136 FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA 



was always long before my arrival. This 

 place I believed that I remembered within 

 ]3erhaps half a mile. My only resource, 

 therefore, was to plunge into the forest, 

 practically endless on its further side, and 

 as well as I could, in an hour or so, look the 

 land over for that distance. Success would 

 be a piece of almost incredible luck, no 

 doubt ; but what then ? I was here, the 

 hour was to spare, and the woods were worth 

 a visit, violets or no violets. So I plunged 

 in, and, following the general course of the 

 road, swept the ground right and left with 

 my eye, turning this way and that as boul- 

 ders and tangles impeded my steps, or as the 

 sight of something like violet leaves attracted 

 me. 



Well, for good or ill, it is a short story. 

 There were plenty of violets, but aU of 

 the conunon white sort, and when I emerged 

 into the road again my hands were empty. 

 "Small," "rare," says the Manual. My 

 failure was not ignominious, — or I would 

 keep it to myself, — and I count upon trying 

 again another season. And one thing I had 

 found : my peace of mind. Subjectively, as 



