"You—!——!!———!!!————!!!!"
As soon as he had finished, I said, by way of civil explanation: "My dear sir, do you know, a hundred people have stopped me to-day and told me it is cold. I have tramped nearly twenty miles without stopping to warm or eat; and I resolved to let the next fellow have the same dose I have been taking half-hourly all day. Now, if you are satisfied that it is a cold day, I will bid you good night."
With this I returned to my companions, somewhat warmer physically, but cooler in spirit.
The hotel in Cuyahoga Falls received us most hospitably; I never shall forget the kindnesses of its landlady. The village dates back to pioneer days. It is built on the hunting grounds of the old Cuyahoga Indians.
Monday, March 1st, at 12:30 P. M., we arrived in Canton.
The citizens expected my arrival, and Market street teemed with excitement. In front of two hotels, a block apart, stood their proprietors waving hats and arms, and calling to me to be their guest. I was puzzled to know which invitation to accept. While deliberating, one of the landlords approached, and taking my arm, led me to his comfortable hostelry, where he royally entertained me and my animals.
The pageant that celebrated the departure of William McKinley to the seat of Government was a fair estimate of the regard in which his fellow-citizens held him. Canton did him honor. I witnessed the leave-taking at his house, his ride to the train in the coach drawn by four greys under escort of a band, and heard him deliver his farewell address from the rear platform of his private car.
I spent Wednesday night in Massillon, and next morning returned to Canton, to take some interior photographs of McKinley's home. I was successful, beyond my hopes and expectations, securing fine pictures of his study and parlor. The President's inauguration at Washington called forth a deafening demonstration. Cannon boomed, steam whistles shrieked, and the citizens shouted and hurrahed, and I was glad Mac was not with me to add his salute.
I returned to Massillon, and at 4:00 P. M., set out for Dalton over the muddiest, stickiest red-clay roads I ever encountered. I saw a meadow-lark on the first of March; this day I heard blue-birds and robins singing gaily. It looked as though spring had come to stay.
I expected that day to reach Dalton, only eight miles distant, but the mud prevented me. I put my foot in it—the genuine red and yellow mixture of real Ohio clay. It was so deep, and sticky, and liberally diluted with thawed frost that once I was compelled to crawl along the top of a rail fence two hundred feet and more, and drag my jackass. At dusk I had covered only three miles. Then I sought lodgings. A store loomed into view shortly; I was elated. According to the sign over the entrance, the younger generation was the ruling power. It read: "Hezekiah Brimley and Father." I made for Hez. He said the town hadn't reached the hotel stage of development yet, but that he would gladly take me in, provided I'd sleep with his clerk in the garret.