Loafing down Long Island

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LOAFING DOWN
LONG ISLAND

" You felt as if you were

somewhere in France."

LOAFING DOWN
LONG ISLAND

BY
CHARLES HANSON TOWNE

WITH DRAWINGS BY
THOMAS FOGARTY

NEW YORK

THE CENTURY CO,

1921

Copyright, 1921, by
THE CENTURY Co.

TO

JIM, ALEC, PEB, GORDON

and ERNEST
COMPANIONS ALONG THE WAY

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I ON THE DIFFICULTIES OF WALKING ... 3

II REALLY GETTING STARTED 32

III ALONG SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS . . 49

IV GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK ... 85
V FROM SOUTHAMPTON TO MONTAUK POINT . 1 1 1

VI AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND, CONEY

ISLAND 129

VII SAG HARBOR AND THE NORTH SHORE . .159

VIII THE MIDDLE OF THE SLICE 189

IX OYSTER BAY AND ROUNDABOUT ROSLYN . . 201

X DINNER AMONG THE STARS 209

ILLUSTRATIONS

PACK

You felt as if you were somewhere in

France Frontispiece

Queensboro Bridge 5

But we spurned all such advances, kindly as they

were meant 14

Guttersnipes are bathing along the shore ... 19
A cafe or two that once might have proved an oasis

in this wasteland 25

And such clam chowder as it was ! 33

I was awakened by the crowing of a cock . 37
A pair of stout young women, puffing and blowing

up a little rise of land 41

Idleness and I 45

We hailed several cars. They did not stop . . -53
We bumped contentedly along, getting dustier and

dustier 60

The one sluggish waiter on duty 65"

There were many little roads tempting us out of the

beaten paths 73

Blue Point 78

There are eyes watching you 96

Our hearts ached for them 102

The glowing sands of pleasure 113

What a place for the allotted days of one's span . 119

ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

With its great eye to the limitless ocean . . . .124

Montauk Point . . 127

The wonderful city of magic . . 134

A slice of Coney Island 139

Toboggans that splash 147

You wouldn't stop now for the world . . . -154
Water is to a landscape what eyes are to a human

face . 164

Shelter Island 167

Caruso's voice coming from a phonograph . . .179

Riverhead 186

We grew mighty weary 191

Smithtown 197

Roslyn 203

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND
CHAPTER I

ON THE DIFFICULTIES OF WALKING

WHEN I speak of the difficulties of walk-
ing, I do not refer to the infirmities of
age, to flat feet, or to avoirdupois. Not at all.
I mean that it is hard indeed in these rushing
times to go afoot, even on the most distant by-
roads, without being considered eccentric. Peo-
ple stare at you as though you were some kind of
freak or criminal. They cast suspicious glances
your way, never dreaming that perhaps you pre-
fer your own feet as a means of pleasant locomo-
tion.

I asked a certain friend if he would not ac-
company me on my weekly jaunts down Long

3

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

Island. 1 could not arrange to go for one lengthy
stay, and neither could he, I knew; so I thought
the next best thing was to do it by piecemeal
rather than not at all, and I planned to save time
by walking a certain distance, following a road
map, return by train on Monday mornings, and
then take a train out again to the spot where I
had left off the previous week. That seemed
practical, novel, yet simple and well worth while.
To live with a Blue Bird at one's door, and never
know it, seems to me, as it seemed to Maeterlinck,
the height of folly. I would discover the Blue
Bird that was so happily mine, and hear its song
on rosy summer mornings, three and even four
days at a time, or perish in the attempt.

Well, my friend turned to me and instantly
said:

"My car is out of order."

"But I did not mean to go in a car," I as
quickly answered.

"Why," he replied, looking at me as though I
had gone quite mad, "how else would we go 9"

"On foot," I bravely made answer, yet re-
4

ON THE DIFFICULTIES OF WALKING

alizing that this confirmed New-Yorker would
never think the same of me again. And it was
so. I shall not forget, if I live a hundred years,
his final disgusted glance. If anything further
was needed to crush me utterly, I do not know
what it could be.

But one's friends are not the only difficulty that
stand in the way of a loitering gait. I found,
fortunately, just the right companion for my
first journey, and when I told a few young col-
lege fellows of my plan, fellows who were free
for the summer, they asked if they, also, could n't
be booked up for certain Thursdays until Mon-
day; and before I knew it, I had a line of ap-
plications, as though I were handing out coupons
instead of the possibility of aching feet and per-
spiring brows.

On the first day when we fared forth — it was
with a friend named Jim — we had no sooner
started to cross the great Queensboro' Bridge,
which hangs like a giant harp over the East River,
drawing Long Island into a closer brotherhood
with New York, than we had offers of lifts from

7

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

total strangers. Yet they say Manhattan is a
cold city ! We never found it so, at least not on
that wonderful July evening when we started out
with scrip and staff; for we had decided that as
we were going to do so old-fashioned a thing as
walk, we would carry old-fashioned parapher-
nalia, called by pleasant, old-fashioned names.
Bundle and cane ill comported with so quiet a
pilgrimage as ours was to be. We would imagine
ourselves travelers in Merrie Old England in a
season now sadly gone. We would wear old
clothes, and take not one article with us that we
did not actually need. No burdens for our city-
tired backs; only the happy little necessary im-
pedimenta, such as a toothbrush, a razor, a comb,
an extra shirt or two, and the one tie we wore.
And of course a book. I chose Hazlitt's "Table
Talk," Jim took George Moore's "Avowals," all
the spiritual food we needed.

It takes no little courage to walk over a bridge
that leads out of crowded Manhattan. Not that
you want to stay in the thundering city; but this
is a dangerous way to get out of it alive. You

8

ON THE DIFFICULTIES OF WALKING

feel like an ant, or like one of those infinitesimal
figures in a picture which gives a bird's-eye view
of "our village." To discover your own lack of
importance in a busy, whirling world, I would
prescribe the perils of walking in and immediately
around New York. Never does one feel so small,
so absolutely worm-like. If you wish to pre-
serve your life, your day is one long series of
dodges. Pedestrians are not popular with mo-
torists, and virtually every one is a motorist now-
adays. If you walk up the Rialto of a morning,
you are convinced that every one on earth wishes
to become, or is, an actor. If you edit a popular
magazine, you know that every one has literary
ambitions. But if you walk over Queensboro'
Bridge or any of the other gateways that lead out
into the country, you are certain that there is not
a human being except yourself who does not own
a car.

Where do they come from, these gorgeous and
humble machines? And whither are they going?
How many homes have been mortgaged in order
that Henry and Mary may take a trip each week-

9

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

end4? What necessities of life have been relin-
quished so that the whole family may speed to
the seashore at the first touch of warm weather?
It is an exhilarating, healthful pastime, but I
have only one friend who motors to my liking —
that is, at the rate of twenty miles an hour. My
other acquaintances employ chauffeurs who surfer
from the great American disease, speed, and they
are whizzed here and there, often against their
wills, I grant you, and they expect me to care
for this abominable way of traveling. The hill-
sides rush by; you see nothing, you hear nothing
save the voice of the siren, and you arrive at your
destination a physical and mental wreck, with
eyes that sting and ears that hum. No sooner
is your body normally adjusted than luncheon is
over, and you are told to get back into the car
that you may all rush madly to the next town.
There is a strange and inexplicable desire in every
chauffeur I have ever seen to overtake the machine
just ahead of him. Every turn reveals a line of
motors dashing, as yours is, to Heaven knows
where; and if you toot your horn and pass one

10

ON THE DIFFICULTIES OF WALKING

triumphantly, there is, as always in life, another
victory to be won the instant you overcome the
immediate obstacle. Why not sit back and let
the other fellow pass you*? But no one will in
America. It seems to be a long, delirious race for
precedence, and motoring, instead of being the
delight it should be, has become a nightmare to
me. One of these days I am going to have a
car of my own, run it myself, and go where and
when I please; for no one loves motoring more
than I when it is really motoring and not a sud-
den madness. That is why, on this occasion, I
preferred the jog-trot afoot; and that is why Jim
and I marched forth on a certain day, with minds
free from tire troubles, and no intention of get-
ting anywhere in particular until it suited our
royal convenience. We had thoroughly made up
our minds on that. We would lunch or sup
where it suited our whim, and we would n't look
at our watches, but would seek to allay our hun-
ger only when we felt healthily hungry. And
we knew we would sleep all the better for so real
a spirit of freedom.

11

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

That first afternoon we walked to Long Island
City over the bridge, for we wanted the thrill of
getting out of town on foot, not through the more
comfortable process of a train or a motor. Be-
sides, it would savor somewhat of cheating, if we
started out on a walking tour seated in a com-
muter's coach. Yet it was not always our in-
tention to walk. We made up our minds that
sometimes we would steal rides, or beg for them,
or take a train over an uninteresting part of the
country. And if I could locate my slow-driving
friend this summer, I intended to ask him to loaf
with me in his car sometime.

There is one charming thing about New York :
you can go anywhere and dress as you please and
attract not the slightest attention. Our knicker-
bockers and a duffle-bag were nothing to anybody ;
neither was the Japanese staff I carried, which
some friends had just brought to me from the
land of Nippon. People are too preoccupied to
give you even a cursory glance.

We knew there was apt to be nothing at all
interesting just over the bridge; for we had mo-

12

ON THE DIFFICULTIES OF WALKING

tored that way too frequently, and Long Island
City, I was well aware, was nothing to see. It
was like a poor relative of the metropolis, a per-
son that a rich man paid to remain hidden away
in the country, shabby beyond belief, and with no
knowledge of city ways, none of the coquetry of
young and smiling sophisticated Miss Manhattan.
It was dusk when we started to cross the great
bridge, and, as I have said, motors were cluttered
at the entrance and were doubtless thick upon it,
running like a continuous black chain to the
island. During the War, soldiers often stood at
this entrance of the bridge, waiting to be given a
lift; and this may be the reason why so many
motorists still think of every pedestrian as worthy
of a ride, and why it was that so often we were
invited, as we strolled along this open pathway,
to move more swiftly to the other side. But we
spurned all such advances, kindly as they were
meant; for on one's first day out, the legs are in
good condition, and there is a certain pride in
wishing to strut it alone without even the aid of
one's staff.

15

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

The sky-scrapers loomed in the growing dark-
ness, as we proceeded on our way, like a Baby-
lonian vision; and one by one the lights blos-
somed in tall windows, until the city behind us
was a vast honeycomb of beauty, with the river
like a silver girdle surrounding it. Ahead of us
smoke-stacks belched forth their black substance,
and one pitied the folk who, having worked all
day in glorious Manhattan, must turn at evening
to the hideous prospect beyond the river, when
they might have remained in this jeweled place.
Gasometers reared their horrid profiles, and chim-
neys, like a battalion of black soldiers, stood mo-
tionless in the growing darkness. It was to such
a place the people were surging, leaving glorious
New York. Jim and I loitered long on that
bridge.

All of us who live in New York have motored,
at one time or another, over Queensboro' Bridge;
but how few of us have walked its delectable
length! Like all Manhattanites, we leave such
pleasant experiences to the foreigners who come
to our shores. But even they have not discovered

16

ON THE DIFFICULTIES OF WALKING

it as they may within a few years. There are
benches along its pathway, and here one may
pause and sit in the sunset, as if one were in a
stationary airplane, and view the vast city spread
out in a wonderful pattern below. There are
glimpses of little parks, and the spires of the
cathedral are silhouetted against the background
of the west. Guttersnipes are bathing along the
shore, and you wonder why rich folk do not pur-
chase houses on this river-bank, where they might
have their own private pavilions and a view that
can hardly be matched. What is the matter with
New-Yorkers'?

Then there is Blackwell's Island, with its piti-
fully blind windows. It must be hard enough
to be confined on an island without the added
horror of tightly closed and sealed shutters of
heavy iron. Not content with keeping prisoners
segregated, they shut out any chance of a view —
or perhaps we would all want to go to Blackwell's
Island ! The keepers' houses are beautiful in de-
sign, and it gives one a sense of omnipotence to
sit above them and see them from the air — peo-

17

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

pie walking or running hither and thither on
graveled pathways, ships floating by on each side
of them, and a look of peace about a place that
must be anything but peaceful. What a fine
residential spot this would make, and how sad
it is that it must be utilized, a veritable garden-
spot, for the safe-keeping of the criminal !

