They know
whither their streets lead. There is no surprise about them, no sudden
discovery of a river to be forded, no glimpse of deer in full flight or
of an eagle poised over a stream. No heights, no depths. To know if it
rains at night, they look down at shining pavements; they do not hold
their faces to the sky.
[Illustration: _Trail over Gunsight Pass, Glacier National Park_]
Now, I am a near-city-dweller. For ten months in the year, I am
particular about mail-delivery, and eat an evening dinner, and
occasionally agitate the matter of having a telephone in every room in
the house. I run the usual gamut of dinners, dances, and bridge, with
the usual country-club setting as the spring goes on. And each May I
order a number of flimsy frocks, in the conviction that I have done all
the hard going I need to, and that this summer we shall go to the New
England coast. And then--about the first of June there comes a day when
I find myself going over the fishing-tackle unearthed by the spring
house-cleaning and sorting out of inextricable confusion the family's
supply of sweaters, old riding-breeches, puttees, rough shoes,
trout-flies, quirts, ponchos, spurs, reels, and old felt hats.
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