indeed, but to--Dutch Hollow. We were answered by a good-humoured German
voice belonging to an old dame, who seemed glad to have the lonely
afternoon silence broken by human speech; and we were then, as often
afterward, reminded that we were not so far away from Europe, after all;
but that, indeed, in no small degree the American continent was the map
of Europe bodily transported across the sea. For the present our way lay
through Germany.

Dutch Hollow! The name told its own story, and it had appealed to our
imaginations as we had come upon it on the map.

We had thought we should like to see how it looked written in trees and
rocks and human habitations on the page of the landscape. And I may say
that it was such fanciful considerations as this, rather than any more
business-like manner of travel, that frequently determined the route of
our essentially sentimental journey. If our way admitted of a choice of
direction, we usually decided by the sound of the name of village or
town. Thus the sound of "Wales Center" had taken us, we were told, a mile
or two out of our way; but what of that? We were not walking for a
record, nor were we road-surveying, or following the automobile route to
New York. In fact, we had deliberately avoided the gasoline route,
choosing to be led by more rustic odours; and thus our wayward wayfaring
cannot be offered in any sense as a guide for pedestrians who may come
after us. Any one following our guidance would be as liable to arrive at
the moon as at New York. In fact, we not infrequently inquired our way of
a bird, or some friendly little dog that would come out to bark a
companionable good day to us from a wayside porch.

As a matter of fact, I had inquired the way of the bluebird mentioned a
little while back, and it may be of interest--to ornithological