One hundred and Twelfth Day.
Duncombe House,
Decatur, Michigan,
August Thirty-first.
Albert W. Rogers, to whom I had been previously introduced, called late in the afternoon, and invited me to drive with him, determined, he told me, that I should see something of Decatur's surroundings. The time was favorable for agreeable impressions. It had been a typical summer day, with blue sky, a slight breeze and the mercury at 70°; in short, just such weather as I had encountered in this section of Michigan throughout the month of August, and as evening approached, I was prepared to enjoy to the utmost the pleasure which my new acquaintance had provided.
SPINNING YARNS BY A TAVERN FIRE.
On the outskirts of the town one gets a view of gently rolling country under a splendid state of cultivation, the yellow of the grain fields predominating, and dotted here and there with farmhouses. Dark outlines against the horizon suggested the forests of oak, ash, maple, birch and elm, which stretch over such large tracts of Van Buren County, and which have made a little paradise for lumbermen. Wheat, maize and hay appeared to be nourishing; but I believe that agricultural products do their best in the rich bottom-lands bordering the rivers. I have dwelt so enthusiastically upon this fertile country that to say more would seem extravagant, so I will bring my note, the chronicle of a most delightful day, to a close.
One Hundred and Thirteenth Day.
Duncombe House,
Decatur, Michigan,
September First.
Received and answered a large mail after breakfast, and in the afternoon took a walk through the village. One is, of course, reminded of the gallant Commodore whose name, once among the greatest in America, now honors this modest Western town, and whose deeds, once upon every lip in the young republic, are wellnigh forgotten. The question even suggests itself as to how many of those who live here, where his name is perpetuated, are familiar with his life and character.