The Call of the Unknown 



dom seems as satisfying or desirable 

 as something else the other side the 

 hill. I never saw the old Virginian 

 whose vagabondage I have here briefly 

 traced. He died before my time. Had 

 he lived long enough I have not a 

 doubt but that he would have wound 

 up somewhere around San Francisco 

 Bay, and then been sore because he 

 could not head overland for China. 

 He was a Romany, sure enough, and 

 when I go down the road alone, as I so 

 often do, as referred to elsewhere in 

 these rambling records I "reckon" (to 

 use a good old southern expression) 

 that he lives just a little bit in me 

 again. 



Be that as it may, I cling with a 

 feeling I can't resist to the fine gold 

 of the grandmother on the paternal 

 side, of whom I have spoken at such 

 length. Maybe I am too partial to 

 her, but I am proud to be of her 

 blood, even if only twenty-five per- 

 cent. If there is that small proportion 



[193] 