Like most beautiful things, Manhattan, at
once the ugliest and the loveliest city on this con-
tinent, gained by distance; and I could not help
remembering, as I looked back upon it now, its
hideous, mean little streets, its pitiful and cruel
slums, its unsavory odors; and as I wandered away
from it, I knew it could never deceive me. I
knew it too well. On its granite heart I, like
many another, had suffered and wept, though
also I had laughed there ; and some lines began to
sing in my head, and over on Long Island, much
later that night, when we had reached the real
country, I put them down on paper.

We left the city far behind ;
Ahead, the roadway seemed to wind
Like something silver white.

18

iM>

Guttersnipes are bathing along the shore"

ON THE DIFFICULTIES OF WALKING

For dusk had long since dwindled down,
And now the trees were strangely brown,
And dogs barked in the night.

The moon was up, a monstrous pearl,
As fair as any mortal girl ;

Stray cars went singing by.
Far, far away the city gleamed
Like something that the heart had dreamed —

A golden butterfly.

It sprawled against the velvet night;
It could not rise and take its flight,

Although its wings uncurled.
And you and I were glad to go
And leave its prison, even so,

And pace the lonelier world.

O city, with your splendid lies,
That look of wonder in your eyes,

We left you far behind ;
And though you stared with horrid stare
Into the moonlit heaven there,

'T was you, not we, were blind !

21

CHAPTER II

REALLY GETTING STARTED

IT is curious how, the moment you set out to
do anything in this troubled world, you im-
mediately encounter opposition. When I told
certain friends that I intended to loiter down
Long Island in July, they held up their hands in
horror, like my motor acquaintance, and instantly
asked: "Why that, of all places? And why in
summer? You will be overcome by the heat;
you will be taken sick, and what you began with
enthusiasm will end in disaster." And this, too:
"But what will you do for clean linen, and how
do you know the inns will not be too crowded,
and you may not be able to get a room?"

I could go on indefinitely, giving a litany of
friendly counsels and objections. Why people
are so interested in telling us what we must not
do has always been a mystery to me. It was as

22

REALLY GETTING STARTED

if they were to take these little journeys, not I.
Having made up my mind to do anything, I
usually find a way to do it; and one learns by
hard experience that if one takes the advice of
this or that friend, one ends by sitting at home
when a delectable trip is planned. So I waved
all objectors aside, and, though smiled upon in
some cases and almost sneered at in others, I set
forth as I determined, trusting to Heaven that
it would not pour rain on that first evening out,
so that my ardor, as well as my clothes, would be
instantly dampened, and I would appear rather
ridiculous to the few people who saw us off.

But it did not rain; and for an afternoon in
late July it was gloriously cool. So, said Jim
and I, the Fates were with us; we had won at
least the favor of the gods.

Like every great city, New York is not easy
to get out of. It is like nothing so much as a
huge scrambled egg, or a monstrous piece of dough
that not only covers the dish, but runs over the
sides of it; and you can ride seemingly forever
in the subway or on the elevated road and still be

23

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

within the confines of this mighty place, and won-
der, like the old lady who was standing in a train
to the Bronx, if anybody had a home. "Ain't
nobody ever goin' to get out?" you remember she
asked at length, weary of hanging on a strap.

Beyond the Queensboro' Bridge there is a flat
and de'solate-enough looking stretch of roadway,
partly artificial; a piece of land that was put there
for purposes of utility only, so that motorists,
pedestrians, and trolley passengers may make as
speedy an exit as possible from the roaring town.
You wonder how anything could be quite so for-
lorn. It is as sad as an old torn calico skirt; and
to add to the sadness, a cafe or two that once
might have proved an oasis in this wasteland
stares at you with unseeing eyes. The blinds
have long since been closed, and the windows are
mere ghostly sockets. Lights used to gleam from
them at evening; but now the old gilt signs that
told of cool and refreshing beer, dip in the dusk,
and hang as a king's crown might hang from his
head after the Bolsheviki had marched by. It
gives one a sense of departed glory. There is a

24

I

REALLY GETTING STARTED

tatterdemalion effect in these suspended haunts of
revelry that brings a sigh to the lips. Nothing
is so tragic as these innocent, deserted, road-houses,
save possibly a table filled with empty wine-
glasses after a night of festivity — and the knowl-
edge that there is no more wine in your cellar.

Let me make my first confession right here and
now. I must pause to tell the anguishing truth
that, disheartened at once by this bleak prospect,
and knowing that Flushing, with its pretty main
street and park would quickly delight our spirits,
Jim and I boarded a packed trolley so that we
might speedily pass this wretched jumble of noth-
ing at all.

Moreover, we had no sooner begun to lurch
down the line, crushed in with dozens of working
people on their tired way home, than we dis-
covered we had taken the wrong car. Instead
of going straight to Flushing, we were on the
way to Corona, which I had vaguely heard of
once or twice, with no real knowledge as to where
it was. We found we could transfer there, and
would not waste so much time, after all.

27

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

It gives you a feeling of extreme youth to be
lost so near a city where you have always lived,
and Jim and I could not help laughing at what
we called an "experience." I was glad we had
made the mistake, for at the cross-roads, if the
inhabitants of Corona will forgive me for calling
two intersecting streets of their humming little
town that, I ran into a young fellow standing on
the corner who regaled me, as we waited for our
car, with the gossip of the village. He had
knowledge of every motion-picture star in the
world, it seemed, and he loved talking about
them. There were prize-fights — amateur ones,
of course, — about every evening, and he himself
had taken part in many a tussle, and was so proud
of his strength that he invited me to put my hand
on his arm to convince me of the iron sinews
therein. I must say that, having done so, I would
have staked all I had on him in any bout. He
was of that lithe, panther-like type which is so
swift in the ring, and he told me so many happy
little stories of himself as a pugilist that Jim
and I took quite a fancy to him, and even went

28

REALLY GETTING STARTED

so far as to ask him to dine with us at White-
stone Landing, whither we were bound. He had
one of those engagingly simple personalities that
win you at once, and he said he would like to
come, oh, very much indeed, but he had dined
sometime ago (people in the country always seem
to sit down to "supper" at five o'clock or so)
and, well, ahem ! he did n't quite know what he —
And he started to step back from the curb where
he had been talking, and glanced over his shoul-
der so many times that finally my eye followed
his, and I saw what J should have seen before —
a pretty girl, of course. And of course she was
waiting for him.

And what did he care about two stupid stran-
gers and their fine shore dinner when he had this
up his sleeve all the while*? I told him how
sorry I was that we had detained him even a
second. He smiled that winning smile of his,
darted across the road, and seized his girl around
the waist in the tightest and most unashamed
squeeze I have ever seen, and was off down the
street, his very back expressing his happiness.

29

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

Well, Bill Hennessy, I '11 never see you again
in this mixed-up world, but I certainly wish you
well, and if our paths ever do cross again, I hope
to see several strapping little Hennessys around
you.

Our trolley came at just the right moment
thereafter, for we felt strangely lonely there on
the corner, with Bill and his joy gone down the
street, and as we sagged into Flushing we grew
hungrier and hungrier. Yet we determined we
would walk through the scented dark to White-
stone Landing. Bill had told us the exact road
to take; said he 'd often walked there, and now I
knew with whom!

It was all he said it was, a lover's lane to make
the most jaded happy. A path for pedestrians
ran beside the main road most of the way, soft
to the feet, and peaceful in the enveloping night.
The moon had come out brilliantly, and the sky
was studded with stars. It was getting on to
nine o'clock, and except for once when I camped
out in Canada, I did n't know where our beds
would be that night. It 's a glorious sensation,

30

REALLY GETTING STARTED

such ignorance. We were aware that country
taverns closed early, as a rule, off the beaten
tracks; but this only added zest to our leisurely
walk.

It took us much more than an hour to reach
Whites tone Landing, which is right on the water,
and we found a place kept by a Norwegian
woman; not very much of a place, I must admit.
There were ugly chromos on the wall of unbe-
lievably ugly ancestors; but when you have come
several miles on foot, and suddenly emerge from
the darkness feeling very tired and hungry, al-
most any light in any window is thrillingly beau-
tiful to you.

"It 's pretty late for supper," was her greeting,
and our hearts sank; but she must have seen that
we were woefully disappointed. A hopeful
"but" immediately fell from her lips. "But
maybe I can — Say, do you like hamburger
steak and French fried potatoes and clam chow-
der?"

Did we? We followed her right into her cozy
and clean kitchen, where her husband sat in

31

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

placid ease, as the husbands of so many land-
ladies sit always, and the odor of that ascending
grease — how shall I ever forget it*? It smelt as
I hope heaven will smell.

And such clam chowder as it was! Thick,
juicy, succulent, it dripped down our throats
like a sustaining nectar, some paradisial liquid
that an angel must have evolved and mixed. I
dream of having again some day in a certain
Paris cafe a soup that thrilled me when I first
tasted of its wonder; but never, never will any-
thing equal, I am convinced, Madame Bastiens-
sen's clam chowder.

We were given beds that night — and how good
the sheets felt! — for the infinitesimal sum (do not
gasp, dear reader!) of one dollar each. And the
next morning I was awakened, only a few miles
from rushing Manhattan, by the crowing of a
cock; and when I looked from my window, hap-
pily energetic as I had not been for many morn-
ings, I saw wild roses climbing over a fence, and
caught glimpses of the gleaming little bay, with
rowboats out even this early. Whitestone Land-

32

REALLY GETTING STARTED

ing is a place of house-boats. I had some friends
once, I remembered, who lived on one all summer,
and commuted to the city from it. There is a
boat-house, with a bathing pavilion here, and a
little steamer plies between Whitestone and
Clason Point every half-hour, and excursionists
go over for picnics under the trees, with heavy
lunch-baskets and half a dozen children at their
sides.

Jim and I determined to get an early start,
and after a breakfast that was almost as good as
our supper of the evening before (nothing could
ever taste quite so fine), we set off for Bayside by
a back road, which Mr. Bastienssen roused him-
self sufficiently to tell us of. He was a pale,
weak-eyed, blond little man, who seemed resent-
ful of most visitors, though common sense should
have told him that they were exceedingly neces-
sary if he was to continue his life of large leisure.

Now, there is nothing I like more than a back
road, particularly in these days of hurry and
scurry, and it was a perfect morning to walk any-
where. The air was like wine, it was not a bit

35

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

hot, and we made such an early start that we met
few travelers, and none at all on foot for some
time. The road curved, after we passed a little
bridge, and woods on the right almost lured us
exploringly into them. We did venture to go
out of our way to see the dewdrops on the leaves,
but as the sun was kindly that morning and could
not, in July, be depended upon to remain so, we
thought it better to get along. A farmer was
tilling the ground near by, and the smell of the
earth was good to our nostrils, poor paving-stone
slaves that we were; and out in a vast potato
patch the rest of the farmer's family were bend-
ing over the plants, as serene as if they were
hundreds of miles from anywhere. Here the
road turned charmingly, and Jim and I were
positively singing at our taste of exultant liberty,
drinking in our joy, and wondering why we had
never thought of coming out like this before.
Suddenly, directly around the turning, two
strange-looking men came running toward us,
swinging their arms in fiendish fashion. They
were hatless and coatless, and their shirts, as they

36

" I was awakened by the crowing of a cock "

REALLY GETTING STARTED

came nearer, were seen to be open at the throat.
They kept close together, and one of them was
huge beyond belief, while the other was smallish
and not given to quite the frantic gesticulations
of his comrade.

"Maniacs !" I whispered to Jim, not a little
alarmed; and it seemed to me I had read that
there was an asylum somewhere near this spot;
though on second thoughts it was only a military
fort. Nevertheless, to see two men running
amuck this early of a morning, confounded us,
and we thought we had better get out of their
way.

I could see that Jim was as uncomfortably
frightened as I, though he would not say so. As
the strangers came nearer, he dodged to one side,
as did I ; and then, as they passed us without even
a glance in our direction, we both burst out
laughing.

"A prize-fighter, with his trainer, practising
shadow-boxing!" cried Jim, who knows a lot
about such things. "And I '11 swear it was
Dempsey."

39

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

"I don't believe it," I answered, rather ashamed
of my inability to recognize such a celebrity of
the ring. "At any rate, I 'm sure of one thing."

"What's that?"

"It was n't Jack Johnson." And I had to
hurry ahead, for fear Jim would give me a pu-
gilistic punch.

