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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 75 pages of information about October Vagabonds.
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 societies—­to transcribe his answer: 

The way of dreams—­the bluebird sang—­
  Is never hard to find
So soon as you have really left
  The grown-up world behind;

So soon as you have come to see
  That what the others call
Realities, for such as you,
  Are never real at all;

So soon as you have ceased to care
  What others say or do,
And understand that they are they,
  And you—­thank God—­are you.

Then is your foot upon the path,
  Your journey well begun,
And safe the road for you to tread,
  Moonlight or morning sun.

Pence of this world you shall not take,
  Yea! no provision heed;
A wild-rose gathered in the wood
  Will buy you all you need.

Hungry, the birds shall bring you food,
  The bees their honey bring;
And, thirsty, you the crystal drink
  Of an immortal spring.

For sleep, behold how deep and soft
  With moss the earth is spread,
And all the trees of all the world
  Shall curtain round your bed.

Enchanted journey! that begins
  Nowhere, and nowhere ends,
Seeking an ever-changing goal,
  Nowhither winds and wends.

For destination yonder flower,
  For business yonder bird;
Aught better worth the travelling to
  I never saw or heard.

O long dream-travel of the soul! 
  First the green earth to tread—­
And still yon other starry track
  To travel when you’re dead_.

CHAPTER IX

DUTCH HOLLOW

The day had opened with a restless picturesque morning of gusty sunshine and rolling clouds.  There was something rich and stormy and ominous in the air, and a soft rainy sense of solemn impending change, at once brilliant and mournful; a curious sense of intermingled death and birth, as of withered leaves and dreaming seeds being blown about together on their errands of decay and resurrection by the same breath of the unseen creative spirit.  Incidentally it meant a rain-storm by evening, and its mysterious presage had prompted Colin to the furnishing of our knapsacks with water-proof cloaks, which, as the afternoon wore on, seemed more and more a wise provision.  But the rain still held off, contenting itself with threatening phantasmagoria of cloud, moulding and massing like visible thunder in our wake.  It seemed leisurely certain, however, of catching us before nightfall; and, sure enough, as the light began to thicken, and we stood admiring its mountainous magnificence—­vast billows of plum-coloured gloom, hanging like doomsday over a stretch of haunted orchard—­the great drops began to patter down.

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