necessity, for the road now leads up that broad, sweeping hill on the left with a surface of from three to six inches of sandy gravel nearly to its summit. I never saw this hill in condition for the bicyclist to climb. The one particular spot that annoys the rider is on the level at the foot of the incline; here the sandy surface always measures from six to ten inches in depth, through which it is almost impossible to propel the rubberrimmed machine. At the top another grand view is obtained of the surrounding country, and it is a picture always recalled to the mind of the beholder.

Mounting the wheel again, the rider continues the way along a narrow tree-bordered road with a fairly good surface, and soon reaches the crossing of the Essex branch of the Boston & Maine railroad. The station to the right, at this point, is known as "Woodbury's Crossing," where the wheelman may take the train for Salem or beyond, if he feels so disposed. A few minutes' ride from this point and the trip nears its end, for at the first road turning off at the left the wheelman will notice a signboard that points the way to the "Chebacco House and the Lakes." Into this the way continues, and now the 'cyclist catches a most delightful spin over the well-hardened track; how the thick woods on our right seem to fly past us as we proceed along, and how deliciously cool does the sweetly scented breeze come to us as we rapidly coast that gently falling grade adown the wooded road; on we glide with "legs over," around the projecting point of the lake waters and up the little rise ahead, then again with "legs over" do we take advantage of the sand-papered slope before us, and so we reach "Whipple's," our face a trifle flushed with the excitement of the last half-mile spurt. Here our machine is given into the hands of the genial 'Lonzo-who, by the way, is a warm friend of the wheeling fra

ternity and then after a wash up at the hotel beyond, we are ready for the stroll around on foot.

I suppose almost everybody has heard more or less of Chebacco Pond and the famous hotel at this place kept by Messrs. A. L. & S. A. F. Whipple, and of the broiled chicken dinners of those caterers, that long ago made the reputation of the house -a reputation held strong to-day, it being the one great drawing card of the establishment. Day after day, through the long Summer months, on Sundays especially, are the dining rooms of this hostlery well filled with happy hungry beings, whose merry prattle and joyous laughter make the old walls fairly ring as the toothsome viands are being disposed of. Wheelmen are cordially welcomed at this hotel, as any and every thing will be done for them by the painstaking management.

The rambles around the Chebacco lakes are many, and afford much enjoyment to the sight-seer. You walk down to the large pond, and much of interest presents itself. Afar off on the further side of the lake, as you sit upon the structure built into the water at this point, is noticed the buildings at Centennial Grove, the camp ground of the Salem Cadets for the past two seasons. The lad will furnish you with sail or row boat for a pleasing sail upon the deep blue surface, or for fishing, as one feels disposed; perch, pickerel and trout abound in these lakes, and considerable sport is thus open to the visitor. The way leading through the woods to Manchester is a particularly romantic walk for the rambling tourist; on this road, which is ridable for the wheelman a considerable portion of the way, will be noticed the placid, glass-like surface of "Gravel Pond," a sheet of water almost shut in entirely from its outside surroundings by several high tree-covered hills.

The Indian name of Chebacco means "Place of Spirits,"

though why it should thus be called is not the purport of this article to explain. The lake, covering nearly two hundred and sixty acres, is mostly within the limits of the town of Hamilton.

Other points of interest in the vicinity will be cheerfully shown the visitor by the proprietors of the Chebacco House, and all should be seen to be fully appreciated.

IV-A WHEEL AROUND CAPE ANN.

If the wheelman would see the most characteristic features of Cape Ann, the trip around the shore road should not be omitted. The route is the most enjoyable of any wheel-run in the vicinity, and leads through a rural district of constantly changing scenery-a country of woods, hills, massive ledges and loose gigantic bowlders, with a grandly impressive picture of ocean scenery for nearly the entire sixteen miles.

The start is made as before, at the Gloucester Hotel, and the ride is first along Main street over the route described in a former chapter as the way to Eastern Point, to the junction of East Main street with Eastern avenue, thence up the latter named thoroughfare to the main county highway leading to the town of Rockport. The road surface begins to improve from this point, and the wheelman rapidly pedals over the narrow side path and soon gets away entirely from the vicinity of the scattered dwelling houses that frequent the locality.

Passing Webster's ice-houses on the left, the tourist continues the route up and down the many gradual rises, through the patches of newly-laid road material, and on, over the pleasing smooth portions of the country road until the short and rough descent is reached near the ice pond of Mr. Day. Beyond this pond the road continues its winding course, and then the rider reaches a more open section of country. Now the first of a se

ries of most enjoyable pictures presents itself to the eye of the beholder: Away off to the right is seen a long white stretch of sandy beach, with the ocean and islands beyond and the attractive Bass Rock settlement at East Gloucester; back of us, and to our left, rise great rugged-looking hills and mammoth ledges; while all around us, on either hand, are countless numbers of loosely lying bowlders of almost every conceivable shape and size.

We now speed upon a newly-built piece of road at this point, extending around a massive hill of rock, and soon pass the picturesque-looking residence of the Hon. John J. Babson, the historian of Gloucester, amid the waving branches of the thickly growing trees at our right; just beyond, a guide-board flits by us with its "Rockport, 21⁄2 miles," then with a flying spurt we easily climb the little hill ahead and soon come to a treebordered section of the route.

The roadway for the next mile is generally in a poor condition for bicycle riding, though with care the greater portion of that distance may be gotten over without a dismount from the machine; the pace, however, must be a slow one, for the sandy surface hides innumerable sharply pointed stones and loose pebbles, that are sure to cause the rider a serious mishap if he without warning attempts to ride rapidly over them.

We cross the boundary line between Gloucester and Rockport in this vicinity, and in a few minutes reach Beaver Dam Farm on the left-hand side, with its quaint looking stone structure bearing the inscription, "Beaver Dam, 1832," reminding one most forcibly of an oasis amid the surrounding country of hills and ledges. Opposite Beaver Dam, snugly nestling within the deep shadows of the high forest-covered hills, lies the famous