Evening star., 1919-10-12
ROSS1NG a field that was
bright with the gold and pur-
pie Of fall flowers, the Ram

bordered by pines, through whose
green boughs a gentle wind sang soft
and low. A mile Of road and pines,
woods and broad patches of fading
corn and grasses that were turning
gray and he came to a little stream.
that after long wandering through
the shadows of woods and pines flow-
ed under the road and passed on to
join the Patuxent near Brock bridge,
there, in company with so many other
spring-born branches, to begin it's
journey to the sea.
A few yards beyond the junction OF
the little branch and the road, an old
carriageway turns to the right. Two
gray. warped gate-posts and sag
ging and decrepit gate mark this
point of the road. The gate is open
and II old gates could talk as plainly
as they can creak on rusty hinges this
one perhaps would say, Il stand open
not because am too old and frail and
cracked and warped to guard the way,
but because the people who built me
here, and those who fell heir to me,
and those who own me now, are hos
pitable folk and they hold it to be
better manners in an old gate to
stand open, than shut. Pass in, sir"
The Rambler touched his hat to the
old gate and passed in. The carriage
way led up slight grade and was
thickly and loosely surfaced with
water-worn stones of quartzite.
nodules of flint and pieces of that red
dish brown rock. common in the coun-
try with which this ramble deals,
called iron stone,' which, by the way,
is a colloquial term now applied to
many rocks containing iron oxide or
iron carbonate. but which was origi-
nally applied to sandy clay cemented
by iron carbonate or siderite. And
such was the iron-stone which the
Rambler saw among the Qaartzite and
the flint.
\
The road from the gate passes into
an oak grove. Perhaps oak forest
would be the better phrase. because
the oak-grown area is much greater
than that which men usually call
grove or a copse. Among the many
things which the Rambler does not
know, which he is willing to submit
he does not know. and which he is
not going to put himself to serious
trouble to find out. is where grove
ends and forest begins. The oaks
that stretch their black arms above
the carriageway have something to
commend them besides their strength
and age. These old trees dropped
their shadows in summer and their
leaves in autumn on the coach of Gen.
George Washington. In winter their
dry leaves made a deep and crinkling
mat over this road. and the hoofs of
Washingtons horses and the wheels
of his carriage stirred them into CIV
ing forth that very pleasant sound
which is the habit of dry leaves. The
oaks that grow along this road have
brown, crisp carpet in the way of
many men and women who have place
in American annals. Their fame Is
not universal like that of Washing
ton, but their memory is embalmed in
Maryland history and held in good re-
membrance by all the sons and
daughters who know the story Of
their grand old state.
A drowsy wind from the south was
rustling the foliage of these oaks
and the thought came to the Rambler
that perhaps the trees were talking
to each other about the men they
had known and the things they had
seen in other and far-gone days. 1t is
the habit Of old men to talk about
such things and 1t may also be. for
aught the Rambler knows to the con-
trary. the habit of old trees. One very
strong oak. whose age could not have
been very much more than a hun
dred years or so. was telling how
we'll 1t remembered Washington, who
frequently passed that way. and 1t
said that the great man dismounted
from his horse. picked up some Of it's
acorns to plant at Mount Vernon and
that some of its children-trees were
now performing their stately service