Coming down the road from Devon, the first thing one sees is the great equestrian statue of Anthony Wayne on its pink pedestal. It stands on a naked ridge, which was formerly groved with fine oaks. The Caliph who had me in charge told me with blood in his eye that the trees had been slaughtered in order to give a wider view of the statue. It seems a serious pity. Beyond this one comes to the National Arch, designed by Paul Cret, of the University of Pennsylvania, who has since so gallantly served his native France on fields of battle far more terrible than Valley Forge. From this arch, with its fine inscription by Henry Armitt Brown, there is a serene view across yellow fields of stubble where a big hay wagon was piled high with its fragrant load.
Mr. Weikel, the friendly guard on duty at this spot, a Civil War veteran, was kind enough to show us the hut which is his headquarters. It is one of the many scattered through the park, replicas of the original soldiers' huts, built of logs and chinked with clay. With its little smoke-stained fireplace and weathered roof, sitting on that hill-top in the sweet quick air, it seemed a pleasant place for meditation. Over the rough-hewn mantel was an old picture of George Washington and a badge belonging to some member of the American Press Humorists, dropped by one of these mad wags on their recent visit to the park.
But the chief glory of Valley Forge is the Washington Memorial Chapel, a place so startling in its
