y Ought to Be." I think his name in America is
Billiken. It quite belongs to him, though he inspired a mortal to make
the road forty-five miles! You will have to do it in your head in
kilometres. The Parkway (they call it) is private, and you pay to go
through--only a very little, though it is worth much for the joy. There
is no dust and no crowd and no noise, and no policemen springing out
like Jacks from boxes; and they let you go forty miles an hour. It is a
pity to rush so fast, though, unless you turn and go back again, because
the fun is over too soon. Besides, there is scenery of every kind. One
would say they had brought bits from every part of the world. There are
woods, dark perfumy pines, and white birches like bridal processions of
young girls in white. There are hills and rocks, with emerald ferns, and
wild flowers almost like Switzerland; and gorse, and fragrant shrubs
which must be like the "maquis" they tell you of in Corsica. There are
meadows lovely as lawns, and glimpses of blue water like nymphs' eyes
suddenly opening from enchanted sleep, perhaps to close when you have
gone! I hope they do, for I hate to think of everything going on when
our backs are turned as when we are there to see, don't you?

I could have cried when we came out of the Motor Parkway, and I must
give up the wheel because of Mr. Goodrich, who fears I might snap in two
pieces at the waist and wreck his family. But it was very pretty country
still, so I was soon consoled. It is difficult, wishing to live in so
many villages! If I had to choose, I do not see how I could; and Peter
says it will be the same with me in New England. But, ma chere, if you
could see _Jericho_! I do not mean the one we speak of when we say "I
wish I were in Jericho!" but the Jericho of Long Island, where I should
love to buy all the beautiful old houses, I could not possibly choose
between! I would stay in one after the other, and sit in rocking-chairs
rocking back and forth like so many old ladies do. But I should not be
old. And I would have a man sitting in another chair, rocking, too. He
would look like Peter Storm in some ways--that is, he would have such
eyes as Peter's. I cannot take interest in other eyes now, his are so
living, and they have _all_ the expressions as with ponds which show the
moods of the sky. But I would not say this to another than you, not
even to Molly! And speaking of ponds, cherie, on Long Island they carpet
them with water li