A small town. Low bluffs to our left, and Rose creek to the right. Good homes and also dug-outs. Cattle-corrals, long fields of corn not so good as some I have seen. The little houses cling close to the hillsides and are hemmed about with groves of trees. Wild roses in bloom, corn and oats getting smaller again; wonder if the country is running out? Here is a field smothered with sunflowers: wonder why Oscar Wilde didn't take a homestead here? Rose creek has crossed to the left; what a wilderness of small trees and bushes follow its course! I do declare! here's a real rail fence! but not a staken-rider fence. Would have told you more about it, but was past it so soon. Rather poor looking rye and oats. Few fields enclosed with barb-wire. Plenty of cattle grazing. HUBBELL. Four miles east of Rose creek; stream strong enough for mill power; only one mile north of Kansas. Train stops here for supper, but I shall wait and take mine with friends in Hardy. Hubbell is in Thayer county, which was organized in 1856. Town platted in '80, on the farm of Hubbell Johnston; has a population of 450. A good school house. I have since learned that this year's yield of oats was fifty to seventy-five, wheat twenty to thirty, corn thirty to seventy-five bushels per acre in this neighborhood. I walked up main street, with pencil and book in hand, and was referred to ---- ---- for information, who asked-- "Are you writing for the _Inter Ocean_?" "No, I am not writing for any company," I replied. "I received a letter from the publishers a few days ago, saying that a lady would be here, writing up the Republican Valley for their publication." I was indeed glad, to know I had sisters in the same work. We pass Chester and Harbine, and just at sunset reach Hardy, Nuckolls county. I had written to my friend, Rev. J. Angus Lowe, to meet "an old schoolmate" at the train. He had grown so tall and ministerial looking since we had last met, that I did not recognize him, and he allowed me to pass him while he peered into the faces of the men. But soon I heard some one say, "I declare, it's Belle Fulton," and grasping my hand, gives me a hearty greeting. Then he led me to his neat little home just beyond the Lutheran church, quite a nicely finished building that points its spire heavenward through his labors. The evening and much of the night is passed before I have answered all the questions, and told all about his brothers and sisters and the friends of our native village. The next day he took his wife and three little ones and myself on a long drive into Kansas to show me the beauties of the "Garden of the West."