VENICE THE ENCHANTING, AUG. — At last we are in the well-known city of Venice, Italy, about which our fancies have from time immemorial woven the most bewitching dreams. It is hard to realize that we are really here. We instantly exclaim, “Can it really be true that we are in Venice, and not merely dreaming.” Mr. Figgey—he’s so funny—says that we’ll not think we’re dreaming when we get our hotel bill. Mr. Figgey is so material in his attitude of thought, but he has been a perfect dear in arranging things. He doesn’t let us rest a moment, and even now, when we have been here only two days, he seems to know all the gondoliers and everybody in town knows him. He calls all the gondoliers “Louey,” and they begin to grin broadly whenever he comes in sight. We had such a good joke on Elmer Pratt to-day. We came across a little church near the hotel and Elmer went into raptures over it. It’s whole façade was one bewildering nightmare of scroll work and curly cues, like frosting on a wedding cake. Elmer said that he considered it the most beautiful thing he had seen in Europe, and at once looked it up in our Baedeker. The description says that it is the most atrociously ugly building in Europe, and since then Elmer has not admired anything until he has looked in the guide book to see whether it is beautiful. Last night we engaged some gondolas and did the grand canal. The moon was divine, and the whole city was throbbing with music and sentiment. Mr. Figgey directed the excursion and after a while took charge of the oar or paddle (I don’t know what the real name is) and gave the gondolier some lessons in the work. Smiley Greene sang some rollicking hymns, and then we all clamored for Orville Peters and Wilbur Fry to play on their mandolins. They had carried their instruments all the way from Bird Center and had counted the seconds to the present moment. But scarcely had they begun to play before some men came and said it was not permitted for outsiders to play on the canals. Only those belonging to the Gondoliers’ Union could play. Orville and Wilbur were broken-hearted. We had been out for some time before we discovered that Riley Peters and Myrtle Prute were missing, but, Mr. Figgey soon located them in a gondola by themselves. Riley seems to be in earnest this time, but now could any one help being in earnest, and in love, in Venice. Even all of us become a little bit soft here—even us old married people. Flossye Niebling has been spending all her time writing letters home. The stationery at the hotels is so attractive and she doesn’t want to miss a chance to use it. From here we go to Rome. We are all well and beautifully tanned. LUCILE RAMONA BROWN. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ BIRD CENTER AT VENICE [Illustration]