ng to flirt with the blushing autumn woodland at its
left, or to dally with the dimpling ravine at its right.

"Now if that were an English country road," thought I, "a sociably
inclined, happy-go-lucky, out-for-pleasure English country road, one
might expect something of it. On an English country road this would
be the psychological moment for the appearance of a blond god, in gray
tweed. What a delightful time of it Richard Le Gallienne's hero had on
his quest! He could not stroll down the most innocent looking lane, he
might not loiter along the most out-of-the-way path, he never ambled
over the barest piece of country road, that he did not come face to
face with some witty and lovely woman creature, also in search of things
unconventional, and able to quote charming lines from Chaucer to him."

Ah, but that was England, and this is America. I realize it sadly as I
step out of the road to allow a yellow milk wagon to rattle past. The
red letters on the yellow milk cart inform the reader that it is
the property of August Schimmelpfennig, of Hickory Grove. The
Schimmelpfennig eye may be seen staring down upon me from the bit of
glass in the rear as the cart rattles ahead, doubtless being suspicious
of hatless young women wandering along country roads at dusk, alone.
There was that in the staring eye to which I took exception. It wore
an expression which made me feel sure that the mouth below it was all
a-grin, if I could but have seen it. It was bad enough to be stared
at by the fishy Schimmelpfennig eye, but to be grinned at by the
Schimmelpfennig mouth!--I resented it. In order to show my resentment I
turned my back on the Schimmelpfennig cart and pretended to look up the
road which I had just traveled.

I pretended to look up the road, and then I did look in earnest.
No wonder the Schimmelpfennig eye and mouth had worn the leering
expression. The blond god in gray tweed was swinging along toward me! I
knew that he was blond because he wore no hat and the last rays of the
October sun were making a little halo effect about his head. I knew
that his-gray clothes were tweed because every well regulated hero on a
country road wears tweed. It's almost a religion with them. He was not
near enough to make a glance at his features possible. I turned
around and continued my walk. The yellow cart, with its impudent
Schimmelpfennig leer, was disappearing in a cloud of dust. Shades of
the "Duchess" and Bertha M. Clay! How does