October Vagabonds | Page 6

Hudson!"
When I had thus attained my crescendo, Colin rose impressively, and embraced me with true French effusion.
"Old man," he said, "that's just great. It's an inspiration from on high. It makes me feel better already. Gee! but that's bully."
French as was his blood, it will be observed that Colin's expletives were thoroughly American. Of course, he should have said sacré mille cochons or nom de Dieu de nom de Dieu; but, though in appearance, so to say, an embodied "sacré" he seemed to find the American vernacular sufficiently expressive.
"Is it a go, then?" said I.
"It's a go," said Colin, once more in American.
And we shook on it.
CHAPTER VII
MAPS AND FAREWELLS
It was wonderful what a change our new plan wrought in our spirits.
Our melancholy was immediately dispersed, and its place taken by active anticipations of our journey. The North wind in the trees, instead of blustering dismissal, sounded to our ears like the fluttering of the blue-peter at the masthead of our voyage. Strange heart of man! A day back we were in tears at the thought of going. Now we are all smiles to think of it, all impatience to be gone. We quote Whitman a dozen times in the hour, and it is all "afoot and light-hearted" with us, and "the open road."
But there were some farewells to make to people as well as to trees. There were friends at Elim to bid adieu, and also there were maps to be consulted, and knapsacks to be packed--exhilarating preparations.
Our friends looked at us, when we had unfolded our project, with a mixture of surprise and pity. "Amiable lunatics" was the first comment of their countenances, and--"There never was any telling what the artistic temperament would do next!" Had we announced an air-ship voyage to the moon, they would have regarded us as comparatively reasonable, but to walk--to walk--some four or five hundred miles in America, of all countries, a country of palace cars and, lightning limited expresses, not to mention homicidal touring automobiles, seemed like--what shall I say?--well, as though one should start out for New Zealand in a row-boat, or make the trip to St. Petersburg in a sedan-chair.
But there were others--especially the women--who understood, felt as we did, and longed to go with us. I have never met a woman yet whose face did not light up at the thought of a walking tour, and in her heart long to don Rosalind clothes and set forth in search of adventures. We thus had the advantage, in planning our route, of several prettily coiffed heads bending over our maps and guide-books with us.
"Four hundred and thirty miles," said one of these Rosalinds, whose pretty head was full of pictures of romantic European travel. "Think what one could do with four hundred and thirty miles in Europe. Let us try, for the fun of it."
And turning to a map of Europe, and measuring out four hundred and thirty miles by scale on a slip of paper, she tried it up and down the map from point to point. "Look at funny little England!" she said. "Why, you will practically be walking from one end of England to the other. See," and she fitted her scale to the map, "it would bring you easily from Portsmouth to Aberdeen.
"And now let us try France. Why, see again--you will be walking from Calais to Marseilles--think of it! walking through France, all vineyards and beautiful names. Now Italy--see! you will be walking from Florence to Mount Etna--Florence, Rome, Naples, Palermo."
And so in imagination our fair friend sketched out fanciful pilgrimages for us. "You could walk from Gibraltar to the Pyrenees," she went on. "You could walk from Venice to Berlin; from Brussels to Copenhagen; you could walk from Munich to Budapest; you could walk right across Turkey, from Constantinople to the Adriatic Sea. And Greece--see! you could walk from Sparta to the Danube. To think of the romantic use you could make of your four-hundred-odd-miles, and how different it sounds--Buffalo to New York!"
And again she repeated, luxuriating in the romantic sound of the words: "Constantinople to the Adriatic! Sparta to the Danube!--Buffalo to New York!"
There was not wanting to the party the whole-souled, my-country-'tis-of-thee American, who somewhat resented these European comparisons, and declared that America was good enough for her, clearly intimating that a certain lack of patriotism, even a certain immorality, attached to the admiration of foreign countries. She also told us somewhat severely that the same stars, if not better, shone over America as over any other country, and that American scenery was the finest in the world--not to speak of the American climate.
To all of which we bowed our heads in silence--but the frivolous, European-minded Rosalind who had got us into this trouble retorted with a grave face: "Wouldn't you just