Entering the "store," which emitted "an ancient and fish-like smell," evidently salt mackerel, I inquired of a boy with a sore eye if "this" was a hotel, and if I could have some breakfast. He replied, quite cheerily: "Yes, sir," and opening a door at the far end of the store, bade me walk in. Entering I found a small dining-room, with a long table and a dozen chairs for furniture, poor enough to promise a very slim breakfast. The boy with the sore eye accompanied me into the room and hung about so persistently that I became immediately prejudiced against him, and was very glad to turn away from the spectacle of his inflamed optic to the face of a stout, motherly-looking woman, who now put in an appearance and asked me if I wanted breakfast.

The reply was in the affirmative, and handing me a morning paper, she said if I would "read a little while, breakfast would be got ready." As it was still quite early in the day, and I was in no hurry, I went out into the store and again encountered the boy with the sore eye,

"How far is it, boy, to Mr. Garfield's place and how do you get there from here?"

"The general's place is about two and a half miles from here and we take people up. Do you wish to go up? if so, I will take you in a buggy. Took two gentlemen up yesterday and was there nearly all day. Drove them over to Willoughby, so they could take the evening train for Cleveland."

As I wished to go to Cleveland in the evening, I inquired if I could not come back and take the train at Mentor.

"No," he replied, "the express for Cleveland does not stop here, only at Willoughby, four miles below."

The boy was so intelligent and pleasant that my prejudice against him began to give way, and I almost forgave him for the misfortune of his sore eye.

"Breakfast for the gentleman," said a cheery voice, and I saw at the door for a moment the head of the stout woman. Thereupon the boy showed me in with all the dignity of a landlord, the stout woman all the while apologizing profusely for the meagreness of the breakfast. The "fresh meat had not come down from Cleveland," where they got it; she was very sorry. I did not mind this, however, as there were plenty of poached eggs, hot biscuit, fresh butter, coffee and bread, and all of country quality.

After breakfasting I examined the only two pictures the room boasted-rude paper cuts, of a frontiersman's cabin and the "Arkansas Traveler." I went out to find the boy all ready with his buggy to convey me to Garfield's home.

The drive was over a flat country, which had evidently once been overflowed, and a part of the bottom of the lake-now distant about two miles. The boy told me all about it. It "was Mentor all along there, not a regular town but a thickly

settled neighborhood." There were houses every hundred rods or so, and little farms, orchards and gardens around them. The General, as Garfield was called, was the big man of the place, and owned one hundred and sixty acres of land. While driving along the Mentor road one day in 1877, he observed the quiet country beauty of the place, and thought he would like to live there. He bought one hundred and twenty acres, and afterward added forty. There was a cottage on the ground, and it made a very comfortable home for the family until the general went to Washington, when he ordered it removed and a better building put in its place.

We soon arrived at Lawnfield and my loquacious companion deposited me in front of the house. I went to a little office just behind the house, though in view, and inquired for the general.

"He's out on the farm," replied one of the two secretaries busy at work writing, "I will go and find him."

During the minute the secretary was absent I examined the house with my eyes. It was two and a half stories high and in an unfinished state. The walls were painted white and relieved by a roof of a dark Turkish red. The lawn about was liberally dotted with fruit trees, in the spreading branches of one of which-a cherry-a boy was busy plucking the luscious fruit. Several girls clustered beneath sharing the work and the re