Having met two pedestrians, we of course im-
mediately met two more; just as, when you go
down a lonely stretch of road in a car, through
some mysterious process three or four machines
will suddenly find themselves bunched together
at the most narrow and inconvenient spot. This
time they were a pair of stout young women, in
sweaters of some heavy material, puffing and
blowing up a little rise of land, most obviously
striving to reduce their girth. 77 faut soufrir
pour etre belle! They were not a whit em-
barrassed at running into us, — not literally, thank
heaven! — and went on their mad way as though
we did not exist, turning neither to right nor left.
I remember distinctly that though this was at

40

1 A pair of stout young women, puffing
and blowing up a little rise of land "

REALLY GETTING STARTED

the loneliest of cross-roads, a sign informed any
one who might pass that this was Fourteenth
Street. On one side the farm stretched for
countless acres; on the other the bay loomed large
and mirror-like in the sun, and ahead of us was
only an occasional cottage, rather threadbare,
down-at-the-heels dwellings, some of them, which
reminded me of old coquettes unwilling to give
up, and flirting with any passer-by. Fourteenth
Street, to any New-Yorker, conjures up the pic-
ture of a busy thoroughfare; and so this sign of
blue and white, hanging above an empty stretch
of overgrown weeds, brought a smile to my lips.
It was on Fourteenth Street, as a child, that I
had been taken to see Santa Claus in a depart-
ment-store window; and always the figure is as-
sociated in my mind with dense crowds in holiday
spirits, with confetti and other gay reminders of
Christmas.

It was at another turning that we came in sight
of Fort Totten, while across the water Fort Schuy-
ler stood serenely and firmly, and I knew that

43

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

City Island wandered out into the sound a little
farther up on the other side, close to Hart's
Island.

I wanted to go to Fort Totten; but we were in
no hurry, and I imagined that it must be time
for luncheon. True to our compact, we had n't
looked at our watches or asked the time along the
road. But we had been going steadily for three
or four hours, I was certain, and Jim suggested
that we sit under a tree for awhile. The sun was
fast mounting the heavens, and I found, at a
cross-roads, just the spot for a still hour or so.
We had brought some sandwiches along, and there
was a glen below from which I could hear the
water gushing. To linger a bit would be de-
lightful. I had not loafed for so long that it
would be quite an adventure now. As I dreamed
on the grass, I began to think in rhyme, as one
often does when there is n't a thing in the world
to worry about; and before I knew it I had made
this simple song to fit my mood :

All the drowsy afternoon,
Idleness and I

44

" Idleness and I "

REALLY GETTING STARTED

Dreamed beneath a spreading tree,

Looking at the sky.
Ah, we let the weary world

Like a cloud drift by !

It was good to get away

From the town of men,
Finding I could strangely be

Just a lad again,
Hearing only water sing

In the neighboring glen.

When had Idleness and I

Taken such a trip?
When had we put by before

Heavy staff and scrip,
Meeting on a summer day

In such fellowship?

Long and long ago, may be,

I had dared to look
For a whole, glad, sleepy, day

In a rushing brook,
Reading in the haunted page

Of the earth's green book.

Then, forgetting what I found

In the volume old,
I returned from solitude

47

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

Where the shadows fold,
Seeking what the foolish seek —
Empty joy and gold.

Now, grown wise, I crave again

Just the simple sky
And the quiet things I loved

In the years gone by.
We are happy all day long,

Idleness and I.

48

CHAPTER III

ALONG SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS

T TAVING rested royally by the road, we
•*• -•• fared on to Bayside; but first we turned
in at a pair of big gates, thinking we were en-
tering some rich man's estate, and caring not at all
whether we were desired or not. "But I hope we
won't be taken for Bolsheviki," Jim said.

A man in uniform moved here and there, but
we did n't pay much attention to this fact, until
a building loomed ahead of us that could not
possibly have been a private dwelling. A ser-
geant and a corporal sat on the veranda, and as
Jim and I were very thirsty, we asked for a drink
of water. The sergeant immediately took us
within, where it was dim and cool, and I noticed
some barred doors immediately in the center of a
great space. There was a painful silence all

49

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

about, but as I went into a little side room to get
my drink, I heard a click-click, click-click, as of
some one walking up and down with a cane. I
asked the sergeant what this noise could be, and
pointed to the barred door, and, my eyes having
become accustomed to the gloom, I saw the shad-
owy figure of a young soldier on crutches pacing
up and down the corridor of a huge cell.

"Would you like to go in?" the sergeant asked;
and when I said I would, for I have always been
interested in prison conditions, he unbolted the
great door, and the one occupant of the place
said, "Good afternoon, sir," and seemed really
glad, as I suppose any one in his situation would
be, of human companionship. He was lame, and
I asked him how it came about that a boy
wounded in the war should be undergoing this
punishment. "Oh, I overstayed my leave," he
said; and then I knew we had come right in to
Fort Totten, having left the main road when we
entered the gates.

If, ten minutes before, any one had told me
that soon I would be talking to a lame and im-

50

SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS

prisoned soldier in a dark cell, I would have
thought him mad. There Jim and I had been
dreaming and drowsing under a tree in the pleas-
ant sunshine, and all the while this lame boy, not
a hundred yards away, had been confined, with
no glimpse of even "that little tent of blue we
prisoners call the sky." All the other men, he
told us, were out in the fields at work; but he,
because of his lameness, was obliged to remain in
the ghastly cell. The penalty of courage in the
war, I suppose. A strange world, my masters,
more inexplicable every day we live in it! But
there was one consolation: he was receiving the
best of medical attention, and he told us he had
nothing to complain of.

There is a lovely walk between the fort and
Bayside, with little red farm-houses here and
there and more austere, rigorous, dignified homes
as you approach that town. The road curves,
and there are soft paths if your feet begin to
ache; and I remember one house, down by the
water, with a splendid row of Lombardy poplars
and small shrubs and bushes like giant mushrooms

51

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

forming a lane to the bay, a bit of French land-
scape that was indeed enchanting. A stillness
seems to brood over this part of the island; but
suddenly you find yourself on the outskirts of
busy little Bayside, where many actor folk live in
the summer, I believe. You see a small Italian
villa once in a while — the kind of little home
you'd like to pick up and put in your pocket and
take away with you, it looks so cozy and com-
pact, so like a house bought in a toy-shop.

It was here we got on the main road, where
there is always much traffic, and where, in con-
sequence, it is no fun to trudge along on foot.
We determined we would ask any one who came
by for a lift, and we hailed several cars. They
did not stop. I turned to Jim, after the eighth
or ninth driver had sailed by us, and said :

"What in heaven's name is the matter with
us — or with them, rather? Surely we look like
respectable piano-tuners, at least."

A flivver came along just then, with two men
on the front seat, and a perfectly empty back
seat.

52

I

SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS

"This will do nicely," we decided; and I put
up my beautiful Japanese stick, and called out,
"Say, won't you give us a lift to Douglas ton*?"

But they, too, sped on. We could n't under-
stand it. They had proceeded about fifty yards,
when we noticed that they slowed up, conversed
a bit, and then deliberately backed in our direc-
tion. We ran forward, jumped in, and thanked
them.

"But would you mind telling us," Jim asked,
as we started off at a good clip, "why you did
not stop for us at once?"

Our new friends looked embarrassed, and then
one of them offered :

"Well, to be honest, we each have a pint flask
on our hip, and we thought you might be federal
agents."

"We may wear plain clothes, but we Jre not
plain-clothes men," we said, and laughed; and
then, before we knew it, we had reached Douglas-
ton, and stopped for a drink of water at a cool-
looking well I saw that would have delighted the
soul of Pollyanna; for it bore a neat and hos-

55

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

pitable sign above it, reading, "All is well."
Just a mile or so away, on the water, is beauti-
ful Douglas Manor, which used to be the estate
of Mr. George W. W. Douglas, a wealthy gentle-
man who evidently had a consuming passion for
trees. In 1814 he bought this extensive prop-
erty from the old Van Wyck family, to whom it
had come down as a grant from George III. The
oldest oak-tree on Long Island is here. Some
one was going to cut this tree down recently, in
order to build, but a man with a great sense of
civic pride, Mr. James Hoffman, purchased it in-
stead, and now it is, happily, to be forever pre-
served. The old club-house at the manor is the
original Van Wyck homestead, and a beautiful
building it is.

In 1819 Mr. Douglas built the present hotel
in Douglas Manor, which was his residence. He
would have no trees disturbed, and the sidewalks
are made to run about the monstrous umbrellas
which shield the houses everywhere. There are
fourteen varieties of beeches, and about twenty-
five different kinds of evergreens, some of them

56

SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS

very rare specimens. One fernleaf beech, in par-
ticular, is considered a remarkable arboreal thing
of splendor. It must be about a hundred years
old. In the manor house ancient mahogany
bookcases, made in sections, are now here. And
yet there are those who say that sectional book-
cases are a comparatively new idea !

All over Long Island you see houses with won-
derful old shingles. Would that we could get
some like them to-day! There is a feeling of
permanence about the farm-houses, and some of
them look as if they almost resented the growth
of the many roads around them, and the encroach-
ments of motors chugging and clattering by. Yet
they manage to preserve their aspect of tranquil-
lity, and chickens and pigs and goats loiter on
many a farm-house lawn not many miles from
New York, as unconcerned by the modern spirit
of unrest as if a flivver had never passed the gate.
And there seems to be no real poverty on Long
Island. You can walk or motor for miles, and
though a few houses will look shabby, they never
bear that appearance of downright slovenliness

57

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

you see elsewhere. There is always a garden,
however small; and, situated as it is, there is al-
ways good fishing along the shores, and a real
livelihood may easily be maintained. Before the
inevitable arrival of the millionaire, Long Island
dreamed its days away in happy peace, and many
a prosperous farmer cannot be driven away, de-
spite the walled and formal gardens that often
come to his very threshold.

We had been captivated by Douglas Manor —
where, by the way, Jim had taken a swim — and
were loath to leave it. Good friends had given
us a fine dinner at the inn, but we would not
spend the night, determined as we were to push
on across the island as far as Lynbrook, begging
or stealing rides if we got too tired. There was
not much of interest on the way, but with day-
light saving there were still many hours of the
afternoon left. It was a sunlit road, with turns
and shadowy oases now and then to relieve the
monotony of our walk. We got as far as the
Oakland Golf Club links, when we found we

58

" We bumped contentedly along, getting
dustier and dustier"

SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS

were really tired; so we "hooked" a ride on a
farm-wagon. Maps are the most deceptive
things in the world. I love to pore over them,
but I have no sense of direction at all, and when
a road curves I never remember that that makes
it all the longer.

The farm-wagon was not very easy-going; but
beggars cannot be choosers, so we bumped con-
tentedly enough along, getting dustier and dust-
ier, and not caring a whit. The farmer was
strangely uncommunicative and seemed to take
no heed of us at all. It was as though we were
a pair of calves he was taking to market; yes,
dear reader, I know there is another obvious com-
parison that could be made. When there came
a sudden turning to the right, we jumped off,
and thanked him ; but he did n't turn his head
an inch. We saw that his farm was just at the
turning, a simple-enough place, and presently a
boy who must have been his son ran to the fence
and made strange signs to him; and we realized
that our silent host had been a deaf-and-dumb

61

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

man. No wonder he did n't mind having his
home at a busy cross-roads. They say the motors
whiz by here in battalions of a Sunday.

We got another lift later on. Many towns,
like Floral Park, do not live up to their names;
they are floral only from the railway station,
though that is not to be sneezed at, since many
villages are particularly hideous where the trains
come in.

It is curious that on the outskirts of Lynbrook,
which is a dreary, commonplace, drab, uninter-
esting little town, there should be a miraculously
beautiful inn. It is as though a shabby, poor
old lady suddenly pulled out a wonderful French
lace handkerchief in a dingy street, and exclaimed,
"Just look!" This inn (alas! no longer do we
use the charming word "tavern") is off the beaten
track, and one has to know of it to reach it; but
we wanted to get there for a bite of food, since
our hike had made us desperately hungry again.
That is one of the many joys of tramping, or
staying out all day in the open air: you eat like
a giant. And you sleep like a baby.

62

SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS

Beneath an arbor outside, in the moonlight,
while our sea-bass and our salad and coffee were
being prepared, we watched two gorgeous pea-
cocks disporting themselves, and several pheas-
ants strutted up and down. You felt as if
you were somewhere in France, for French was
the language we heard on the other side of the
grapes, where several waiters were resting and
smoking after the day's work. The big dinner
crowd from town had long since gone, and the
place was completely ours. We had freshened
up, and it was well on to eleven o'clock when
we sat down to that delicious little supper. But
afterwards we found, to our regret, that monsieur,
who came himself to greet us in a grand chef's
costume, with picturesque cap and white apron,
had no rooms for us; his was only a restaurant
now.

