October Vagabonds | Page 8

seemed to say, "So
many miles to New York," and we unconsciously looked at and
remarked on the most trifling objects with the eye of explorers, and
took as minute an interest in the usual bird and wayside weed as though
we were engaged in some "flora and fauna" survey of untrodden
regions.
"That's a bluebird," said Colin, as a faint pee-weeing came with a thin
melancholy note from a telegraph wire. And we both listened
attentively, with a learned air, as though making a mental note for some

ornithological society in New York. "Bluebird seen in Erie County,
October 1, 1908!" So might Sir John Mandeville have noted the
occurrence of birds of paradise in the domains of Prester John.
"That's a silo," said Colin, pointing to a cylindrical tower at the end of a
group of barns, from which came the sound of an engine surrounded by
a group of men, occupied in feeding it with trusses of corn from a
high-piled wagon. "They are laying in fodder for the Winter."
Interesting agricultural observation!
In the surrounding fields the pumpkins, globes of golden orange, lay
scattered among the wintry-looking corn-stalks.
"Bully subject for a picture!" said Colin.
Before we had gone very far, we did stop at a cottage standing at a
puzzling corner of cross-roads, and asked the way, not to Versailles,
indeed, but to--Dutch Hollow. We were answered by a good-humoured
German voice belonging to an old dame, who seemed glad to have the
lonely afternoon silence broken by human speech; and we were then, as
often afterward, reminded that we were not so far away from Europe,
after all; but that, indeed, in no small degree the American continent
was the map of Europe bodily transported across the sea. For the
present our way lay through Germany.
Dutch Hollow! The name told its own story, and it had appealed to our
imaginations as we had come upon it on the map.
We had thought we should like to see how it looked written in trees and
rocks and human habitations on the page of the landscape. And I may
say that it was such fanciful considerations as this, rather than any more
business-like manner of travel, that frequently determined the route of
our essentially sentimental journey. If our way admitted of a choice of
direction, we usually decided by the sound of the name of village or
town. Thus the sound of "Wales Center" had taken us, we were told, a
mile or two out of our way; but what of that? We were not walking for
a record, nor were we road-surveying, or following the automobile
route to New York. In fact, we had deliberately avoided the gasoline

route, choosing to be led by more rustic odours; and thus our wayward
wayfaring cannot be offered in any sense as a guide for pedestrians
who may come after us. Any one following our guidance would be as
liable to arrive at the moon as at New York. In fact, we not infrequently
inquired our way of a bird, or some friendly little dog that would come
out to bark a companionable good day to us from a wayside porch.
As a matter of fact, I had inquired the way of the bluebird mentioned a
little while back, and it may be of interest--to ornithological
societies--to transcribe his answer:
The way of dreams--the bluebird sang-- Is never hard to find So soon
as you have really left The grown-up world behind;
So soon as you have come to see That what the others call Realities, for
such as you, Are never real at all;
So soon as you have ceased to care What others say or do, And
understand that they are they, And you--thank God--are you.
Then is your foot upon the path, Your journey well begun, And safe the
road for you to tread, Moonlight or morning sun.
Pence of this world you shall not take, Yea! no provision heed; A
wild-rose gathered in the wood Will buy you all you need.
Hungry, the birds shall bring you food, The bees their honey bring;
And, thirsty, you the crystal drink Of an immortal spring.
For sleep, behold how deep and soft With moss the earth is spread, And
all the trees of all the world Shall curtain round your bed.
Enchanted journey! that begins Nowhere, and nowhere ends, Seeking
an ever-changing goal, Nowhither winds and wends.
For destination yonder flower, For business yonder bird; Aught better
worth the travelling to I never saw or heard.
O long dream-travel of the soul! First the green earth to tread-- And

still yon other starry track To travel when you're dead.
CHAPTER IX
DUTCH HOLLOW
The day had opened with a restless picturesque morning of gusty
sunshine and rolling clouds.