s--and how when I went into my study and took up the nearest book
in my favourite case--it chanced to be "The Bible in Spain"--it opened
of itself at one of my favourite passages, the one beginning:

"Mistos amande, I am content--"

So it's all over! It has been a great experience; and it seems to me
now that I have a firmer grip on life, and a firmer trust in that Power
which orders the ages. In a book I read not long ago, called "A Modern
Utopia," the writer provides in his imaginary perfect state of society
a class of leaders known as Samurai. And, from time to time, it is the
custom of these Samurai to cut themselves loose from the crowding world
of men, and with packs on their backs go away alone to far places in the
deserts or on Arctic ice caps. I am convinced that every man needs some
such change as this, an opportunity to think things out, to get a new
grip on life, and a new hold on God. But not for me the Arctic ice cap
or the desert! I choose the Friendly Road--and all the common people who
travel in it or live along it--I choose even the busy city at the end of
it.

I assure you, friend, that it is a wonderful thing for a man to cast
himself freely for a time upon the world, not knowing where his next
meal is coming from, nor where he is going to sleep for the night. It is
a surprising readjuster of values. I paid my way, I think, throughout
my pilgrimage; but I discovered that stamped metal is far from being the
world's only true coin. As a matter of fact, there are many things that
men prize more highly--because they are rarer and more precious.

My friend, if you should chance yourself some day to follow the Friendly
Road, you may catch a fleeting glimpse of a man in a rusty hat, carrying
a gray bag, and sometimes humming a little song under his breath for the
joy of being there. And it may actually happen, if you stop him, that he
will take a tin whistle from his bag and play for you, "Money Musk," or
"Old Dan Tucker," or he may produce a battered old volume of Montaigne
from which he will read you a passage. If such an adventure should
befall you, know that you have met

Your friend,

David Grayson.

P. S.--Harriet bemoans most of all the unsolved mystery of the sign man.
But it doesn't bother me in the least. I'm glad now I never found him.
The poet sings his song and goes his way. If we sought him out how
horribly disappointed we might be! We might find him shaving, or eating
sausage, or dr