NATURE'S CYCLE-PATH. BY GRACE WICKHAM CURRAN. ONE of the best things the bicycle has done for us is that it has carried us into regions we have never before visited, and of which we have scarcely heard. Thus it has acquainted us with many interesting ways and things before unknown. Most of us, at one time or another, have basked for a while upon some sandy beach of ocean or lake; we have bathed in the surf, gathered shells upon the shore, and thus whiled away many idle hours. But it was reserved for the bicycle to make us really acquainted with those stretches of beach and shore which seem to have been purposely prepared by kind Mother Nature as a glorious cycle-path. Whether or not she originally intended it for wheels, she certainly spends a great deal of her time in keeping the path in repair; and those active servants of hers, Wind and Wave, Rain and Sun, are kept very busy at work upon it all the time. This long and varied path stretches in its entirety hundreds of miles along our ocean shores and around the borders of our great lakes; but the particular bit with which we became familiar during happy summer weeks, and to a share in whose delights I would tempt others, is a comparatively small portion on the southern shore of Lake Erie. It begins with the extreme end of Cedar Point, which with its long arm holds in a portion of Sandusky Bay, and extends eastward fifteen miles or more up the shore. This sandy shore continues all the way to Cleveland and beyond; but because of some intervening piles of rock one cannot ride the whole fifty or sixty miles. The shorter distance is, however, enough for a summer day's ride, especially if one takes it comfortably and leisurely, and appropriates to himself the countless joys spread before him. For a first ride the best time is a morning after a hard three days' blow from the north east. The waves have pounded and beaten the sands into a hard, smooth floor, and now the wind has died away, though the sun has not yet dissipated the crisp freshness of the air. The storm has so stirred the shallow waters that they are yellow out beyond the second bar, and then merge into a delicious green. The long after-swell comes rolling in, breaking in foam upon the shore at whose extreme edge you skim along like one of the gulls which hover and circle over the water. There is a fascination in those on-coming, curling waves. You wonder how far up the sand the next one will wash, and you swerve away just in time to escape a wetting; or else, miscalculating, your wheel cuts through the wave, sending a dash of spray well over you. One of the special delights of this shore ride is that there is no monotony in it. Not in the length of a whole summer will you have two rides exactly alike. There will always be a changing pathway, for the shore-line varies with every breeze from water or land; and a storm produces such changes in the shifting sand as to make the shore almost unrecognizable. Even on the same day, the different hours bring novelties and fresh attractions. What better beginning could be imagined for a summer day than an early-morning ride as the sun is rising and sending its first pink rays over the land, and touching the water while yet the pale blueness of night lingers everywhere! You feel confident that later on the day will be, like many that have passed, too warm for riding or for any exertion; and the sun of other days has so dried and loosened the sand that it will be impossible to ride after the lake breeze springs up and brings the waterline higher. But all night the breeze has been offshore, a thing to be surely depended upon in this region,- and now there is at the water's edge a strip, narrow, but wide enough for a wheel, which is hard and wet. If the night breeze has been strong the water has receded beyond the first sand-bar, and a string of little sandy islands peeps up to greet the morning sunlight. Nature is still asleep, and there is as yet no sound to disturb your meditations. Perhaps, though, it is only a feigned sleep which she has assumed in order to try to cheat the daytime world; for all along the shore is written a silent record of the doings of the night - a record composed of bird-tracks and curving trails, the path of the little brown turtle, and other evidences of midnight promenades. All is quiet now, however, and the water is so still and glassy that it reflects almost in exact tone the sky above it, and not a ripple breaks the line where sky and water meet. It is hard channel open; but later in the summer they partly dry up, leaving wide marshy borders, and so tiny a stream that it cannot force itself through the sand-bar which every blow heaps higher. These little coves serve as very convenient landmarks or mile-stones to the bicyclerider; and as they are always luxuriant with their growth of marsh-plants, they are most charming spots at which to stop and sketch if you are an artist, to study natural history if you are inclined that way, or simply to rest and refresh your spirit with beauty if you are lazy or have no particular bent. At the entrance to some of these coves the landowners have built out little docks, to protect their shore from being washed away. Although you must dismount and climb over them, you will not be disposed to quarrel with to realize that there is a horizon-line anywhere; and as you fly so swiftly along you almost feel that you are a winged creature soaring through endless space. So noiseless are you in your flight that the slender-legged snipe which "teeters" along the shore, seeking to pick up an early breakfast, does not hear you until you are close upon him, and then he flies upward with a curious, frightened cry as you dart past. The shore-line of Lake Erie is broken at frequent intervals by little coves or creeks, with names as picturesque as their appearance. These do not ordinarily impede the progress of the rider; for, except in an unusually wet season, they are for the most part separated by a strip of dry sand from the lake. In the early spring and in wet seasons the creeks are so high that a sufficiently strong current keeps a VOL. XXIV.