November, 1915 
29 
I T was a kind fate that 
led me to this road on 
that October day long 
years ago. Mother Na¬ 
ture had been generous. 
Jack Frost had been 
working elsewhere and 
had not appeared. The 
whole landscape was mar¬ 
velous, in colors bright 
and beautiful; the green¬ 
est of grass, bright red 
and bronze were the 
maples. The birches 
were dropping their yel¬ 
low leaves. Sumac and 
goldenrod, milkweed 
pods, asters, wild grape 
and deep red oak leaves, 
bitter-sweet and woodbine 
all along the road made 
a riot of color that was 
glorious to see. The 
farmers had been busy —- 
so busy that they had had 
no time to get out and im¬ 
prove the roadsides. Up 
and down little hills, over 
chattering brooks, the 
road led on. In every 
direction stretched a beau¬ 
tifully wooded country. 
There were great willow 
trees bending over the 
brook nearby and mark¬ 
ing its boundary as it 
curved and recurved, 
seeming uncertain as to 
where to go. It led on 
and on to more and more 
beauty, passing wonderful 
birch woods, glorious in 
their autumn dress, tan¬ 
gles of wild grape vines 
heavy with purple fruit, 
and, in the end, coming to 
the little yellow house that has ever since been the bit of 
Bohemia that we have sought. 
Years have passed since I first saw this little yellow house, 
and yet to-day there comes to me the same thrill as I lift the 
wooden latch to the gate and walk up the grassy path to 
the door. Doubtless an inviting pump was what excused my 
first call and introduction to the little old Bohemian woman 
who responded to the knock on her woodshed door. Not a 
word of English could she speak, but her face was one that told 
me I was welcome and the choicest cup was brought out for 
my use. It was but the beginning of a number of friendships 
that have been happy ones for years. She has watched for 
our coming and has told us many, many things that we have 
not in the least understood, for no word of Bohemian is in 
our vocabulary, and yet we know her well. To be sure, at 
times we have taken some of our American Bohemian friends 
with us to put our American thoughts into Bohemian words, 
and it has been a joy to watch the expression of her face as 
the many things that she has longed to know have been un¬ 
folded to her. 
She knows only of a life of toil and saving. Work and 
sleep and food, she and her husband have lived for and they 
have gained what they 
sought — land, a home, 
and an occasional 
trip to the bank with 
hard-earned dollars. 
Many acres they ac¬ 
cumulated — beautiful 
rolling lands along Lake 
Michigan’s blue waters. 
For years they cut down 
timber, they plowed and 
dragged, sowed and har¬ 
vested. They worked 
together, knowing a n d 
caring nothing about the 
question of equal suf¬ 
frage; caring oidy for 
the one great thing — a 
comfortable old age. As 
the years went by and 
the work became more 
of a burden, all but three 
acres of the land was 
sold, and on this they 
built the little yellow 
house and settled down 
to the comfort they had 
sought. The place was 
large enough for them 
to care for the cow, 
chickens and horse. 
Never did soil yield a 
better crop of corn, po¬ 
tatoes, beets, turnips and 
pumpkins, and as one 
finds in every Bohemian 
garden, a large space 
was devoted to the 
poppy plants. There 
were apple and pear 
trees tucked in here and 
there and along the front 
fence a row of the birch 
trees that grow so natu¬ 
rally in this part of the 
country. Back of the 
house were the barn and chicken house and always a pile of 
bundles of wood — little fagots sometimes, cut uniformly and 
tied about with the long vine of the wild grape. Often the 
whole bundle would be made up of white birch sticks. When 
she discovered that these were hard for us to resist, she 
never failed to have ready a birch wood bundle to tuck away 
in the car or throw over our shoulders as we left. 
One day one of our American Bohemian friends explained 
to her that we loved to have a birch fire in the grate on Christ¬ 
mas Eve. She was very much interested and told of the birch 
fire that she remembered in Bohemia. The people all gath¬ 
ered at the church, she said, and outside a great birch fire 
was lighted and kept burning “to keep Judas away.” 
Fenced off near the south windows of her house was her 
flower garden. In it grew her choicest shrubs and plants : 
southernwood and rosemary, sweet briar and phloxes, June 
pinks and geraniums, and a bit of a yellow rose. A brick- 
walk led around to the front porch, but never did anyone 
step on this walk for, over it, spread like a beautiful colored 
rug, were blossoming portulaccas in wonderful colors. Year 
after year they grew there between the brick. They blos¬ 
somed, dropped their seeds, and were ready the next year to 
Mulberry Drive is the name of the path. It turns off the main road by a 
clump of birches. You find the little yellow house set in an apple grove 
OUR LITTLE SIDE PATH TO BOHEMIA 
Which Led to a Corner of the Old World in the New 
-— The Lonesome Woman with the Time- 
Scarred Face—Autumn Good-Byes 
FANNY SAGE STONE 
