with all their sometimes dangerous adventure--most of
them were made at night, and with hardly ever any regard
being paid to the weather or to the state of the roads--
they stand out in the vast array of memorable trifles
that constitute the story of my life as among the most
memorable ones. Seven drives seem, as it were, lifted
above the mass of others as worthy to be described in
some detail--as not too trivial to detain for an hour or
so a patient reader's kind attention. Not that the others
lack in interest for myself; but there is little in them
of that mildly dramatic, stirring quality which might
perhaps make their recital deserving of being heard beyond
my own frugal fireside. Strange to say, only one of the
seven is a return trip. I am afraid that the prospect of
going back to rather uncongenial work must have dulled
my senses. Or maybe, since I was returning over the same
road after an interval of only two days, I had exhausted
on the way north whatever there was of noticeable
impressions to be garnered. Or again, since I was coming
from "home," from the company of those for whom I lived
and breathed, it might just be that all my thoughts flew
back with such an intensity that there was no vitality
left for the perception of the things immediately around me.




ONE
Farms and Roads