The next summer Arthur and Walton made their famous ride through to Crystal Lake, Conn. Here is an outline of their exploit, which was considered a great achievement, considering the rainy weather and the rough roads they encountered between Chicago and Toledo and between Silver Creek and Memphis, N. Y.

Here I reproduce the letters which Arthur sent back while on the road:

Perrysburg, Ohio, June 17, 1896.

Dear Father:—

Walton and I were very much surprised at the end of our first day's ride at Mishawaka, Ind., to read in the Tribune so much about your winning the 100-mile race over all the crack Illinois bicycle riders. The paper was shown us by our friends at Mishawaka, and at first we thought there was a mistake that father had won the closely contested race, but Walton said: "No use talking, Uncle Merrick is fast—but it is not all in his legs; it is his indomitable will power that wins." Then we pictured to ourselves the occasion and "he 55 years old," said I. "Well, God gave him a strong constitution, and he has taken care of it."

Batavia, N. Y., June 19, 1896.

Dear Folks at Home:—

This letter is especially for mother, Minnie and Bertie, while the ones about bicycle riding go to father.

We are stopping here at Uncle John's at Batavia, and the rest is very welcome. We were mighty tired and this is the first day we have had a chance to rest since we left home.

I tell you, mother, I have a couple of fine cousins in Carrie and Ida. I don't think Walton will ever forget Ida's kindness. He was so sore from riding his wheel that when he got here he couldn't sit down. He had to sleep standing, but Ida made him the dandiest pillow and sewed it on to his bicycle saddle, so poor Walton is all right now.

We are going to see Grandmother Hoyt at Elba tomorrow. You know it is only six miles north. Well, mother, the Hoyts are all in good standing around here, and I feel mighty proud of you all. Aunt Alida seems young as ever, and the bloom of youth is on her cheek. But, say, you would think I was writing a novel, wouldn't you?

Uncle John and I sat up nearly all night, and he certainly told me some very interesting things about the Hoyts and Deweys, and many incidents of you in your childhood days, when you lived in Rochester, before you came to Pine Hill. He says the childhood home of Grandfather Hoyt was at Hudson, on the Hudson River, and that his family came from Danbury, Connecticut. Grandmother Hoyt was a Dewey from Ohio, and her father was from Watertown, N. Y., whose ancestors sprang from the Herkimer County Mohawk Dutch.

Now, why can't we claim a connecting link, for we all know that my great grandfather, John Richardson's brother, Gershom, moved from Stafford, Connecticut, to Watertown, N. Y., and I have heard father say that he, Warren Richardson, my grandfather, with some other men, walked up to Watertown one winter, over 300 miles, and staid a month or so with their cousins. They were a large family.

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I wish Uncle John lived where I could see him often. He is so full of information on all subjects, that I just love to talk with him. It made me laugh when he told me about how you, Ellen Wilder, Mary Robe and Mary Raymond, actually carried old Pine Hill by storm several winters.

Then he got to talking about the war and I really cried when he described the battle of Cold Harbor, June 3, 1864. Just think of it, four brothers—John, Sylvester, and the twins, Edwin and Edward—standing there at daylight waiting for the order to charge the enemy's breast works. Uncle John said that they all thought it meant death. Colonel Porter must have been a brave man; he stood in front and said, "Boys, this is our last charge, but we are going to obey orders." He unwisely wore his uniform in leading; Uncle John said that he hadn't gone thirty feet before he was pierced with seven or eight bullets.

Uncle John was captured and sent to Salisbury prison for nearly two years. When he came out his mother said he looked like a monkey. He only weighed seventy-nine pounds. Sylvester was shot in the thigh, Edwin was shot through the lungs, and poor Edward; we have never heard from him. Wasn't that an awful price for your family to pay for the Union? Uncle said "that from 1,900 of us boys of that 22d New York Heavy Artillery, over 600 were killed in half an hour, and at the next roll call at Reams Station, only nineteen men of the regiment answered the call."

Well, I can't write any more. Walton has already gone to bed and we have got to start at four o'clock tomorrow morning. We expect to visit Uncle Sherman at Rochester tomorrow. We are in the best of spirits, and the way we have been going so far we ought to make Connecticut in about twelve or thirteen days from Chicago.

Walton and I are awfully proud of father for winning the Century from all the fast boys of the Cycling Club, but we don't pride ourselves on these short spurts. Our specialty is thousand-mile affairs, and if he wants to race us he has got to race the whole thousand. Good night.

Your loving son,————Arthur.

Rochester, N. Y., June 21, 1896.

Dear Father:—

We called on our Uncle Sherman Richardson, and he was very proud of us, introducing us to many of his friends, saying that the blood in our veins was the same as ran in his, and that showed the kind of stuff his family was made of. I received your letter at Cleveland, telling us about your century run, and advising us to reserve our strength until we reached your time of life. It naturally stiffened our backbone for the remaining part of our ride.

Memphis, N. Y., June 24, 1896.

Dear Father:—

I must write just a word, for Walton has had a lucky escape. We were pushing along sleepily today when a big Newfoundland dog came near killing Walton. I looked around just in time to see Walton plunge over an embankment into a snarl of milkweeds, briars and rocks, head down, with his wheel on top of him. He said the dog barked so fiercely that when he made the plunge he actually thought he felt the ugly beast's breath on the seat of his pants. We soon discovered that the dog was tied to a tree, so we went about to repair his wheel. The front wheel must have been caught between two rocks, when Walton's weight on it (for a frightened man weighs heavy) doubled up the forks like a jack knife. We got a blacksmith to heat and hammer it out and now both Walton and the wheel are in a good ridable condition, and we shall light out again early in the morning. Are you getting my postals, which I am sending back from every town? This is to prove to the club boys that we rode to Connecticut on our wheels and not on the train.

Crystal Lake, Conn., June 28, 1896.

Dear Father:—

We arrived here this evening, having made the run, 1,017 miles, in thirteen days and this is our record:

Our last day was the most severe we experienced. There was a drizzling rain all day, in which we rode from Nassau, and, of course, you know we had to zigzag over the Green Mountains.

We stopped a few moments to see Uncle Epaphro and Aunt Adelia and she gave us the first free lunch we had had since we left Batavia. When we arrived here Uncle Lucius and Aunt Caroline were surprised to see us looking so well. Then to prove to them that we were well as we looked Walton and I turned hand-springs on the grass in the front yard, and now we are going to bed. Good-night, remember me to the boys, and kiss all the girls for me that are worth kissing.

Affectionately, your son,

Arthur.

P. S.—Uncle Collins says the mountains, wildwoods, brooks, lakes and meadows around your old home are still teeming with fruit, flowers, song birds, wild game, and shy fish. He says to tell you to come down and take a good rest.