Keeping One's Place 



No doubt it was my own young arrogance that 

 blinded me. I remember that I had just chanced 

 upon a writer who referred to his place raptur- 

 ously as "the seat of his soul." The seat of mine ! 

 It demanded — so at least I thought — a gate, high 

 hedge, stone walls for its protection from all 

 casual contact; a flagged pathway, adrift with 

 the perfume of spiced pinks or phlox for its deh- 

 cate approach. What perversity of fortune then 

 or what acknowledgment of crudity had turned 

 my feet up a glaring clam-shell drive? My sanc- 

 tuary, moreover, was to be withdrawn a little 

 from the common highway. With a certain 

 hauteur and detachment I was to watch its cu- 

 rious doings and to furnish — so I liked to 

 fancy, ghmpses of enticement for the passer-by. 

 A willful aloofness, not enforced retirement was 

 the vision I had held. Yet once I had reached 

 the circle that had as its pivot an urn of gay pe- 

 tunias, I realized that my front might as appro- 

 priately be termed some one's else back yard. 

 This was democracy undreamed! 



When, however, I beheld the settlement that 

 might be mine in return for a most modest dowry, 



[6i] 



