IV 
A RUNAWAY DAY 
Ir is a wise man who knows when to run away. 
To quote rightly the words of a great poet, whose 
name has escaped me:— 
He who works and runs away 
May live to work another day. 
So it was that, like Christian of old, I suddenly 
decided to escape for my life from my city. 
There were many reasons. It was a holiday. 
Then the sun rose on one of the most perfect days 
that ever dawned since the calendar was invented. 
Furthermore, there was the thought of a little 
cabin hidden in the heart of the pine barrens. So I 
ran away through snow-covered meadows and silent 
woods and past farmhouses that were old when this 
republic was first born, until my law offices and the 
city and the noise and the dust and the smoke were 
all behind the horizon. 
An hour later I was following a little path that 
zigzagged back and forth through thickets of scrub 
oak and stiff rows of pitch pines. Above the trees 
was the rush of wings. The upper air was filled with 
the victorious sound of going that heartened David 
from the tops of the mulberry trees in that dread 
valley of Rephaim. Perhaps it was the wind; but why 
