Road-rights
Stopping over night at Angola I proceed to Buffalo next morning, catching the first glimpse of that important "seaport of the lakes," where, fifteen miles across the bay, the wagon-road is almost licked by the swashing waves; and entering the city over a "misfit" plank-road, off which I am almost upset by the most audaciously indifferent woman in the world. A market woman homeward bound with her empty truck-wagon, recognizes my road-rights to the extent of barely room to squeeze past between her wagon and the ditch; and holds her long, stiff buggy-whip so that it "swipes" me viciously across the face, knocks my helmet off into the mud ditch, and well-nigh upsets me into the same. The woman - a crimson-crested blonde - jogs serenely along without even deigning to turn her head.
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