"For pictures?" he asked. "Yes," said I. "There are some fine ones to be had hereabouts."

"So I see by the paper," said he. And then he laughed, a jolly hobo laugh. "Say," he added, "what do you think I seen in the papers? Gee!" Again he laughed. "Say, matey, they was a piece in the papers last week that called the creek this here thing runs into, the 'beyoutiful Des Plaines.' The 'be-you-tiful Des Plaines!" Again he burst out merrily. "The be-youtiful Des Plaines! Say, what d'ye think of that? Would n't it jar you some?"

It did jar me, indeed; especially as he drew from his pocket a moment later a fragment of Sunday paper containing the article to which he referred a half page of pictures from my camera, a half page of text, and the signature in large and small "caps," "Wanderer." It was a hard blow my hobo friend had delivered. I was roused to a form of selfdefense.

"It seems to strike you pretty well," said I.

"Me? Oh, gee!" Another paroxysm followed this. My hobo friend was very mirthful. "Why, say!" he broke out suddenly, "I wisht you'd seen the rivers I seen. I wisht you had. I wisht you'd seen 'em. I been where you can just lay down on your back and look up at the sky and see mountains all around yes, and real woods, too. I seen places where you would n't never want to do nothin' all day but just lay there, smellin' them flowers, and listenin' to them birds - and just layin' there. Why, I seen places like that where they's trout, and bass, yes, and wild turkeys, too. And then this feller calls it the 'be-youtiful Des Plaines.'

"What are you doing out here, then, if this is so poor and other places so fine?" I demanded.

My nerve of self-esteem had been jarred again.

For a moment my host was almost embarrassed. He laughed consciously, like

a small boy caught enjoying himself at a girl's party. "Me?" he asked. "Me? Why - I'm workin' now. I can't go out where them things is. I just come out here Oh, thunder! I tell you what I come out here for. I come out to wash my shirt."

He pointed to the limb of a neighboring tree, where, sure enough, the garment hung limply in the breeze. I eyed it in silence. I had not yet learned the real philosophy. To me it was only a shirt, recently laundered. I did not see in it then, as I did later, no shirt at all, but a flag, the banner of liberty, of equality, and true happiness. I waited for Hobo Jack to enlighten me.

"You see, I'm really workin'," he began. "I do chores about these here rhubarbian settlements. I start out on Monday, takin' a job to cut grass. Maybe I work all day Monday, maybe not. Some weeks I stick it out till Tuesday, or even to Thursday or Friday, but I get to feelin' uneasy. First off I pretend I do' know what's the matter with me. I shake it off. I say I got to work. But bimeby I can't stand it no longer. 'Hell!' I say to myself. 'I just got to wash my shirt, that's what's the matter with me.'

"So I come out here like this, to some place where they's a brook or a creek or a river, or somethin' wet, and some woods and grass and birds, and they ain't no folks; and I pull that shirt off and slosh it around in the water awhile, and then I hang it up on the branch of

a tree.

"Then I build me a campfire and cook something to eat, and lay down on my back and just enjoy, just plain enjoy, that's all. Sometimes it seems to me as if people in these here settlements did n't really know how to do that to just enjoy. Well I set right here enjoyin' till I think that shirt of mine is dry. Maybe it takes a day, maybe two days likely it's close to a week before I feel real sure that shirt is dry enough so it's safe to put it on again. Then I put it on

more

and go back to town and take a job, till I think it needs washin' again.'

The sun is warm to-day. The wind is very gentle. The orchards are all a-bloom -the cherries falling fast, the pears in their prime, the apples just peeping from pink-tipped buds. There is a big Baltimore oriole in the elm over my window,

hopping from branch to branch, pecking at something, I know not what, but stopping between bites for irregular phrases of his loud-whistled melody. Somehow it lures my mind back to that moment when at the explanation of Hobo Jack the true meaning of an ancient craving flashed upon me.

Old Bleach LIDEDS

From the growth of the flax seed in a kindly soil under the right atmospheric conditions to the delivery of the finished linens the "Old Bleach" process is as perfect as experi ence and skill can make it.

The flax is carefully and properly ripened and is tended by people who have been flax growers and linen makers for generations. It is spon and woven by those with expert skill in their craft, and is bleached by fresh air, sunshine, and showers acting on the woven fabric spread on green turf.

The soft, snowy richness and silky lustre of the finished cloth, and the almost endless wear ing qualities resulting from this painstaking process have long made the "Old Bleach" Lines famous.

Trade Mark "Old Bleach" on all goods

The name guarantees the quality.
All first-class dealers sell them.

Our booklet on the care of Linens sent on regard

GEO. RIGGS & CO., 70 & 72 Franklin St., NEW FIRE