he 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 mou