Last night I thought I was in Georgia--Savannah, I suppose--and that I walked five miles or more into the country to a hamlet called Boulderville. Here I saw a sign, "To the Spring," and going down a grassy lane, I found it beside a swift stream and near a railroad. It was a clear copious spring welling up from the center of a patch of clean gravel. I returned to Boulderville and spoke to a native of the fine flow of water. "Enough to fill a six inch pipe," I said. "Yes," he replied; "a manufacturer from Chicago talks of piping it there. It would furnish one-thirteenth of the power needed for his factory."