"The trunks are checked through, Roger," said Mrs. Morton to her older son, "so you won't have to bother about them here."

"Good enough," replied Roger, who was making his first trip, in entire charge of the party and who was eager that every arrangement should run smoothly. After a consultation with his grandmother who had been to Chautauqua before, he announced,

"The trolley is waiting behind the station. We can get on board at once."

Roger was a merry-faced boy of seventeen and his mother smiled at the look of responsibility that gave him an expression like his father. Mrs. Morton sighed a little, too, for although she was accustomed to the long absences required of a naval officer yet she never went upon one of these summer migrations without missing the assistance of the father of the family.

Lieutenant Morton had been with the fleet at Vera Cruz for several months, but although there had been rumors that our ships would be withdrawn and sent north, which might mean a short leave for the Lieutenant, it had not come to pass, and it looked as if he would have to spend the summer under the Mexican sun. His wife drew a little comfort from the fact that his brother, Ethel's father, Captain Richard Morton, was with the land forces under General Funston, so that the two men could see each other occasionally.

"How far do we have to go on the trolley, Mother?" asked Dicky, the six-year-old, who had already announced his intention of being a motorman when he grew up, and who always chose a front seat where he could watch the operations that made the car go.

"I forget, dear. Ask Grandmother."

"Twelve miles, son, and over a road that is full of history for Helen. Grandfather will tell her all about it. We are turning into it now. Do you see the name on the tree?"

"'Portage Street,'" read Helen.

The party made a brave showing in the car. Helen, who was almost as tall as Roger and who was in the high school, sat on the front seat with Dicky so that he could superintend the motorman's activities. Mrs. Morton and Roger sat behind them, he with his hands full of the long tickets which were to take them all to Chautauqua and home again. Back of them were the two girl cousins of nearly the same age, about thirteen, both named Ethel Morton and strikingly alike in appearance. Their schoolmates had nicknamed them from the color of their eyes, "Ethel Brown" and "Ethel Blue." "Ethel Brown" was Lieutenant Morton's daughter, and sister of Roger and Helen and Dicky. "Ethel Blue" was Captain Morton's daughter and she had lived almost all her life with her cousins, because her mother had died when she was a tiny baby.

Grandfather and Grandmother Emerson, Mrs. Morton's father and mother, were in the last seat of the four, Grandmother eagerly looking out of the window to recall the sights that she had seen on her previous trip to Chautauqua, ten years before.

"Why is it called 'Portage Street'?" asked Helen, when everybody was comfortably settled. Helen was fond of history and had just taken a prize offered to the first year class of the high school for the best account of the Indians in the colonial days of that part of New Jersey where the Mortons lived.

"'Portage' comes from the French word 'carry,' as you high school people know," answered grandfather. "A portage is a place where you have to carry your boat around some obstruction. For instance, suppose you were an Indian traveling in a canoe from Lake Ontario to Lake Erie, you would have to carry your canoe around the rapids of the Niagara River because your little craft could not live in that tremendous current, and around Niagara Falls because—"

"Because it couldn't climb a tree," laughed Roger.

"Just about that," accepted grandfather.

"Are there any waterfalls around here?" asked Ethel Brown.

"Not any waterfalls, but the very land we are on was an obstacle to the Indians who wanted to travel from Canada southward."

"Oh, I begin to see," said Helen. "They paddled across Lake Erie—"

"That was Lake Erie we were riding side of this morning," interrupted Ethel Blue.

"Yes, that was Lake Erie and the gray cloud that we could see way over the water was Canada."

"O-oh," cried both Ethels at once; "we've seen Canada!"

"When they reached the American shore," went on grandfather, "they had to carry their canoes over the twelve miles of country that we are passing over now until they reached the head of Chautauqua Lake."

"Where we are going!"

"Just beyond the village of Mayville we shall see the very spot where they put their canoes into the water again and tumbled in themselves to paddle southward."

"Weren't their feet tired?" asked practical Dicky.

"I guess they were, old man," returned Roger, leaning forward to tweak his ear affectionately.

"If they were," went on grandfather, "they had plenty of time to rest them, for they didn't have to leave their boats again unless they wanted to until they got to the Gulf of Mexico."

"The Gulf of Mexico!" rose a chorus that included every member of the party except Dicky whose knowledge of geography was limited to a very small section of Rosemont, the New Jersey town he lived in.

