imes I ask myself. What do I travel for? Why all this
excitement and eagerness of inquiry? What is it that I go forth to
find? Am I better for keeping my roads open than my neighbour is who
travels with contentment the paths of ancient habit? I am gnawed by the
tooth of unrest--to what end? Often as I travel I ask myself that
question and I have never had a convincing answer. I am looking for
something I cannot find. My Open Road is open, too, at the end! What is
it that drives a man onward, that scourges him with unanswered
questions! We only know that we are driven; we do not know who drives.
We travel, we inquire, we look, we work--only knowing that these
activities satisfy a certain deep and secret demand within us. We have
Faith that there is a Reason: and is there not a present Joy in
following the Open Road?

"And O the joy that is never won,
But follows and follows the journeying sun."

And at the end of the day the Open Road, if we follow it with wisdom as
well as fervour, will bring us safely home again. For after all the Open
Road must return to the Beaten Path. The Open Road is for adventure;
and adventure is not the food of life, but the spice.

Thus I came back this evening from rioting in my fields. As I walked
down the lane I heard the soft tinkle of a cowbell, a certain earthy
exhalation, as of work, came out of the bare fields, the duties of my
daily life crowded upon me bringing a pleasant calmness of spirit, and I
said to myself:

"Lord be praised for that which is common."

And after I had done my chores I came in, hungry, to my supper.

IV

ON BEING WHERE YOU BELONG

Sunday Morning, May 20th.

On Friday I began planting my corn. For many days previously I went out
every morning at sun-up, in the clear, sharp air, and thrust my hand
deep down in the soil of the field. I do not know that I followed any
learned agricultural rule, but somehow I liked to do it. It has seemed
reasonable to me, instead of watching for a phase of the moon (for I do
not cultivate the moon), to inquire of the earth itself. For many days I
had no response; the soil was of an icy, moist coldness, as of death.
"I am not ready yet," it said; "I have not rested my time."

Early in the week we had a day or two of soft sunshine, of fecund
warmth, to which the earth lay open, willing, passive. On Thursday
morning, though a white frost silvered the harrow ridges, when I thrust
my hand into the soil I felt, or seeme