It was a fearful anticlimax to loiter down to
the center of the ugly town and have to take
stuffy rooms that opened almost on the public
square. But any bed was comfortable after the
long day outdoors, and though a raucous band

63

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

played loud tunes beneath us, and motors tooted
as they swiftly turned corners, I sank into an
easy slumber, from which I did not awaken until
a crash of thunder and a vivid flash of lightning
came toward dawn.

It had been cool the day before, but this storm,
like many another, simply made the atmosphere
heavy and more oppressive — so heavy that we
had n't the heart to go back to our French inn for
breakfast, as we had planned to do. Instead, we
ate what we could get in a sad room where the
chairs were piled on the tables, until they formed
a fence around us, and a trying light from a sky-
light revealed a dirty ball-room floor. Covered
drums were on the musicians' stand, — would that
they had been muffled during the night ! — and the
one sluggish waiter on duty wandered about
among this tattered place of artificial flowers like
a lost soul, fetching a spoon now, a fork later,
and some coffee, when it suited his, and the cook's,
convenience. The heavy red plush hangings,
with the dust only too evident in the garish
morning light, were draped back with cheap brass

1 The one sluggish waiter on duty "

SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS

cords, and we could hardly wait to get out of
such a place. Any road, no matter how hot,
would be better than this. It was like viewing
a soiled ball-gown at nine in the morning, with
a grotesquely painted face above it.

All the towns and villages along the South
Shore between, say, Lynbrook and Bayport are
but a means to an end — the reaching of the real
outskirts, those more fascinatingly informal places
that lead to Shinnecock Hills. Such spots as
Freeport, Massapequa, Merrick (although one
must say a kindly word for this charming little
residential neighborhood), Babylon, Bay Shore,
and even Islip, are too hard-heartedly decent in
aspect to give one any sense of comradeship; and
Jim and I, like everybody else, had motored
through or to them so often that they were an
old story to us. One wishes to pass them over
on a jaunt such as ours, though remembering by-
gone happiness in them, as one would skip unin-
teresting passages in an otherwise good book — a
book one had dipped into many times, so that one
knows the very paragraphs to avoid. There are

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

some splendid estates along the Merrick Road,
and I suppose the total wealth here would amount
to an unbelievable sum ; but mixed in with places
that the architects have striven to make lovely,
and succeeded in their efforts, are too many
nouveau-riche dwellings that must belong to the
period of Brooklyn renaissance. Oh, how I de-
test Mansard roofs ! and one sees plenty of them
here. Bits of water, like little mirrors, break the
monotony of a long motor ride through this re-
gion, and a bridge and a stretch of hedge every
now and then do much to vary the scene. Yet,
taken all in all, it is an area that has never
thrilled me. William K. Vanderbilt kept up a
vast park at Islip, and seemingly for miles there
is a high iron fence, and a warning to keep out
(as if one could ever get in), and a statement to
the effect that this is a private preserve, where
birds and fish and game are raised, and allowed
to increase and multiply like so many dollars in
a remote vault.

Other multimillionaires, I am told, raise horses
round about, and behind tall brick walls and

68

SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS

solid green hedges is many a beautiful home that
the mere wayfarer cannot view; only the elect
who professionally go to week-ends and drink in
the delights of the greensward and the golden
private beaches, and whisper of them afterward
to the less favored in town.

Just outside Lynbrook, on this muggy morning,
we had the energy to start down the Merrick
Road, knowing full well it was a place for mo-
torists only, with no scrap of a path, save here
and there, for pedestrians. We did it, knowing
how stupid we were. We did not like the
thought of a train, and we said to ourselves that
surely some kind-hearted driver or truckster would
give us a lift. It is more difficult, however, as
we soon discovered, for two people to be taken
care of in this way than one. We were passed
scornfully by several times, and even suspicious
glances were cast our way.

"Revenue officers again they think us, getting
the evidence in pairs," I said. "How times have
changed ! A year ago such a situation would
have been impossible."

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

Then Peter came along. Peter drove a great,
strong, massive truck, and he sat triumphantly
alone on an unbelievably wide seat, with little
baggage; none, apparently, from our point of
vantage. We hailed him, and he instantly
stopped in that burning stretch of road. The
sun had come out, and it was as hot as I cared
to feel it.

Peter smiled on us, bade us get in, and before
we knew it we were speeding on, though not too
fast, passing fashionable limousines in which we
hoped rode friends or acquaintances who would
see us on our proud eminence on a wagon marked
"Bologna, Ham, and Sausages." But no such
luck.

Peter had been in the army — ten months in
France, where he was utilized in the repair shops
because of his mechanical bent; he would rather
tinker with machinery than eat a square meal,
and he was a husky young fellow. And he was
proud of his job. His employer had the biggest
and finest trucks in Brooklyn, he told us. They
never broke down, and when he recognized one

70

SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS

coming toward us — they did a thriving business
on Long Island, evidently — he hailed the driver
in that free-masonry of fellow employees, and
remarked: "Ain't that a fine truck, now^ You
get a better view of it when you ain't on it."
We assured him it was because of the beauty of
his wagon that we had hailed him.

We saw a sailor trudging along ahead of us,
and Peter, once having been innoculated with the
germ of hospitality, drew up and asked him to
join our happy party. Jack was going to Baby-
lon to get recruits for the navy, he was quick to
inform us, and he was loud in his love of the
service. He had been on submarine-chasers all
during the war, and he and Peter hit it up in
great shape, doing most of the talking, while Jim
and I merely listened. It was as though you
heard two college boys from a university to which
you had not been privileged to go, talking over
their secret societies, their professors, their dormi-
tories.

But Peter was going only as far as Massa-
pequa, much to his regret; but he might go on

71

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

farther later in the day. So we all got out when
his turning came. Right behind us thundered a
huge wagon, crowded with men and boys who
wore little white caps, and waved flags indus-
triously; I think it must have been an Elks out-
ing. I never knew ; but they were blowing horns
and cheering at everybody, and when they saw
Jack, they yelled frantically to him to get aboard.
They wanted none of Jim and me; indeed, there
was hardly room for one more human in that
packed truck; and the last we saw of him, he was
being made much of by the Elks, if such they
were, and I thought I saw him already beginning
his recruiting among those happy fellows. He
took off his cap, waving us good-by, while, Peter
having disappeared in a cloud of dust, we saun-
tered on alone.

There were many little roads tempting us out
of the beaten paths, and several times we took
one, rejoicing in the proximity to the ocean, where
the salt air came to our nostrils, and great elms
and oaks sheltered us from the blazing rays of
the sun. But we did n't care ; we had hooked

72

" There were many little roads tempting
us out of the beaten paths "

SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS

many a ride, and we knew that almost whenever
we wanted another we could get it.

We sat under a tree, in the tall grass for about
an hour, when again I heard the rumble of a
truck — Peter's, of course. Who could mistake
those heavy wheels? "He's back," I said to Jim.
And sure enough, it was he, and he was on the
lookout for us, and drew up at the side of the
road, just as a taxi-driver might for a passenger
who would surely pay him and give him a goodly
tip in the bargain.

"I 'm going all the way to Bayport," he ex-
claimed, happier than we could hope over the
prospect of our company again. We felt su-
premely flattered. "I '11 take you all the way,"
he added generously. And he did. He could n't
understand it when we told him we did n't mind
footing it a bit; but we knew there would be
plenty of other chances to make haste slowly, so
joyfully climbed in, feeling that Peter was a real
friend of ours.

Off the main road at Bayport, which used to be
the home of John Mason, the celebrated actor,

75

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

there is another French inn, not generally known,
and boasting no fashionable exterior, but a plain-
enough building, with a comfortable veranda,
and kept by a young man and his wife who can
cook to perfection, who never have a crowd
around them, and who love to have their guests
walk right into the kitchen and select their steak
or their lobster, and make suggestions for a din-
ner that is beyond parallel.

It was for this inn that we were headed, and
many a time I had arrived at its door by auto-
mobile. Now, however, we came up in this lum-
bering truck, and monsieur and madame could
not believe their eyes when we alighted thus in-
formally. Nothing would do but that Peter
should lunch with us. He parked the bologna-
sausage-ham car at the roadside as carefully as
though it had been a ten-thousand dollar limou-
sine, and when he had washed up, he was as
personable as any one would wish to have him.
Jim and I were not Beau Brummells, I assure
you. We all had a meal to delight the gods,
and then Peter told us he would have to attend

SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS

to some business and hurry back to Brooklyn.
We did n't like to see him go, it was still so ter-
ribly hot; but he was a business man first, and a
society man afterward, though he did n't put it
that way himself, and nothing we could offer
would tempt him to be detained.

Jim went in bathing at Blue Point, a few miles
away, while I strolled about Bayport, through
lanes where the trees look, oddly enough, like
kneeling camels, and where the sidewalks, as in
Douglas Manor, are built to go around them, and
where there is a hush that must be like the quiet
of heaven, so far are you from the railroad, with
its iron clamor.

That night the moon came up like a big pearl
out of the sea, half hidden by a galleon of clouds,
and Jim and I went loitering about the half-
lighted roads; for we liked the spot so much, and
monsieur and madame were so gracious, that we
were determined to stay the night. Dim, cool
rooms awaited us, with the whitest of linen and
the best of baths.

I have often noticed, in motoring at night,
79

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

what a new aspect the scenery presents, with
one's search-light forging through the mist and
darkness. To-night, afoot, it was quite the same,
and on these off roads, with the world seemingly
far away, I made up a song that went like
this:

Walking in the moonlight down a lonely road,
How the hedges glisten like scenery of paint!

Cardboard are the trees, and cardboard each abode,
A curious illusion when the moon is faint.

Motors whirl around us on far, crowded ways;

Pasteboard are the poplars, stark against the sky.
Is this the world we wandered through the summer days *?

It 's like a dream, it's moonshine. Reality, good-by !

It could n't be real, that ghostly moon up there,
dimly reflected in a tiny sheet of water by the
path we trod, that whispering low wind in the
rushes and in the trees. How wonderful it was
to be here in this quiet, quaint little town, with
its lawns of velvet, its solemn, empty church, its
real dirt roads, and its outspreading, hospitable
trees, that clung together like a nation in time of
war, as firmly rooted in the ground as a people

80

SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS

should be rooted in the soil they love and from
which they sprang!

I recall a circular summer dining-room on the
outskirts of Bayport, surrounded with hollyhocks
and lit with candles, which we could see from the
road at a turning. It looked like a crown that
would never crumble, and we could hear the peo-
ple laughing within its happy circle, and though
we had no wish to pry upon them, we could n't
help pausing and listening to their gay chatter.
Crickets chirped, and down in a damp meadow
frogs were croaking — delightful sounds of mid-
July. Somewhere, in another house, a young girl
began to sing a wistful old song, and the moon
went spinning behind a sudden cloud; and all at
once we felt strangely alone out there in the
scented dark. To think that people lived so ex-
cellently and wisely all the time; that their days
went so gladly for them, year in and year out,
and that this simple experience should be for us
in the nature of an adventure !

We turned back to our inn, healthily tired, and
a little better, I hope, for our day in the open.

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

I was looking at the map when we returned,
underneath my lamp, to see just where we would
go next; and I was struck, as my finger ran over
the fascinating paper, with the litany of lovely
and curious names of the villages beyond. They
kept singing in my head as I went to sleep, and
finally I had to get up and put them down in
rhyme. I called it

A SONG OF THE SOUTH SHORE

Now we must on to Bellport before the sun is high,
And laugh along the roadside with bird and butterfly ;
And then to green Brookhaven, hidden behind the trees,
Our comrades only casual cars, and rows of hedge, and

bees.
It 's up at daybreak we must be, and roam the island

over,
Light-hearted in the summer days, bright-hearted through

the clover.

We '11 jog along to Speonk and larger towns thereby;
When one is just a gipsy, how swift the hours fly!
We '11 take the road at sunset and hear the croaking frog,
And soon we '11 be where water calls, and find ourselves in

Quogue.
Bright, dancing bays will wink at us before the journey's

over —
Oh, it is good in summer-time to be a careless rover !