"It's a fact," insisted Mr. Emerson. "The outlet of Lake Chautauqua is the little stream called the Chadakoin River. It flows into Conewango Creek, and that loses itself in the Allegheny River."

"I know what happens then," cried Ethel Brown; "the Allegheny and the Monongahela join to form the Ohio and the Ohio empties into the Mississippi—"

"And the Mississippi empties into the Gulf of Mexico!" concluded Ethel Blue triumphantly.

"Good children," commented Roger patronizingly as he turned around to give a condescending pat on the two girls' heads. Finding that their hats prevented this brotherly and cousinly attention he contented himself with tweaking each one's hair before he turned back as if he had accomplished a serious duty.

"Can't you see the picture in your mind!" murmured Helen, looking out of the window. "Just imagine all those tall brown men carrying their canoes on their shoulders and tramping through the forest that must have covered all this region then."

"More interesting men than Indians went over this stretch of country in the olden days," said Mrs. Emerson.

"Who? Who?" cried the Ethels, and Dicky asked, "Was it the President?" Mr. Wilson, the former Governor of his own state, having been the most interesting personage he had ever seen.

"In a minute Grandfather will tell you about the Frenchmen who came here, but I want you to notice the farms we are going through now before we climb the hill and leave them behind."

"I never saw so many grape vines in all my life," said Roger.

"No wonder," commented his grandmother. "This is one of the greatest grape-growing districts of the whole United States."

"You don't say so!" cried Roger. "Why is it? Is the soil especially good for them?"

"Do you remember how flat it was in the village of Westfield? We are only just now beginning to climb a little, and you see we are some distance from the station and the station is some distance from the lake."

"That must mean that there's a strip of flat land lying along the lake," guessed Roger.

"That's it exactly," said his grandmother. "It's a strip about a hundred miles long and from two to four miles wide, and it is called the Grape Belt."

"I saw a man in the train this morning reading a newspaper called that," said grandfather.

"I suppose it is published in one of the towns in the Belt," suggested Mrs. Morton. "I've been told that some of the very best grapes in the country were grown here."

"I've read in our geology that sometimes the soil is peculiarly rich in places where there had been water long ages ago," said Roger. "Perhaps this flat strip used to be a part of Lake Erie."

"I dare say," agreed grandfather. "At any rate the soil seems to be just what the grapes like best, and you can see for yourself as we climb up that these vines look less and less thrifty."

"How queerly they train them," commented Ethel Blue. "I've only seen grapes on arbors before."

"You've only seen them where they were wanted for ornament as well as use," said Mr. Emerson. "Along the Rhine and in the French vineyards the vines are trained on posts."

"Letting them run along those wires that connect the posts must give a better chance to every part of the plant, it seems to me," said Mrs. Emerson.

"Do you notice that the rows are wide enough apart for a wagon to drive between them? When they are picking, that arrangement saves the work of carrying the baskets to the cart. These are the days when you have to make your head save your heels if you want to compete successfully in the business world."

"That's a good stunt in scientific management, isn't it?" commented Roger, who had almost made up his mind to enter the factory of one of his grandfather's friends and who read carefully everything he came across about labor-saving machines and time-saving devices.

"I wonder if Westfield isn't the place where Secretary Bryan gets his grape juice," said Mrs. Morton. "I noticed a big establishment of some kind after we left the station."

"There are two or three grape juice factories there," said her mother, "so I shouldn't be a bit surprised."

"It's good stuff," and Roger's lips moved as if he were remembering the grape juice lemonade that was a pleasant part of the refreshments at the high school graduation reception.

"I've never been here in picking time," went on Mrs. Emerson, "but I've been told that it is something like the hop picking in Kent in England."

"I've read about that," said Helen. "People who aren't well go down there and live out of doors and the fresh air and the fragrance of the hops does them a lot of good."

"It's much the same here. People come from Buffalo and Cleveland to 'work in grapes' as they call it."

"I should think it would be pretty hard work."

"It must be, for the picker has to be on his feet all day, but he is paid according to the amount he picks, so his employer does not lose if he sits down to rest occasionally or stops to look over at the lake."

Mrs. Emerson made a gesture that caused them all to turn their heads in the direction they were leaving.

"What is it, Grandmother? A cloud?" asked Helen.

Grandmother smiled and shook her head.

"Look again," she insisted.

"I see, I see," cried Ethel Brown. "The front part is water, blue water, and that's Canada way, way off beyond."

