The Mind's Eye 15 



sions. We went to Lake Washington, at the head of the 

 Saint Johns River in Florida. We put a boat on a wagon, 

 Gene Kinniard drove the team, and I rode a marsh tacky 

 alongside. We used to leave the house at two o'clock in 

 the morning and get to the lake about daylight. We built 

 fires and cooked our meals at the Cabbage Mound, a tall 

 grove of cabbage palm trees, high and dry in the midst of 

 a quaking bog, which extended for miles after a heavy rain. 

 TTie fishing was good, and the birds were a sight to behold. 

 I never go near this part of the world now without driv- 

 ing from Eau Gallie out to the Mound, a drive of about 

 half an hour by motor; but every inch of the road, indeed 

 of that whole country, is loaded with golden memories. 



My grandmother was not particularly tall but she was 

 strikingly beautiful, even in her old age, and entirely aware 

 of the fact. She was inordinately proud of her hair, which 

 reached almost to her heels when she let it down. She was 

 usually as brown as a gypsy and was as restless as I am. 

 It was nothing for her to slip quietly away and then send 

 us a letter from Stavanger in Norway, where she had gone 

 salmon fishing, or from Cuba, or from Gaspe. 



Her father was a clergyman, the Reverend Dr. David 

 Allen Warren, who started as a Presbyterian but got into 

 a row with the Synod because he declared that the Lord's 

 Prayer was incorrectly translated — it was insulting to ask 

 the Lord not to lead us into temptation because, naturally, 

 He would not be so unkind as to do any such thing. The 

 congregation, being very fond of him, slid with him over 

 into the Congregational fold with its complete autonomy, 

 and he continued to preach in Verona, New York, until 

 his death. 



Verona was near an Indian reservation, and Grand- 