82

SUNLIT AND MOONLIT ROADS

Then on again to Shinnecock and Great Peconic Bay.
It is n't far to Southampton ; we '11 make it in a day.
Old, lovely towns on rolling downs that sleep and dream

and smile ;

Ah ! some wear gowns of calico, and some go in for style.
But we, like tramps, knock at their doors, unheeding

Fashion's bonnet.
One town is like the freest verse ; one 's like a formal

sonnet.

At moonlight we will strike Good Ground, and, when the

world is still,
If we 're in luck, we '11 come, like Puck, to quiet Water

Mill.
And then to Wainscott we '11 press on with tired foot and

hand,
Till Amagansett smiles on us, and then — the Promised

Land.
It 's good to need a healing sleep in the rich summer

weather —
Two friends who fare along the road, happy and young

together.

There 's Rocky Point to-morrow, too, that dreams by

Fort Pond Bay,
With stretches of a lonely shore that gleams for miles

away;
Too far for pilgrims in gay cars who crave the louder

things ;
But you and I fare on to them, far happier than kings.

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

For Montauk Point is at the end, and there the ocean

thunders,
And the lonely coast gives up at last its old immortal

wonders.

84

CHAPTER IV

GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK

T3 ETWEEN Patchogue and Bellport there is
*^ a road that dips and turns, with here and
there a bridge to break the monotony of one's walk
and glimpses of pools and streams to add delight
to what is a charming province.

I remember once, when America first got into
the war, how I motored over this same road with
a friend from Bellport who was taking her young
colored butler to the registration office at Patch-
ogue, where it was necessary for him to report.
The poor fellow was very nervous, and we kept
heartening him with gentle words. In his ig-
norance he was certain he would be sent overseas
that very afternoon, and the sudden separation
from a good home and his best girl did not tend
to make him happy. He kept repeating that he
"wanted to serve Uncle Sam, anything to help

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

Uncle Sam," but he would rather be a potato-
peeler (as most of us would if we were as honest
as he) than a fighting soldier and run the risk
of being gassed by those awful Huns. We as-
sured him as best we could that if his talent ran
to peeling potatoes, the powers that be would
soon find it out, and no doubt he would prove a
valuable addition to the company kitchen and be
kept far behind the firing-line.

It would lend a romantic touch to my story if
I could truthfully say that Washington went to
France as a common soldier and died heroically
in the trenches and never was called upon to peel
even one potato. But such is not the case. He
remained all during the conflict on Long Island,
cooking for, peeling for, and waiting on, the offi-
cers' mess. And it made my jaunt over the road
where once I had accompanied him to serve his
country and his beloved Uncle Sam all the pleas-
anter to realize that he, too, traveled over it fre-
quently now, for he is back with his old mistress
in Bellport. But he does not walk. Not Wash-
ington! No such labored, plebeian a means of

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GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK

locomotion for him. He owns a little car, and
I believe his best girl is now Mrs. Washington;
and they are as happy as I whenever they go
through this green way, now that a certain form
of peace has come back to our land.

The morning we left Bayport, or, rather, the
morning I got back to it after a few days' neces-
sary absence in town, dawned beautifully bright.
There were jewels on the green, opulent hedges.
It was still late July, and the country wore that
look of richness that comes at this gorgeous sea-
son. There is a splendid hour of summer when
nature is at flood-tide, when the bins of the
world seem to be overflowing with sweetness and
greenness; a lavish moment that makes the heart
ache, the earth is so crowded with peace and de-
light. You gasp in the presence of such per-
fection; for every leaf seems to hold out a hand
to you as you pass under arching trees, and every
pool of water seems literally to pause and whis-
per that this glory will not last. "Drink it in
now, while you can," it softly says. "August
will be upon us before you know it; and then the

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

tide will turn, a different kind of beauty will be
in the bright mornings, another wonder will float
over this water in the afternoons. The evenings
will grow cooler. A change will take place. So
brood over this mystery of full summer now;
for it passes even while you are contemplating
it."

And it is true. The summer must hurrj on;
the splendor must fade, to make way for the
golden tapestries that autumn soon, too soon, will
hang upon the hills.

There were little dips and side trails all around
us, and having, as always, no thought of time, we
often investigated the roads that "led to God
knows where," finding delight in a sort of school-
boy exploration, surprising a cow calmly grazing
in some off field, or causing a family of hogs
to grunt and attempt a clumsy scampering. Off
the main road, I could n't help jotting down this
song on this particularly bright morning in praise
of tramping :

Through many a dale and hollow,
Round many a curving trail,

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GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK

We dipped, as dips a swallow,
And cared if none might follow,
Nor feared our feet might fail.

Through sunlit, warm morasses,
Through many a summer day,

With glimpses of green grasses

And quaint, mysterious passes,
We took our care-free way.

By many a farm and meadow

And many a lovely down,
We tramped, in sun and shadow,
Wherever Fancy led. Oh,

Forgotten was the town !

At every road's new turning,

Some new delight we spied.
The fields with joy were burning,
And we, fresh scenes discerning,

Kept up our glorious stride.

What mattered love's mismatings!

What mattered life's hard load
Or Bradstreet's silly ratings,
For we had happy datings

With God along the road!

I had a new companion with me this time, a
young fellow named Gordon. He had been in

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

the war, and he said that walking quietly around
Long Island appealed to him after the noise and
confusion of the trenches.

We got on to Bellport, that village which con-
tains charming little houses, some of which rest
neatly on the ground, as though they had no
cellars, and give the impression of well-con-
structed scenery in a light opera. There are gates
that click delightfully, old-fashioned flower gar-
dens, paths bordered with phlox and hollyhocks.
A blue bay shines in the sun, so radiant that it
has been painted by many artists, notably Wil-
liam J. Glackens, who used to live here. Indeed,
many artists have loved this quaint little village.
James and May Wilson Preston still make their
summer home within its quiet confines, and they,
like every one else, go out on the golf-links in the
afternoon, where there are glimpses of the water
all along the course.

Many of these towns, however, have lost dur-
ing the last few years that simplicity which was
once one of their most cherished possessions.
Evening clothes were never tolerated; it was al-

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GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK

ways white flannels and the most inexpensive
frocks at every dinner party or dance. But the
rich creep in everywhere, lured by the easy-going
spirit they would give anything to emulate; and
then the inevitable tragedy occurs. They kill
the very thing they love the most, and frocks and
frills, laces and jewels, conventional costumes,
are put on in the golden heart of summer, and the
old simplicity goes as new complications arrive.
A barn dance becomes a stately festival in an
over-decorated club-house, and the flivver is su-
perseded by yellow cars with magnificent names,
and Mrs. So-and-So will not bow to Mrs. Some-
body Else, and it 's good-by to real fun and de-
mocracy, and "Let 's go down to the Southampton
beach" instead of across the quiet, dreaming little
bay in a rocking tub of a boat for a dip in the
surf.

It 's too bad, but in America we never seem
able to keep, for three or four consecutive years
even, the same atmosphere we were so bent on
creating. We rent a lovely cottage, invite our
friends into it, and then immediately run away

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

from it. For we have heard that the next town
down the road is smarter or more thrilling, and
if the stock market has done well by us, we must
get a bigger house during June, July, and Au-
gust, and flutter a bit more, soar just a little
higher.

There were some village boys playing ball in
a field beyond Bellport, and it happened to be a
quiet morning, and there seemed to be no one
with the leisure to watch their game. So we,
remembering Whitman's line, "If there are to be
great poets, we must have great audiences, too,"
constituted ourselves the audience; and I don't
know that I have ever enjoyed a game more.
There were some fine players on that little team,
and as home run after home run was made, we
noticed a lad looking wistfully on, with one arm
gone — his right arm, too. I whispered to Gor-
don, "Too bad, is n't it? No doubt he used to
play, and perhaps the war has robbed him of that
pleasure now." Scarcely were the words out of
my mouth when he took his place at the bat, no
one except ourselves seeming the least surprised

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GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK

that he should do so. He made two hits, to my
utter amazement. But why should n't he, after
all, have done himself and the home team proud4?
A boy who could be undefeated in the face of
such an accident as must have been his surely
would not have been defeated at base-ball. We
cheered him to the echo, making up in enthusiasm
what we lacked in numbers.

It is only a short walk from Bellport to Brook-
haven; three or four miles at the most, I should
say. You turn to the right when a wooden
church comes into view, and here you strike real
country roads, and are mu'ch more apt to encoun-
ter carts and wagons than hurrying motors. For
Brookhaven is just what its name implies, a quiet
little village where one would have time for con-
templation, where there is n't the slightest pre-
tense or desire for it ; a tiny side room, as it were ;
a pleasant place to take a nap, to write a letter,
or to read a book. James L. Ford and his sister,
who always have seemed to me like Charles and
Mary Lamb, pass their summers here in a cottage
typical of what a literary man's cottage should

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

be; and it is here in this silent spot that some of
Mr. Ford's wittiest reviews have been written
and some of his cleverest bon mots uttered, cham-
pagne exploding and delighting the guests at quiet
country dinner parties. Several artists also find
the summer months to their liking here, and you
can't wonder at their choice. If one should not
wish to keep house, there is a homelike inn where
the best of food is to be obtained, and the place
is near enough to New York to make commuting
possible, even though not desirable. There is a
bit of bay to sail or row upon, fishing, and the
kind of human society a thinking man longs for.
Round about Brookhaven the grass grows high,
like a boy in the back country whose hair is al-
lowed to get shaggy because there is no barber
handy. And there are delicate lattice fences and
trellises painted a rich blue, and all the old-
fashioned flowers in the world, seemingly, peep
over them and smile at you and flirt with you^as
you go down the road. This is the sort of village
I dote upon, informal, gentle as a nun, but ready

94

" There are eyes watching you "

GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK

for a party any time the right folk come to pay
it a visit.

Between Brookhaven and Mastic and the
Moriches there are any number of cool back roads,
and people on farms here are primitive and plain,
and would exult, if they were articulate, I have
no doubt, in their cold sobriety and reserve.
Through places like these you can walk for hours,
and apparently it is a deserted district. There
are plenty of houses, but no one seems to be in
them. The shutters will be drawn in the "par-
lor," which is kept for the company that never
comes, and one can almost see those dim and
shadowy, unaired rooms, with shells and plush
family albums, heavy lambrequins, and faded
lace curtains, carpets with big pink roses for a
central design, and a filigreed wallpaper that
would make the heart ache, against which crude
family portraits rest in austere rows. You are
aware, as you pass, that even though no one is
visible, there are eyes watching you, and people
with little else to do are wondering who you are

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

and where you are going. It rained softly the
afternoon we got off the beaten road, and Gor-
don and I had this sense of being stared at to
such a degree that we got into a foolish fit of
laughter. We were so sure of not being alone
on a road that, when one looked about you, was
so decidedly empty.

"I wonder what they see in us," Gordon said.

"I wonder, too," I answered. "It 's so differ-
ent in New York. There no one pays the slight-
est attention to anybody else. But here — well,
I feel as if we were in a mystery play, and I
really don't like it, do you'?"

"No. And, gosh! look at that big dog com-
ing toward us ! He looks fiendish ; and it 's rain-
ing hard, and we '11 be soaked through."

We got under an oak-tree — it was just a
shower, not a storm — and escaped the sniffling,
barking canine, much, I think, to his disgust.
And then, wet though I was, I wrote this on a
scrap of paper and handed it over to Gordon:

I walk along the city streets,
And no one seems to care.

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GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK

The people merely think I 'm out

To get a breath of air ;
In drenching rain I cross the road

With manner debonair.

But if I walk on country roads
When days are warm and damp,

The folk peep from their windows like
Old tipsy Sairey Gamp,

And whisper in their farm-houses :
"Just look ! There goes a tramp !"

The dogs come out and snar^ at me ;

They have n't any pity :
And children call me cruel names;

I 've never thought them witty.
Oh, there are moments when I crave

The hard, unnoting city !

"But you don't, and you know it," was Gor-
don's only comment on what I thought were
purely satirical lines. "What liars you verse-
writers are! Come on; the shower's over."

And we trudged on.

