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anon. Every place is lovely to him who has the robust piety of the ancient psalmist and knows that "the earth is the Lord's and the fulness thereof,” for everywhere his order shapes itself into beauty and utility.

I have not a very clear conception as to what kind of place the "desert" was that is spoken of so often in the Bible as the resort of lawgiver, prophet, and reformer, but for vacation uses I cannot think it was equal to the lake counties of Wisconsin and northern Illinois, to say nothing of New England or the Rocky Mountain region. And still in those barren fastnesses of Sinai were conceived the sublime demands of the "Ten Commandments." There did Elijah regird himself, and, after a forty days' retirement, good summer's vacation, - return reanimated, recruited, ready for work. I know not what happened to John the Baptist or to Jesus when they were "driven into the wilderness," but I am sure it was something that enabled them better to realize life, to feel the pressure and potency of things, something that lifted them into a sense of sanctity, a consciousness of divine nearness, of sacred realities. When one feels this, he has the

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religion that John and Jesus knew of, the religion that cries, "Repent, for the kingdom of God is at hand," the religion that says, ye not that ye are the temple of God and that the spirit of God dwelleth in you?"

When shall we break the bonds of these material superstitions and find our Jordan in the nearest river available, our Horeb the first table-land we can climb? When that time comes, Bible-reading will ripen into Bible-making, and instead of studying the "prophets" as though that were the only thing we could do, we shall begin to prophesy and sing out of our own times and places,

"Glorious things of thee are spoken,

Zion, city of our God."

Prairie du Chien is one of the most interesting historical landmarks in Wisconsin. Situated at the junction of the Wisconsin and Mississippi rivers, it became one of the earliest French outposts, an important fur-trading station. As early as 1673, Louis Joliet left Quebec under orders to discover the South Sea. Taking with him Father Marquette from Mackinac, he reached the Mississippi River by way of the Wisconsin,

and at the "prairie of the dogs," or, more probably, the prairie of the wild wolves, they raised the cross and the flag of France. That flag has lost its right of possession, but the cross of the Roman church, an organization which began before France was, which I believe and hope will last in some developed form when France is not, still holds its place there. Prairie du Chien is still a stronghold of French Catholicism, an important college town of that faith.

When visiting this place on my ride, I caught sight of a most suggestive and beautiful picture. Very early after a night's rain, before the sun was up, I wandered aimlessly to the margin of the village, and came upon what, for America, was a very old church, a quaint and impressive relic of a past generation. The old minster was backed by a populous burying-ground, guarded by a forbidding high fence and filled with quaintlooking monuments, and grim, rude crosses. Through the high picket fence I saw, slowly pacing up and down the gravelled walk, the tall, gaunt form of a venerable priest, robed to the feet in the black gown of his order, the close black cap but partially confining the long flowing locks of hair white as snow. This aged

father, whose frame was perhaps two or three inches over six feet high before it was bent by age, showed no sign of that corporeal indulgence which so many of his order carry. It betokened well the spiritual adviser, the shepherd of souls. He walked with his hands behind him, his head bent as if in sweet communion with his own, the children of his heart whom he had gathered one by one into this home of the dead where soon he would join them in a well-earned rest. He was walking among his dead. He was

musing upon the past. He was the priest of antiquity, the representative of a religion of tradition. Blessed old man, he had a right to such musings, and the morning sun touched with beauty no more fitting picture than when it fell upon his gray hairs amid the tombstones. If we would realize life in its fulness, we must have room in our thought and a place in our hearts for that venerable father. We must know and feel what he knew and felt. I should have liked a rosary just then, and could have easily joined in a litany to St. Augustine, St. Francis, and the rest of them. Their names and words have rimmed that plain with a more sacred halo for three hundred years, and to see Prairie du Chien

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without seeing and feeling this is not to although you may drink of its medicinal and look down upon it from its beautiful h But we must realize more than this if we

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realize life as it is to-day, life in its divine s cance and quality. Across the way was the school building. Early Early as it was, the locom were fuming down on the river's brink, fr to be away with their loads of human freigh to Dakota, the other to Chicago. I am that these did not have so large a place i life of the venerable father as they merited. perhaps did not realize the public school the locomotive, the Dakota farmer and the cago travelling man, as much as they dese hence his religion was imperfect. He, lik graduate of the university, for all his ac ments, would probably say to many a spi visitor and traveller, "We are not fixed he entertain strangers." The Catholic church the University of Wisconsin, doubtless ne professor of hospitality to teach the gospe the open door, the piety of receptivity. venerable "Father" communing with his did not fully realize life.

The Kickapoo valley is one of the nobles

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