Sure enough it was, for the car had climbed so high that they could look right over Westfield to the vineyards that lay between the railroad track and the lake, and then on across the water to the dim coast line of another country.

"There's a steamer! Oh, see, Mother," cried Roger, pointing to a feather of black smoke that hung against the sky.

"And I believe that's a sail boat with the sun on it quite near the shore on this side," returned Mrs. Morton.

"We must make an excursion some day this summer to Barcelona," said Mrs. Emerson. "When I was here before we had a delightful picnic there."

"Where is it?" asked her husband.

"That sail is just off it, I should say," she replied. "It is a tiny fishing village, with nets hung up picturesquely to dry and cliffs on one side and a beach on the other."

"I wonder how it got its name," questioned Roger, who always gathered bits of stray information as he went along and never lost anything because of shyness in asking questions.

"They say," replied his grandmother, "that Barcelona was the very spot at which the Indians from Canada used to land when they came over to make a visit on this side of the great lake."

"The place was known long ago, then."

"Apparently. So it wasn't strange that when some Spanish and Portuguese fishermen a long time afterwards wanted to establish a fishing business somewhere along the shore they chose this locality."

"Can we fish when we go there?" asked Ethel Blue.

"If Grandfather and Roger will take you out. Or we can all go in a motor boat."

"Wow, wow, wow!"

This was an expression of joy from Dicky who was happy if he could go anywhere with Roger, happier if his grandfather went, too, and happiest if the excursion was in a boat. His father's love of the water had become his, also.

"Right on the top of this hill," said grandmother, whose memory was serving her well after ten years, "there used to be an inn in the old stagecoach days. A man named Button kept it."

"Button's Inn," murmured Mrs. Morton. "Why does that sound familiar to me?"

"Probably you've read Judge TourgÉe's novel of that name. The scene was laid hereabouts, and the drawing is all good because the author lived in Mayville."

"Where's that?" asked Ethel Blue.

"We're coming to it in a few minutes."

"Don't you remember Grandfather said the Indians used to put their canoes in Lake Chautauqua just after they passed Mayville?" said Ethel Brown severely.

Roger roared.

"He did," insisted Ethel, flushing.

"As if Mayville was built then," chortled Roger, and all the rest of them laughed unsympathetically except Mrs. Morton who leaned back and nodded to her daughter.

"Never mind," she said. "We can't be expected to know every date in the history book, can we?"

The town of Mayville, perched on its ridge with distant views visible between the houses, and fields and low hills rolling away from its elevation, seemed bright and attractive to the travellers. The new courthouse stood resplendent in the heart of the village, and just beyond it the road fell to the head of Chautauqua Lake.

"Here's where your Indian friends got in their fine work," called Roger who had been going from one side of the car to the other so that nothing might escape his eyes.

Ethel would have liked to stick out her tongue at him, but she knew that her mother had a strong objection to that expression of disapproval so she contented herself with scowling terribly at her brother.

"What is the story about the Frenchmen, Grandfather?" asked Helen. "You forgot to tell us."

"So I did, but Grandmother says that we are so near to Chautauqua now, so I shall have to postpone it until we have a rainy evening."

"Are we really almost there?" cried the two Ethels, rushing to the other side of the car. "See, how near the lake is. See, there's a high fence with buildings behind it—a funny old fence!"

"That's the famous Chautauqua fence, I suspect," said Mrs. Morton, smiling.

"Why famous? How long is it? What's that little tent on the other side? Oh, what funny, tiny houses!"

Everybody chattered and nobody paid much attention to grandmother although she answered patiently every question.

"It's famous because there isn't another town in the United States that is surrounded by a fence. It's a mile along the road and about a half mile at each end from the road to the lake. That's a fence guard's tent. What's a fence guard? A man to show the nearest way to the gate to people who want to take a short cut through the fence. That's Piano-town. The people who are studying music practice in those little houses where they won't annoy their neighbors in the living cottages."

"Here we are," cried grandfather. "Have you all got your bundles? Don't forget your hat, Dicky."

"'All ashore that's going ashore,'" quoted Roger who had seen many steamers sail, and then he suddenly grew quiet and assisted his mother with his best manner, for on the platform were several young men who looked as if they might be good friends if they were impressed at the start that he was worth while and not just a kid; and there were also some girls of Helen's age and a little older whose appearance he liked extremely.