-85. them, unless, perchance, you are that foolish person who rides for a record rather than for enjoyment,- for they are most picturesque little affairs, with grass and vines and even tiny shrubs growing up between the stones. They are very pleasant resting-places, too, though there is no lack of comfortable seats along the shore in the shape of logs and other drift. Nor is the soft, yellow sand to be despised when no other seat offers. It is even to be preferred, as it affords opportunity for much interesting study in the large numbers of small creatures which make their home in it. Dozens of little toads will come hopping about; brilliantly colored flies will alight near by; and, regardless of the presence of an onlooker, the curious little sand-bees, in color so like the sand, and yet with a glint of green in the sun light, will continue the burrowing out of the little holes that sometimes for long distances make the sand look as if it had been shot with small bullets. The best-known and most beautiful of the coves hereabouts is Old Woman's Creek, where borders of the stream the pink marshmallows lend a glowing presence, and still farther on, the wild morning-glory and grape-vines clamber up the banks and over every projecting branch, rock, or shrub. It was just here, at the spot where this creek empties itself into the lake, that we learned by experience of the changing character of our wheel-path. Some days before we had gone up the shore to Cedar Point,- a good twelvemile ride, and there had taken a boat across the bay to Sandusky, for a short visit. In the meantime a storm had come up; but it had somewhat subsided, so that on the return trip we found the beach hard and smooth, until we arrived at Old Woman's Creek, within three miles of home. The rain and the waves together had opened up the channel, and here we were suddenly brought to a standstill by a broad stream of water, not deep, to be sure, but impassable for wheels. We could go back a half or three-quarters of a mile, and take to the road, making a circuit round the marsh; but "WE SHOULDERED OUR WHEELS AND BRAVELY WADED THROUGH." marsh and water plants grow in unchecked luxuriance, from the white water-lily which floats upon the surface to the wild-rice in the background, which tosses its plumes in the breeze, inviting chattering swarms of birds to partake of its abundance. The lotus spreads broad, velvety blue-green leaves in wide masses, and the huge, pale-yellow blossoms lift their queenly heads on high, and breathe forth on the air a delicate fragrance. To the marshy we were tired, and the prospect of climbing up the bank over the brush and tangle was not alluring, and besides, the rain, which had made our shore path so hard and firm, had cut up the road into ruts and heavy clods. "Necessity has ever been "the mother of invention," and it was not many minutes before we had doffed shoes and leggings, shouldered our wheels, and bravely waded through. There are some useful little points to be learned about shore riding. For one thing, it is much easier to ride if the tires are not pumped up as hard as for road riding. If they are very hard they cut into the sand, whereas if they are softer they spread out flatter, and less resistance is offered, and the sand is sufficiently yielding so that the rim is not endangered. Sometimes a strip of apparently hard sand will be found to be very soft, owing to a quicksand or bed of gravel underneath. It is better then to take to the strip of gravel or pebbles next the water, or farther back, whichever it chance to be. There is no danger of puncture, for the pebbles on this shore are almost invariably flat and worn very smooth, and are not at all unpleasant to ride over. The only things to avoid, in fear of puncture, are the occasional shells and the dead fish which lie scattered on the shore, washed in by the waves. A sharp bone might prove very disastrous. It is also wise, if the sand is soft and wet, not to lay the wheel down while resting. If even a little of the sand once gets into the bearings, a complete overhauling will be necessary. The prettiest ride of all is the one at sunset. Any one who has dwelt for even a short time beside a large body of water, and is possessed of an observant eye, knows how varying are the sunsets, how each evening brings a new experience, a fresh surprise; but I do not think this is realized to the fullest extent until one has ridden a wheel right into the midst of the glory, as it were. For when you are flying along at the edge of the shore, the color of the sky is reflected in the water, and brought to your very feet with nothing between you and it, until you really feel as if you had entered into and appropriated it to yourself. The same sensation is felt when you float on the bosom of a lake in a small boat; but on a wheel there is an added enjoyment in the sense of security, the feel of the solid earth beneath, even if waves dash high beside you. The tops of the waves reflect the rose hue of the sky, while underneath they curl over in a deep, rich green, and finally break into a mass of turquoise-blue foam. The wet sand from which the water has receded here and there catches glints of brilliant orange or glowing crimson, and though you speed ever so rapidly, you do not leave any of the beauty behind; it is always there until the sunlight fades from the sky and the blue shadows of night creep over the water. A CITY IN A VOLCANO. By A. H. VERRILL. IF you will take down your geographies and look on the map of the West Indies, you will notice, between the islands of Santa Cruz and St. Christopher, two small islets which, unless your map is an unusually large and complete one, will have no names given. These two islands belong to the Dutch, and the most northerly and westerly of them is called Saba. The Dutch are noted for their odd and quaint customs and for their perseverance, Holland being sometimes called the "Land of Pluck"; but I doubt if anywhere in all their possessions have these curious people shown their queer and eccentric habits to greater advantage than in the little out-of-the-way island of Saba. The island is small, its greatest diameter being not over two and one half miles, and it is nothing more than an isolated mountain-top rising out of the sea. The sides are very steep and high, rising in places for a sheer 2000 feet. There is no harbor, no beach, no safe anchorage, and no large trees on the island. Although Saba has a population of over 2500, yet you might sail all around it without seeing |