Clinging to the trees growing upon the sides of the ravine, we closely followed the course of the troubled, bubbling, foamy waters, stopping ever and anon to look at the exposed sections of sand and gravel here shown in curious alternate layers. The meaning of the word “deposits,” so frequently met with in descriptive geology, was made plain, and when we noticed of how mixed a character was the coarse gravel, it was easy to comprehend what had been read of that most interesting phase of the world’s past history, the glacial epoch, or great ice age. The gravel was no longer an unsuggestive accumulation of pebbles, but associated rolled and water-worn fragments of a hundred different rocks that by the mighty forces of ice and water had been brought to their present position from regions far away. The ravine ended at the meadows, through which the waters passed with unobstructed flow “to join the brimming river.” As we stood upon the bank of the mighty stream I remarked, “This is a stupid country, perhaps, but it has some merits.” I think the boy thought so, too. * * * * * The meadows are such a comprehensive place that no one knows where to begin, if the attempt is made to enumerate their features. There is such a blending of dry land and wet, open and thicket-grown, hedge and brook and scattered trees, that it is bewildering if you do not choose some one point for close inspection. From the tree-top I overlook it all, and try in vain to determine whether the azure strip of flowering iris or the flaunting crimson of the Turk’s cap lilies is the prettier. Beyond, in damper soil, the glistening yellow of the sunflowers is really too bright to be beautiful; but not so where the water is hidden by the huge circular leaves of the lotus. They are majestic as well as pretty, and the sparse bloom, yellow and rosy pink, is even the more conspicuous by reason of its background. How well the birds know the wild meadow tracts! They have not forsaken my tree and its surroundings, but for one here I see a dozen there. Mere inky specks, as seen from my point of view, but I know them as marsh-wrens and swamp-sparrows, kingbirds and red-wings, that will soon form those enormous flocks that add so marked a feature to the autumn landscape. It needs no field-glass to mark down the passing herons that, coming from the river-shore, take a noontide rest in the overgrown marsh.