October Vagabonds | Page 8

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. There was something rich and stormy and ominous in the air, and a soft rainy sense of solemn impending change, at once brilliant and mournful; a curious sense of intermingled death and birth, as of withered leaves and dreaming seeds being blown about together on their errands of decay and resurrection by the same breath of the unseen creative spirit. Incidentally it meant a rain-storm by evening, and its mysterious presage had prompted Colin to the furnishing of our knapsacks with water-proof cloaks, which, as the afternoon wore on, seemed more and more a wise provision. But the rain still held off, contenting itself with threatening phantasmagoria of cloud, moulding and massing like visible thunder in our wake. It seemed leisurely certain, however, of catching us before nightfall; and, sure enough, as the light began to thicken, and we stood admiring its mountainous