Through the leafy greenness, all the lovelier
because of the pleasant burst of rain, we came
to a broken-down gate that apparently led to
Moriches Bay, — we were not far from the wa-

99

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

ter's-edge, we knew, — and in crudely formed black
letters above it was this legend on a piece of
board :

LADY UPHOLSTERERS

OF

LONG ISLAND
PICNIC

What a forlorn day for an outing! we said to
ourselves. And yet here were we taking one,
and enjoying it, though the afternoon was murky
and sticky. But what could the "lady uphol-
sterers" look like, not so much singly, but in a
group? And how many of them were there, and
how had they happened to band together for this
summer holiday? Was it an annual affair, and
were they young or old or middle-aged? Did
they have husbands to support them, or were
they the wage-earners of their families? They
fascinated us until we saw eight of the most
weary and bedraggled-looking females imaginable
emerging from the woods near by, burdened with
baskets and shawls, pails and jars, and two

100

Our hearts ached for them

GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK

screaming children. As Goldberg says, "And all
this comes under the head of pleasure!" What
a day they must have had, poor dears, after weeks,
nay, months, of heavy upholstery work, pound-
ing in tacks and stretching unyielding cloth over
numerous Long Island sofas! Our hearts ached
for them, for no doubt, like all picnickers, they
had planned this outing far ahead, and of course
the sky had to empty out buckets of water upon
them and the morning arrive full of oppressive
heat. They took their sodden way down the
lane ahead of us, and after a few hours of sit-
ting on the green grass, life was to mean for them
again only a long row of chairs to be forever
mended, forever repaired.

We decided that, although there was a certain
kind of doubtful privacy on these back roads,
they were depressing to-day, and we would work
our way back to the main thoroughfare, and get
to Moriches by nightfall. So we turned to the
left, encountering a pleasant-spoken farmer who
insisted on our riding with him, and who thought
us quite mad to be on a walking tour when the

103

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

thermometer registered eighty-five degrees in the
shade. "You don't have to walk?" he said.
Even though we told him we liked going afoot,
he was skeptical still, and I have the notion that
he was suspicious, before he left us, of such a
pair, and rather regretted the kindness of a lift.
He was going to a railway station, so he dropped
us at the main road, and we fared on to the next
town for our evening meal.

But on the way numerous cars passed us.
Finally — I do not recall just why — I was at-
tracted by a flivver coming in our direction which
seemed to be making an almost human noise. A
sort of wheezing sound came out of it as it tried
its best to get up a slight hill. There was a little
bridge between us, and when we were midway
upon it, the car came to a complete standstill. I
saw that a young colored man and woman were
the occupants, and the face of the boy looked
familiar. He was so busy trying to discover
what ailed his machine that he had n't yet cast
a glance in our direction.

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GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK

Suddenly he looked up as we deliberately
stepped over to his side.

"Lord o' mercy, if it ain't Mister Towne !" he
said, and rose and shook hands with me, excitedly.

It was Washington, and introductions made it
plain that there was indeed a bride, and complete
happiness now that the ugly war was over and
done.

"I can fix dis here car in no time," Washing-
ton announced, after we had recalled our last
ride together on this same road, much nearer New
York. He wanted to take us on to the next vil-
lage,— he could n't understand any more than
the farmer why we should be footing it on such
a day, — and it was all I could do to make him
understand that our preference was genuine.
But he, too, had a will of his own; and somehow
— maybe it was the sticky heat — Gordon and I
found ourselves in the rear seat ten minutes later,
and Washington had turned about and was con-
ducting us, with apparent pride, to Eastport. It
was no trouble at all, no more than peeling pota-

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

toes. His only fear was that the car would mis-
behave again, and I was sure he and Mrs. Wash-
ington could never have survived such a catas-
trophe.

Wind-mills begin to loom up around the
Moriches and Eastport, dozens of them, that
make you think yourself in a foreign land; and
the salt air from the sea comes to your nostrils
as you jog along. There is a freedom, a wild-
ness, a beauty, about this part of the island un-
known to other spots of the South Shore. And
then, to have a companion who has never been
this far, and who has no idea of what a gorgeous
surprise is in store for him when the foot of
Shinnecock Hills is reached, adds a zest to the
journey.

The towns are much alike, however. Speonk
lives up to its ugly name, and though we saw
goats and calves in a few front yards here, thus
going the chickens one better, occasionally we
would glimpse a lovely little cottage with an old-
fashioned garden and a lovely old lady among
her flowers. Quogue, which is semi-fashionable

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GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK

and sprinkles out like a broken jewel, could lure
one from the main road any day, at any season;
for it has a wonderful beach, and the ocean froths
splendidly and angrily all along the coast. Hid-
den away, tucked in corners, are villages like Rem-
senburg in this region, just a handful of houses
sparkling in the sun, where people who are wise
enough to like peace rather than stupid fashion
foregather and really enjoy a summer as it was
certainly meant to be enjoyed. And every vil-
lage, no matter how small, has its roll of honor
in the public square, a record of the boys who
died in France, their names inscribed forever on
a tablet; and you can hardly believe that even
from these tiny places soldiers went forth on a
certain day.

Outside Westhampton we came upon a quaint
castle, built of cement, around which a staircase
wandered, like a vine. A little tower stood near
it. The extensive lawns in front of these curious
buildings, which looked as if they had been trans-
ported from the Rhine Valley, were thick with
startling statuary, and Gordon and I, fresh from

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

a good sleep at Eastport, a real country town
with a real flavor, and knowing we could easily
reach Canoe Place Inn by noon on such a cool
morning, stopped to view the castle. We found
the owner, a delightful man in middle life, with
the blue eyes of a child, was a potter. Not only
that, but a painter, an inventor, a dreamer, an
architect, and a sculptor as well. His vases,
which he colored through a secret process, were
exquisite, and he showed us the furnaces where
he heated his clay in the tower, and a rowboat
on the lake behind the castle, composed of ce-
ment and wire, which he was mighty proud of,
as he had made it with his own hands. A pic-
turesque, charming gentleman, mowing the grass
when we wandered in, apparently at peace with
all the world, and glad of any casual visitor who
evinced an interest in his quaint place with its
busy enterprises.

We made Good Ground in three hours of lei-
surely going, and then the Shinnecock Canal,
where I wanted to watch Gordon's face.

For it is here that Nature makes a sudden
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GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK

and supreme gesture, as if to say: "You thought
me rather stupid and commonplace up till now,
did n't you? But just see what I can do !" And
she lifts her hand, and presses it on the earth,
and here, on prosaic Long Island, puts a bit of
Scotland ! It is a magical change, and for a mo-
ment you think you are living in a dream or a
fairy-tale. Greener grass I have seldom seen;
and then the scrub bay-trees, like gorse, blueberry-
bushes, and goldenrod! A wonderland opens
before you for several miles, with clean, curving
roads running through it like devious highways
of the king. Wind-mills extend their arms, and
architects have wisely placed here only the type
of dwelling that sinks naturally into the land-
scape. Shinnecock Bay is as blue as the Medi-
terranean, and on a point to your right a graceful,
white lighthouse stands. I could look forever
upon this scene. From an airplane the moors
must look like a Persian rug, spread across the
island through some miracle, fit for a beautiful
queen to walk upon. There is only one flaw—
the practical telegraph poles should be removed,

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

or at least hidden in some way. We had camou-
flage in the war; why not in time of peace*?

"By Jove ! it 's great !" Gordon said, as I knew
he would. "Why did n't you tell me we were
coming to this4?"

"Because I wanted it to take your breath away,
as it has," I answered. And then we fell silent;
for if there is one thing I can't endure, it is the
kind of friend who raves forever over a sunset
or the starry expanse of heaven and gives you
no time to think of the wonder itself.

We were to lunch with friends at Shinnecock,
another surprise I had for Gordon, who thought
we would hurry through this paradise, and make
a tramp-like entrance into thrillingly smart
Southampton. He was happy over the prospect
of several hours in such a spot, as well he might
be. I kept from him the fact that I even hoped
to be asked to sleep on the moors. "You mean
the Ostermoors," said my witty young compan-
ion; and I have not forgiven him yet, though in
justification he keeps reminding me what an in-
veterate punster Charles Lamb was said to be.

no

CHAPTER V

FROM SOUTHAMPTON TO MONTAUK POINT

NOT very many New-Yorkers — or Long-Is-
landers, for that matter — realize that at
Shinnecock Hills, within a stone's-throw of fash-
ionable Southampton, there is a small Indian res-
ervation, primitive Americans elbowing, as it
were, with an overcivilized hodgepodge, lending
added color to the crazy-quilt of a hectic society.
A contact like this is almost unbelievable; yet
there it is, and I wonder what the chiefs and
squaws would think of the bathing-beach at
Southampton if they took the pains to view it, as
we did, on a certain Sunday morning. Here was
the dernier cri in feminine costumes, and church
was just out. The chapel is conveniently and
thoughtfully placed almost next to the bathing-
pavilion, in order, I suppose, that the holy inno-
cents may emerge from one sort of spiritual bath

ill

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

and step into quite another. A fearless clergy-
man, the day we were there, had given the idle
rich a severe lecture, under which many of them
sat in mute unconcern, and then filed out to the
glowing sands of pleasure, as though the wither-
ing words they had just listened to had never been
uttered. Oh, wasted wrath and worse than
wasted advice ! Yellow umbrellas and pink-and-
green and salmon bathing-suits seemed of far
more importance than ecclesiastical visions of a
solemn day of judgment, and the so-called fash-
ionable world laughed and gossiped and frisked
about as of old, before any world war rocked this
troubled earth or any pious gentleman dared to
speak his mind.

There are many beautiful gardens in Southamp-
ton, but I saw only two of them, each lovely in a
different way. One was that of Mr. H. H. Rog-
ers, a formal Italian thing of glory, with the
sea singing almost up to its very borders, and
with nothing between it and Spain but this same
plunging, foaming ocean. For the narrow strip
of land that begins at Fire Island ends at Shinne-

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SOUTHAMPTON TO MONTAUK POINT

cock Hills, and Southampton triumphantly
touches the sea itself and listens to her song all
day and night. The other was the less formal
garden of Mr. James Breese, back in the town
proper, a riot of luxurious beauty, with vistas
east and west, north and south, as in Mr. Rogers's
garden, and statues and busts and fountains, and
a fragrance forever arising out of the clean, opu-
lent earth. Down such garden walks one would
love to loiter through the slow summer after-
noons, or see the moon spill its silver on quiet
nights. The peace of gardens! The assuaging
comfort they bring with the noisy world on the
other side of their high walls, over which only the
green vines clamber and peep !

After the colorful and stiff parade of Southamp-
ton, it was soothing to get to quiet Water Mill,
only a few miles away, where the dunes rise high,
and where Gordon and I, thanks to a lavish
hostess, were given a picnic on the beach on a
certain evening when the stars were blazing the
sky and the moon was a fragment of pearl against
deep-blue velvet. If you ever pass through Wa-

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

ter Mill, be sure that you turn sharply to the
right when you come to a house set at the side of
a little inlet, and make for the shore about a
mile beyond. The sand has formed mighty
hillocks here, and far as the eye can see there is
a noble coast-line, with spray continually veiling
the shore as the first soft snow envelops the world
on a December day. A few houses bravely face
the thundering sea, and one or two were recently
washed away, I was told, in a great storm.

The day after our picnic we went by motor to
Easthampton, that lovely old town with one of
the finest main streets in America, shadowed by
elms, chestnuts, and maples. In the center of it,
beyond the great flagstaff, is a quiet little ceme-
tery rolling down to a stream, whereon a swan
or two drifts and dreams the hours away, like
those sleeping under the hill. It was here that
"Home, Sweet Home" was written, and the house
where Paine penned his immortal words is still
standing, a shingled cottage with old doors and
windows and cupboards, now made into a little
musuem. John Drew, Augustus Thomas, and

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SOUTHAMPTON TO MONTAUK POINT

Victor Harris are among those who make their
summer homes in Easthampton, and there is a
colony of as interesting folk as one could wish
to meet. By no means so smart as Southampton,
this town has a charm distinctly its own, a rich
tone and color like some old volume. And it is
an old village, for it was settled in 1649. I know
of no better place to wander about. There are
byways in every direction, and there is always
that broad, heavenly, and shadowy main street
to come back to. No wonder Paine could write
his deathless poem in such a spot!

Amagansett, another old village, as fragrant
as fresh hay, lies just beyond, drowsing the long
summer hours away, dozing peacefully through
lazy afternoons.

And then you reach a poorer hamlet, with the
delightful name of Promised Land. We saw a
tiny cottage here by the edge of the road that
spelt serenity, if ever a house did. It was cov-
ered with thick vines, and its three stone chim-
neys rose like protecting bastions. The clipped
lawn told of order and harmony and a sense of

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

decent pride, and I imagined charming old ladies
living here on a patrimony, content with life,
happy in a hamlet with such a heavenly name.
What a place for the sunset days of one's allotted
span!

