128 THE JONATHAN PAPERS 



I venture to say that when we think of our 

 city homes we think of their interiors, but 

 when we think of our farmhouse homes we 

 think of the Road as well. They are like little 

 islands in a river, one remembers them 

 together. For the Road is a river a river of 

 life. Most of our words about roads imply 

 motion. A road comes, we say, and it goes, it 

 sweeps, it curves, it climbs, it descends, it 

 rises and drops, it bends and turns. And, in 

 fact, it means movement, it is always bringing 

 life and taking it again, or if for a time it does 

 neither, it is always inviting, always promis 

 ing. We have all felt it. As we are whirled 

 along in a railway train even, the thing that 

 stirs our imagination is the roads, the paths. 

 I can still remember glimpses of these that I 

 had years ago a footpath over a rounded 

 hilltop through long yellow grass, a rough 

 logging-road beside a foaming mountain 

 river, a brushy wood road leading through 

 bars into deep shade, a country road at dusk, 

 curving past a low farmhouse with lights in 

 the windows. I could never follow these 

 roads, but I remember them still, and still 

 they allure me. 



