The Road to Dumbiedykes 



of real life has a setting on a truly 

 sylvan stage, where the passing of the 

 years has left some vacant places 

 'round the fireside, where peace and 

 happiness and sweet content have had 

 a real existence. 



I often wish I were not compelled to 

 migrate each October from that little 

 nest among the trees. I often wish I 

 might remain through snow-bound 

 winter days and nights, and so keep 

 always close to Nature's heart. But 

 my life has not been so ordered by the 

 fates. I say farewell to Dumbiedykes 

 each autumn only because a call that 

 comes from a certain office desk is not 

 to be ignored if I am still to pursue 

 appointed tasks. And so when North 

 winds whirl the dead leaves down the 

 road we must prepare to go. Fortu- 

 nately this is a compensating world. 

 He who seeks may find. Even in the 

 bright lights of a great city's manifold 

 activities there are fruits and flowers 

 worth while. Nights that are "filled 



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