e is in that paper! The
editor ought to be invited to come over and discover America."

"Here's something about America," I protested, "from Chicago, too. A
whole column--'Movements of Cereals.'"

"Yes, and look at that for a nice attractive headline," responded the
Senator with sarcasm. "'Movements of Cereals!' Gives you a great idea of
pace, doesn't it? Why couldn't they have called it 'Grain on the Go'?"

"Did Mr. McConnell get in for Mayor, or Jimmy Fagan?" I inquired,
looking down the column.

"They don't seem to have asked anybody."

"And who got the Post Office?"

"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Oh!" said momma at the window, "these little gray-stone villages are
too sweet for words. Why talk of Chicago? Mr. McConnell and Mr. Fagan
are all very well at home, but now that the ocean heaves between us, and
your political campaign is over, may we not forget them?"

"Forget Mike McConnell and Jimmy Fagan!" replied the Senator, regarding
a passing church spire with an absent smile. "Well, no, Augusta; as far
as I'm concerned I'm afraid it couldn't be done--at all permanently.
There's too much involved. But I see what you mean about turning the
mind out to pasture when the grazing is interesting--getting in a cud,
so to speak, for reflection afterwards. I see your idea."

The Senator is always business-like. He immediately addressed himself
through the other window to the appreciation of the scenery, and I felt,
as I took out my note-book to record one or two impressions, that he
would do it justice.

"No, momma," I was immediately compelled to exclaim, "you mustn't look
over my shoulder. It is paralysing to the imagination."

"Then I won't, dear. But oh, if you could only describe it as it is! The
ruined chateaux, tree-embosomed----" Momma paused.

"The gray church spires, from which at eventide the Angelus comes
pealing--or stealing," she continued. "Perhaps 'stealing' is better."

"Above all the poplars--the poplars are very characteristic, dear. And
the women toilers in the sunset fields garnering up the golden grain.
You might exclaim, 'Why are they always in blue?' Have you got that
down?"

"They were making hay," poppa corrected. "But I suppose the public won't
know the difference, any more than you did."

Momma leaned forward, clasping her smelling-bottle, and looked out of
the window with a smile of exaltation.

"The cows," she went on, "the proud-legged Norman cows standing
knee-deep in