THE COUNTRY ROAD 129 



Our Road, as it flows placidly past our 

 farm, suggests nothing very exciting or spec 

 tacular. It is a pretty bit of road, rounding a 

 rocky corner of the farm and leading past the 

 old house under cool depths of maple shade, 

 out again into a broad space of sunlight, 

 dropping over a little hill, around a curve, and 

 out of sight. I know it well, of course, every 

 rock and flower of it, but its final appeal to 

 me is not through its beauty, it is not even 

 through my sense of ownership in it; it is 

 simply that it is a Road a road that leads 

 out of Everywhere into Everywhere Else, a 

 road that goes on. About a road that ends 

 there is no glamour. It may be pretty or use 

 ful, but as a road it is a failure. For the Road 

 is the symbol of endless possibility. From the 

 faintest footpath across a meadow, where as a 

 child one has always felt that some elf or 

 gnome may appear, or along which, if one 

 were to wander with sufficient negligence, one 

 might be led into the realm of &quot; faerie &quot; to the 

 broad turnpike which fares through open 

 country, plunges through the surging cities, 

 and escapes to broad lands beyond any 

 path, any road, makes this appeal. And so 



