familiar to Pennsylvania ramblers. Nothing can be more delightful in the rich tint of afternoon light than that medley of brown, gray, yellow and ochre stonework. We pointed out the little side road that we were to follow, running up the valley of the creek, past reddening apple orchards and along the meadows past the swimming pool. And then the Soothsayer paid us a genuine compliment. "Let's take down the top," said he. "Then we can really see something!"
THE HAPPY VALLEY
Two friends, who may be called for present purposes Messrs. Madrigal and Doggerel, dismounted from the West Chester trolley at the crossing of Darby creek. Madrigal rolled a cigarette. Doggerel filled a pipe. They paid their respects to the old sawmill and Mr. Flounders, its presiding deity. Then they set off for a tramp up the valley.
It was a genial afternoon, after a night of thrashing rain and gale. The air was meek and placid; the sky a riotous blue. After the tumultuous washing of the storm all the heavenly linen was hung out to dry, bulging and ballooning in snowy clots along the upper dome. The tents of creekside campers were sodden, and great branches lay scattered on the meadows, wrenched down by the wind. By Mr. Sanderson's farm at Brookthorpe a scoutmaster was breaking camp, preparing to take his boys home. They had only been there four