Until you reach Montauk, this is the last clus-
ter of houses before the point is finally won.
Many people had discouraged us from going be-
yond Easthampton, saying the roads were impos-
sible, if not utterly impassable. But do not be
deceived. The cinder-path that begins almost as
soon as you are out of Promised Land, and soon
develops into a good dirt road, is fine and hard,
equally good for foot-farers or motorists. True,
it is narrow, and if you are in a car, you will
have to watch out for other travelers and turn at
the right spot, as trolleys must delay at given
sections when there is only a single track. Be-
yond this there will be no difficulty, and soon
you will find yourself entering a locality as bleak
as that country described in "Wuthering
Heights." The moon must look like this.
Gaunt ribs of sand rise on the ocean side, and

118

SOUTHAMPTON TO MONTAUK POINT

here and there is a lonely coast-guard hut. It is
as forlorn as the devastated regions of France,
with formations in the dunes like shell-craters.
Only the tanks are missing, and the stark lines of
telegraph poles make you think of the crosses in
Flanders Fields, row on endless row.

There is waving salt grass, and once in a while
a pink marshmallow rose will lift its pathetic face
in the sun. The sand-dunes take on a purplish
tint, and there are purple shadows like miniature
caves, with the sea forever chanting and beating
its tireless hands upon the lonesome shore. Scrub-
pines appear, and then a little forest of scrub-
oaks, until you imagine you are in Italy. A
lonely railroad-track follows you on the left; and
that, with a wireless station farther on, are the
only reminders of civilization. You are sud-
denly and gloriously out of touch with the world;
and then you realize that, through the miracle of
a modern invention, you can never quite get
away from the vast city you have left so far
behind you.

The island grows very thin here, and with the

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

loud ocean on your right, you also have glimpses
of Napeague Bay, Fort Pond, and Great Pond
on your left. It is a constantly and curiously
changing scene through which you wander. One
moment you exclaim, "Why, this is Scotland!"
and the next there will come a definite dip in the
land, and you will discover farmers tilling the
soil, and think you are in Connecticut. It is as-
tonishing that so restricted a territory can con-
tain so many shifting scenes.

And now the lighthouse, which has stood on
the point one hundred and twenty-three years,
gazing with its great eye from the edge of the
world out to the limitless ocean. The present
keeper has been there nine years, and his assistant
told us that last winter, in a heavy storm, they
were virtually cut off from the world for three
months, and he and the keeper's young daughter
trudged through drifts of snow to Promised Land,
nine miles away, for groceries and other supplies,
and had, as one can imagine, a hard time of it.
This young assistant, Mr. Kierstead, had been
slightly shell-shocked in the war, and he found

122

" With its great eye to the limitless ocean "

SOUTHAMPTON TO MONTAUK POINT

the quiet life at the point soothing to his nerves.

"But isn't it lonely for you all?" was the in-
evitable question, asked of every lighthouse-
keeper.

"Oh, maybe, a bit; but we love it. And there
are plenty of visitors in summer. In winter we
can read, and we have a happy time of it."

The quarters where these two families live are
as neat as wax, and I can imagine how the fresh
salt air helps one's appetite. We grew hungry,
seeing a delicious plate of hot cakes on the table.

During the Spanish-American War certain of
our troops were camped at Montauk Point, and
the spot hummed with soldiers and Sunday vis-
itors. Now it has almost forgotten those busy
days, and gone definitely back to its natural calm
and peace.

Gordon and I were motored back to Southamp-
ton, and there we took a train to town. This was
always an anticlimax, for no matter how tired
one might be, after footing it here and there, or
even after motoring, one had no desire, particu-
larly after a period of exultant freedom, to be-

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

come part of a common package — a bean, as it
were, joggling against other beans in a stuffy
smoker or even in a parlor-car.

Of course the ideal way to return would be
not in a motor, but in an airplane — exultant free-
dom magnified a hundredfold, since there is no
sensation of aloneness and aloofness to compare
with a journey through the air. To get back
thus romantically and ecstatically to the worka-
day world would be the essence of delight. But
one cannot ask, and expect to receive, every known
form of joy on this prosaic earth; and so any
companion I ever had, free from such foolish
wishes as mine, was always content to purchase
a conventional ticket and get back to New York
in a humdrum way.

126

CHAPTER VI

AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND, CONEY ISLAND

IN every full-grown man, if he be of the right
stuff, there is a human desire to play which,
indulged in at the proper intervals, gives us poor
humans that balance so necessary if we would
keep our sanity. Moreover, it keeps us young
and makes us better.

I confess that about once each summer I crave
Coney Island, as a child craves candy or a toy
balloon. Something steals over me, something
whispers in my ear, "This is the very night for
a ride to that mad, glad beach, with thousands
of other fools. Come, play with me, and be
gloriously young again !"

I cannot resist the siren, or whoever it is that
thus robs me of what trifling dignity I may have.
When the word comes, when the impulse is upon

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

me, I simply obey ; and never yet have I regretted
any wild spree at Coney Island.

There are plenty of motors to take one there,
if it is too tedious to go by train or boat. They
are all over New York, on various corners of
Broadway; and the magnetic call of the "barker"
who lures folk into his whirling chariot is loud
along that sparkling thoroughfare on midsummer
evenings. All you have to do is pay your dollar,
or whatever the rate is now, and jump aboard.

You are whirled through the vast city in the
twinkling of an eye, and over into Brooklyn;
and soon you find yourself tumbling along the
motor parkway where, as a boy, I used to ride a
wheel and miraculously escape every truck that
came along, and never dreamed of danger. In
and out of hurrying traffic we all used to speed;
and then one day they built a side path for the
cyclists alone. Then there were so many of us —
we seemed to multiply like rabbits in those
halcyon days — that they built a path on the other
side, so that there was one-way traveling only.
This, I recall that we all thought, robbed the

130

AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND

sport of some of its zest. The element of danger
had been entirely eliminated. It was as though
you took the jam off our bread.

Youth, youth, that fears nothing! How won-
derful you are ! Though I used to go at a terrific
rate on my bicycle, and fear no man, to-day I
confess that even behind the best chauffeur, I
have a little tremor of the heart. If I drove the
machine myself, maybe I would not be so fool-
ishly afraid — (yet is it being foolishly afraid?) ;
for they tell me that sooner or later every driver
will get the speed mania, and take chances on the
most crowded thoroughfare or along the shining,
empty road, though it turn and twist every few
rods.

Everybody seems to be going to, or coming
from, Coney Island on, say, a July or August
evening. Everyone is, or has been, making a
night of it. And soon you see in the dim dis-
tance, like so many fallen stars, the lights of the
playground, shining like diamonds on the beach.
Or is it a cascade of wonder tossed up on the shore
by opulent mermaids — necklaces that they have

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

wearied of, golden bracelets that have tired them,
glowing gems that they once wore in their hair,
and now throw nonchalantly on the coast for the
delight of us poor mortals'? At any rate, there
they are — those gleaming miles of phosphores-
cence, part of the wonderful city of magic in the
midst of which you will soon be playing like a
child of ten.

Cars, cars everywhere, with men calling to you
that their little foot of earth is the best place to
park your machine — if you are running your own.
If you are in one of those public conveyances that
accept anybody with the money for a passenger,
you feel that you are just that much more one of
the vast multitude that is scrambling for an en-
trance to this place of simple pleasure; and you
are glad, as I always am, that you have not the
responsibility of a motor to add to the troubles
of this world.

There is a certain feeling of opulence in pur-
chasing one long ticket at a window which will
admit you, as it is variously punched or torn, to
every show inside; and this understanding of the

132

•stt

" The wonderful city of magic "

AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND

weakness of human nature is only one more mani-
festation of the success of Coney Island. Who-
ever conceived the idea of inviting patrons to buy
just one ticket for a round sum, is as knowing as
the pundits of old ; and my hat is off to his massive
brain. I wish I had the wit thus to read the
heart of my fellow man. To give up a dollar,
let us say, knowing that you will be taken care
of for the rest of the evening; that all the side-
shows will be an open book to you, without the
annoyance of bothering further with coupons —
that seems to me the perfection of Yankee fore-
sight, the best device of a system that has been
studied minutely to discover how to ease the bur-
dens of the tired public.

It was the late Frederick Thompson and his
partner, Dundy, who invented Luna Park — two
young men who ran the Hippodrome when it was
first opened, and who had a genius for knowing
what people wanted in the way of entertainment.
Luna Park is but a slice of Coney Island; but
within its confines may be found almost any
known form of innocent amusement. Roller-

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

coasters, merry-go-rounds, swings, shooting-galler-
ies, mystic Moorish mazes, elephants, camels, hot
dogs — by which is meant bologna sausages — pea-
nuts, popcorn, dance-floors, jazz — all these, and
many another bit of life's make-believe may be
had and enjoyed if one has provided himself with
a long, long ticket, or will take the trouble to
dig down into his pocket for the necessary nickel
or dime.

I have seen men and women of most serious
mien enter Luna Park, determined, judging by
their countenances, not to lose their dignity; yet
they have emerged from some indulgence in the
spirit of carnival, having been wise enough, as
Stevenson put it, to make fools of themselves.
They have had their photographs taken in some
grotesque attitude — on a camel, perhaps — and
waited, childlike, while the film was finished, so
that they could take it home as a souvenir of a
happy evening; and doubtless they have pasted it
in a scrapbook which they will keep forever, in-
scribed with the date of their dissipation, their
fall from grace, and hand it down to their chil-

136

AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND

dren as a sign that grown-ups can, once in a
while, lose their solemnity and be all the more
human for it.

Coney Island is one vast slot machine; and if
there is a word that describes it better than an-
other, it is movement. Everything shakes, or
glides, or shimmies, or jumps, or tumbles, or
twists — nothing ever stands still. That would
be unthinkable. The American people love noise
and confusion, and the more of it they get the
better they like it. Witness the success of our
cabarets. Coney Island might stand as a symbol
of our national consciousness. Its riot and con-
stant gestures are the expression of what the mul-
titude like best. It is sublimated madness; but
it is typical of our easy forgetting, our ability to
throw the serious business of life to the winds in
the twinkling of an eye, when it is necessary.
I have never seen any ill-humor at Coney Island,
even in the hectic days before prohibition. The
crowds go there, determined to have a good time.
They do not intend to be cheated of their happi-
ness. An easy manner pervades them all, a slap

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

on the back by a total stranger is never resented,
and everyone smiles, everyone laughs. It is the
thing to do. As Polly anna was the "glad" book,
so Coney Island is the "glad" place. Your wor-
ries will not be tolerated there.

Why people should pay money to be made fools
of is one of the eternal mysteries. There is a
certain spot in one park where a lady's skirts
are literally blown over her head the instant she
passes a gate — having paid ten cents for the
privilege. A gust of wind which she knows not
of sends her gown upward; and this would be
distressing enough in itself, but a greater horror
confronts her. She hastily adjusts her skirt, and
then hears gales of laughter, looks ahead of her
in the direction of the sound, and sees row after
row of people who have already passed through
the ordeal, and are sitting there waiting for the
next victim. Having been made ludicrous them-
selves— having had their straw hats blown off,
if they are men — they love nothing better than
to watch your confusion. And there they are,
cruelly awaiting you. But you are not angry.

138

A slice of Coney Island "

AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND

You can't be. That would be fatal, and entirely
out of the spirit of the place. You smile a sick-
ish smile, plunge forward as best you may and
join the others safely on the other side. You
are now like the lad who has just been initiated.
How eagerly you pounce upon the next poor fool,
to give him a taste of the .anguish you have exoe-
rienced !

Suddenly, having had your fill of this laughter,
you see a mass of smooth boards close by — a shin-
ing hill, almost perpendicular, down which dozens
of men and women are tumbling — perpetual mo-
tion again; yes, and perpetual emotion. They
land, after a swift fall, in a dry whirlpool of
rings, which revolve rapidly in every direction.
But one cannot escape these rings. They are
contiguous, and they never cease whirling. If
you are fortunate enough to leave one, and think
yourself free at last, you find yourself imme-
diately upon another; and thus the game goes
merrily on until you are pushed by the latest
comer out into a sort of trench, looking and feel-
ing idiotic and dizzy, and again facing a group

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

of people who have been through the agony and
are now convulsed with mirth at your distress.

