They're all in Keds

Father, mother, Billy and Sis-they're all wearing Keds. It's the same wherever you go.

These good-looking canvas rubbersoled shoes are the shoes for summer. They're comfortable beyond words.

You always feel at ease in Keds-at home or at the office-on the links or boardwalk-at lawn parties, outings, sports of all sorts.

Keds will please you. They're shoes of recognized value.

Ask for Keds at any good shoe-store. Out of the many styles you should be able to find just what you want. In buying, look for the name "Keds" stamped on the sole.

United States Rubber Company

Keds

An Auto-Burro
Honeymoon

(Continued from page 42)

minute description of every stone and every bump, together with a careful cataloging of the distances between each two trees on all the territory covered. It must, of course, be reciprocal. Nothing was ever truer than that road-talk begets road-talk.

A hyperbolic gentleman who gave us road-talk at Fallen Leaf had described the Tioga as a place where "You go up, up, up, up, a hundred thousand feet; and then you come down, down, down, down, a hundred million feet. When you stand in the bottom of the canyon you look up a sheer face of rock. Somewhere near the top is a little ink-line across the cliff. That's the Tioga." We were prepared for deep-scarred roads and impossible grades. After the trip from Bridgeport to Hammond's, the Tioga road is a boulevard. We did meet four women in a Ford half. way up the grade, all crying because they could not go up and were afraid to turn round and go back. But for the crafty Everton, whom I said at the very outset was a magical creature, it was simple sailing. It is the everlasting tragedy of the most beautiful spots in the world that they are heralded from sea to sea. Hearing so much praise, the mind adds a little more and the actuality is disappointing. So it was with the Tioga, through no fault of the road itself. It is stupendous, a rugged cliff-hewn pass; but we had let our imaginations run riot beforehand.

Not so with Lake Tenaya. No one had told us about Lake Tenaya except that it was a place to stop. We worked up to it gradually, riding through the outskirts of Yosemite National Park; through Tuolumne Meadows, flower-starred stretches of cushiony grass; through Upper Soda Springs, up to the wee brown tents on the edge of Lake Tenaya. Tenaya is blue and small and granitebanked. It looks like a part of the land of Honeymoon. Fresh, airy tents face the water, where rows of boats rock invitingly. We accepted the invitation and rowed out to where we could look over to Cloud's Rest in Yosemite. That night a scarlet camp-fire blazed on the beach and the little crowd of a dozen people sat about in groups, talking with hushed voices, watching the signs of the on-coming moon-a glow on the tips of the cliffs opposite, a spreading luminosity in the sky, a tiny moon-path on the water and finally the big silver ball itself, soaring over the rim of the basin.

T is only some twelve or fifteen miles to Yosemite from Tenaya as man walks; it is sixty by automobile. We elected to stay with the car and drove all day through endless pine forest. We had wondered if we should find a very nice spot to picnic at lunch time; our only difficulty was in deciding where not to picnic. Every turn in the road, and there were many, every summit of every hill, and there were more, swung us into position for a more glorious sweep of view.

COLT

"TheWorld's Right Arm

STREN

TRENGTH! Might sustained by right. The Huns backed across the Rhine facing two million straight-shooting Yanks. To supply Colt's Firearms to the gallant boys who went over there was our business. To use them right was theirs. Did they? THEY DID.

And now we are making COLTS so you can own a Colt Automatic Pistol or Colt Revolver.

Do not accept "the next best." You want Colt protection for your home. For accuracy, dependability and safetyevery world struggle since 1836 has proved there is nothing like a Colt. Its glorious associations will make you proud to own one.

It would be well to tell your
dealer the size and model Colt
Automatic Pistol or Colt Re-
volver you prefer to guide him
in his order.

COLT'S PATENT FIREARMS
MFG. CO.

HARTFORD, CONN., U. S. A.

Manufacturers of

Colt's Revolvers

Colt's Automatic Pistols

Over

There

Over

Here

Trade Mark Registered

Colt's (Browning) Automatic Machine Guns Colt's (Browning) Automatic Machine Rifles

The final dip into Yosemite Valley is so steep that the Government only permits machines to go down on the odd hours and come up on the even. At the last Ranger's station we had just twenty-five minutes to go ten miles for the three o'clock control; that or wait by the roadside until five. We arrived at the control station five minutes late, literally breathless from swinging round curves and hitting dust-covered holes. The Ranger was evidently waiting for us. He sat tilted back in his chair with his feet against a tree, smoking a cigar.

"Can we go

down?"

He pulled out his watch, very bored. "Five minutes late."

I pleaded, Peter pleaded, Everton pleaded. The Ranger continued to look blasé and said nothing. I thought all the world loves a lover. Perhaps married lovers are out of the reckoning. We ran the whole gamut of jesting, pleading, fuming. Finally he got up and took the receiver off the telephone. "You can go," he said.

Every moment of that descent of the Big Oak Flat road seemed like crawling down the crater of a volcano. The bracing sting of the altitude in which we had lived since we left Sacramento, the fresh mountain feeling, was swamped in a sense of having fallen into a well on the floor of the valley. We had planned to stop at the hotel; but that was one straw too much in the smothering process. We took our mail and hurried on to a camp at the foot of one of the falls where a swimming tank and a tent made the transition from Honeymoon to Touristland less abrupt.

IF

F ever mortals "did" Yosemite, we were guilty the next morning. We sped from view to view until I quite lost my bearings. Oh, for the enchantment of Desolation Valley! But on the long, leisurely walk over the Pohono Trail we found ourselves again. Just beyond Inspiration Point we had left the car to bump over the road all day and meet us at Glacier Point Hotel in the evening. Peter had assured me that the Pohono Trail ran over rolling country. Doubtless it did; but from Fort Monroe to Glacier Point it rolled consistently in one direction-and that direction was up. Never, however, was twelve miles of walking more richly rewarded. Not a soul crossed our path all day to make us realize we were in farheralded Touristland. For a while it seemed we were in the densest forest. Then suddenly a break, and we found ourselves sitting on the rim of the valley looking into endless space and grandeur. So it went all day: meadows, woods, streams, then a quick turn and we were gasping at the edge of the world.

It was nearing six when we strode into the Glacier Point Hotel, starved and grimy. Then suddenly we felt abashed. It would have seemed wholly natural to tumble into an ice-cold stream at the end of a long walk, warm the beans over a camp-fire and crawl into a sleeping bag; but this breath of elegance set on a mountain-top was overwhelming. The great hall was flickering in the light of a blazing fire; through the open doors we could see guests at little tables on the wide piazza. Bell boys, the sound of strings from the dining-room, the press-the-button_sense of well-oiled machinery-apparently we had been suddenly set again in that false