun Skims the horizon through the tedious months." --From Poets of Ohio. It is not strange that you do not find yourself recalling fair mornings spent among the far-famed Alps. True, you do not feel that awe-inspiring sublimity that their snow-clad peaks produce, but as you joyfully gaze out over the quiet beauty of these fair Ohio hills and vales clothed in magnificent stretches of golden harvest field and green forest, through which lead winding roads and sinuous streams, you ask yourself this perplexing question: Where have I ever beheld a more lovely or more quiet landscape than this? To be sure it is not thrilling, but sweet and soothing, like the view you get at Intervale, above North Conway in New Hampshire. This fair picture brought to our memory the scenery among the hills and valleys of the Meuse, as seen from Fort Regret. Here the view discloses vast stretches of upland meadows, orchards of cherry and plum trees, old stone highways that lose themselves in the valleys to appear again like slender paths where they cross some distant hill. Old stone farm houses, clusters of ruined villages, and as many as seven forts may be seen from this commanding position. A few miles distant rises the almost impregnable fortress of Verdun whose round Roman towers look down on the devastated region and seem to say, "They shall not pass." Nature has given just as picturesque a setting to many of her ancient fortified hills of the Western World, whose crowning battlements speak of a different age and architecture.