And you paid to have this laughter greet you !
You went into it with your eyes open, and there-
fore you have no one to blame but yourself.
Such is the good-nature of Americans, that I saw
one young fellow, who had not dreamed of the
whirling wheels when he took his first tumble,
immediately take out his pocket comb and a tiny
mirror and pretend to make a hurried toilet as
he turned and twisted on his uncomfortable seat.
That made the crowd watching him his everlast-
ing slave, and he came out triumphant. He had
seen that the joke was on himself, and he had the
wit to make a monkey of himself as he was tossed
about.

Undismayed, you seek the next bit of fun.
You wouldn't stop now for the world. For you
have been innoculated with the germ of the spirit
of carnival, and there is no hope for you. The
Barrel of Love — yes, of course you'll try that !

So you allow yourself — having given up an-
other coupon — to be strapped within a barrel,

142

AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND

while someone else is bound on the opposite side,
facing you, two miserable, concave figures. Then
both are twirled and twisted and rolled and
heaved and dumped this way and that — again,
of course, to the accompaniment of laughter on
the other side of the ropes which separate you from
the happy mob. You almost experience sea-
sickness. But what of that? This is a night of
complete abandon, and you must not be ill now;
for the scenic railway, the merry-go-round, the
dark tunnel and a dozen other haunts of laughter
yet await your coming. But the Barrel of Love
does seem a bit too much for anyone. Looping
the Loop is easier.

I once saw a mother take her infant child in
the latter. Maybe she believed in preparedness,
and thus early determined that her offspring
should become accustomed to astounding pleas-
ures. He would grow up to be a Coney Island
fiend, undoubtedly. At any rate, there the child
was, in its mother's arms, little knowing the dip
and whirl that awaited it. Criminal? Perhaps.
But part again of Coney Island's marvelous and

H3

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

non-understandable psychology. For the relief
of the reader, I would like to say that I stood at
the foot of the Loop to see if the child survived
when the wild rush was over. It had. I turned
away much easier in my mind, but still unable
to comprehend such a parent. She was a new
kind of mortal to me. Doubtless her child will
grow to a robust manhood, and, at the ripe age
of ninety-two or thereabouts, expire quietly in
his bed.

The Rolling Waves attract you next, perhaps.
On a floor that perpetually heaves through some
clever electrical contrivance, and which is painted
green to resemble the tossing ocean, chairs are
sent forth, like ships from a wharf. Two people
sit in these, and one seeks to guide the chair
around the "sea" and try his best not to bump
into another "ship." It is great fun, and there
are always loud shrieks and yells. When you
miraculously come back to port, the attendant
always suggests another trip; and rather than get
out of your straps, you stay comfortably in.
Thus do the dimes disappear at Coney Island!

144

AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND

It takes strength of character to resist a "barker."
It is his profession to urge and cajole. He has
been a close student of human nature. He sizes
you up at a glance. He knows how to lure you
into his net, whether he is selling seats on the
scenic railway or bidding you see the very fattest
woman in all the world. His megaphone is loud
in the land of Coney Island, and never does his
rasping voice cease for an instant. Somewhere
he is always calling to you, and his eloquent
appeals, whether in verse or prose, win you in
the end. I heard one "barker" cry, on behalf
of his vaudeville entertainment,

"Come, buy your tickets, and step in line —
I 'm sure the show will be very fine !"

I could not resist so natural a poet — the antithesis
of the verse libre school, which has so often an-
noyed us all. They should go to Coney Island,
and learn something of scansion from this inspired
"barker."

Merry-go-rounds — carousels is a more impor-
tant way of naming them — have always fasci-

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

nated me. I like trying to capture the brass ring,
even now; and when, as so often happens at a
place like Coney Island, where the crowds are
indeed dense, I am forced to take an inside seat,
which makes it impossible for me to reach for
the rings as we whirl past, I am consumed with
grief. I like the mechanical spanking steed on
the outer rim — those balky horses that leap and
plunge — not the quiet and unromantic carriages
near the music-box. They seem to have been
put there for grandma and grandpa when they
bring the children out in the afternoon. No!
I always crave the exciting outside edge. And
oh, the thrill of getting the coveted brass circle,
and winning another ride for nothing! When
will one be too old to lose this feeling of joy!
I wonder.

I have always said I would know I had crossed
the Rubicon when I could go on with my break-
fast and let the morning letters wait. I would
like to add that I will know that my youth has
definitely gone when I no longer am willing to
leap on a merry-go-round and strive valiantly for

146

14 Toboggans that splash "

AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND

the brass ring. Even to the tune of "Nearer, My
God, to Thee," which was actually played by
the organ when we were twirled about on a flash-
ing carousel one night, I can still enjoy the jour-
ney; and I pity with all my heart any man or
woman who cannot.

Also I like that sickening sensation when the
car on the scenic railway plunges, in sudden dark-
ness, down a sharp declivity, and seems about to
leave the track. I like the yells of terror from
my feminine neighbors — I know they are half
put on ; and I like the girl who uses the imminent
danger as an excuse to lean closer to her lover and
have his stalwart arms hold her safely in. I like
to see humanity out on a holiday, nibbling its
popcorn, chewing its gum, weighing itself, buy-
ing its salt-water taffy, dancing its tired legs off,
flirting outrageously, gaping before side-shows,
slipping down toboggans that finally splash in
turbulent water — in fact, making a complete fool
of itself. A shop-girl and her sailor beau is a
beautiful sight to me. His dare-devil extrava-
gance, and her feminine clinging to his side in the

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

surge of a place like Coney Island — what could
be more healthily young and delightful 7

I like to see people staring at a certain booth
where candy, for some undiscovered reason, is
sold in a form that resembles lamb chops, roast
beef, and sausages! What brain conceived this
curious idea*? Why should delicious candy be
any more delicious under a strange disguise of
red meat*? By what process of reasoning is it
supposed to take on sweeter qualities, thus camou-
flaged'? (I had vowed never to use that word
again; but one can't escape it!)

I suppose it is the old P. T. Barnum theory
of mob psychology: people like to be fooled.
And, having been successfully fooled themselves,
they like nothing better than seeing someone else
fooled. We pay to be made ridiculous; and, in
our good-natured Yankee way, we do not com-
plain when we discover that the joke has been
on us. No, indeed! We take pleasure in ob-
serving the next fellow's discomfiture, followed
immediately and inevitably by his fatuous grin.

Corn on the cob must be eaten at Coney Island.
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AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND

Your visit is not complete unless you partake of
this succulent food. Likewise you must buy a
"hot dog." And always you crave another.
The real way to go to this vast playground is to
arrive about dinner-time, and enter one of the
many good restaurants along the main thorough-
fare. In some of them you will find as bright a
cabaret as in any Broadway haunt, and the food,
too, will be equally fine — and probably less ex-
pensive. But do not over-eat; for one of the
great pleasures of this racketty, rollicking resort,
consists in nibbling at this and that dainty all
during the evening. One's appetites — physical
and mental — never seem to be satisfied when one
is visiting Coney Island. Both the brain and the
body are stuffed on such an expedition, and to
such an extent that it is a wonder we do not die
when the trip is over. Vendors are importunate
at every turning, and as glib as the "barkers."
They, too, are difficult to resist; and the odor of
fragrant fresh corn is, to me, a temptation al-
ways.

What is there in aiming at a target that is

LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

so irresistible? The shooting-galleries are for-
ever popular ; and once in a while, when some lad
comes along who has Buffalo Bill's unerring eye,
a crowd will gather to watch his crack shots;
and all but the owner of the booth will urge him
on. For glass is expensive, and it is not always
easy to replace the ducks and globes that are
shattered by such a fellow, who is often fresh
from the army and likes to "show off" before his
best girl. Small boys look on enviously, pray-
ing for the day when they can do likewise, and
hear the little bell sound that tells of the hitting
of the bull's-eye; and their idolatrous gaze fol-
lows him down the street when he nonchalantly
strolls away, his girl on his arm, looking for new
make-believe worlds to conquer.

The monstrous swings may prove the next mag-
net in one's peripatetic fever — swings that sweep
in all directions from a huge center pole, and
give one a real sensation of freedom. But more
than likely the Bump-the-Bumps will win you first.

Huddled in with about nine other idiots —

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"You wouldn't stop now for the world "

AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND

the more of you, the better — you find yourself
holding your hat between your knees, and bob-
bing about in a circular car this way and that;
zigzagging, terror-stricken, over innumerable ob-
stacles; lurching, falling, screaming, scrambling,
growing dizzier and dizzier, and finally doing it
all over again, though your hat is crushed and
your arms are black and blue.

Madness*? Yes. Midsummer madness. And
it takes hold of us, this wild insanity, as inevitably
as the warm months wheel round. Coney Island
is a blessed escape from the boredom of routine;
a merciful concoction that has all the effect of a
dozen highballs with none of the disastrous next-
day anticlimax. Most of us need relaxation, and
need it badly, living, as we do, in the whirligig
of New York, at high tension and top speed.
Our inhibitions disappear at such piquant sum-
mer resorts; and the psychologists, who are so
learned in the matter of poor mortals letting off
steam, would be the first to recommend dear old
mad, glad Coney to the perennially weary busi-

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

ness man who does n't have sense enough to know
when to quit living on a schedule.

It is interesting to note, every year, the changes
that take place at Coney. The public would be-
come satiated if novelties were not devised, if
new fillups were not invented to take the mind
from the world of humdrum affairs. What
seemed wonderful last season may be absolutely
out of date this summer. And just as a clever
cook prepares a new dish every now and then to
tempt the palate of the master of the household,
so the men behind the scenes of America's mad
playground wrack their brains for fresh ideas.
Catchy slogans must be written; and sometimes
these alone are sufficient to cause some old device
to take on a new lease of life. It is as though
a woman dyed her hair and appeared younger
this year through the illusion.

It is no small task to keep up the standard;
and if anyone thinks it is nothing to get out
signs that will attract the public's keen eye, let
him try his hand at Steeplechase or Luna Park.
Here is a world all its own, just as the motion-

AMERICA'S MAD PLAYGROUND

picture field is a place apart; and a certain type
of mind is necessary if one is to be successful
here. The art of entertaining the crowd — the
gum-chewing, blase crowd that has ceased to be
thrilled at old melodramas and now craves the
more exciting food of the movies — is not some-
thing that can be learned in a day, or a week,
or even in a year. And I am not misusing the
sacred word "art." For I am conscious of the
serious problem that confronts those who would
seek to make the people laugh — or even smile.
What a responsibility to be a clown, and feel
that at every performance you must evoke that
loud whirlwind of mirth, or else go down to dis-
aster as an entertainer! The very thought is
enough to chill the blood of a sensitive artist;
but because a real clown is an artist, and there-
fore keeps within himself forever the heart of a
child, with all a child's enthusiasm, he goes on
and, childlike, draws the multitude to him.

When the so-called Blue Laws are spoken of,
I always smile. How little comprehension of
humanity and its sorrows, the framers of this

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wretched legislation have ! Do they not realize
that life, to the poor, is not always beautiful?
That long hours behind a counter or running an
elevator, or doing any of the other utilitarian
acts so many of us must perform, hardly makes
for happiness? The grind of life must be offset
by a healthy dissipation — an indulgence, if you
wish to call it that. There must be outlets for
suppressed energy and wholesome desires. I
doubt if any of the sour-visaged Blue Law men
and women have ever been to Coney Island; for
they probably think of it as an immoral, tempest-
uous spot, unworthy a visit. A few days there
would do them good.

To be prim is not to be dignified; and I know
of nothing so undesirable as spurious virtue, ac-
companied inevitably by sanctimonious smirks.
Give me, in preference, the raucous laughter of
underbred but healthily happy crowds who. for-
getting for a brief interval the sorrows of this
world — made more sorrowful by the inclusion in
it of Blue Law jack-asses — let themselves go, in
such a spot as delirious, delectable Coney Island.

158

CHAPTER VII

SAG HARBOR AND THE NORTH SHORE

ONE might liken Long Island to a slice of
bread cut lengthwise from a Vienna loaf.
Many people, when they eat bread, leave the crust
and go only after the middle. But once you de-
cide to put your teeth into Long Island, as it
were, the process would be reversed: you would
go definitely for the outer rim, all those fasci-
nating spots along the shore, both north and
south, and leave the interior almost entirely alone.
Yet now and then there is a fine plum in the
middle, for there are lakes and bays that seem to
have fallen, as in that sentimental song on Ire-
land, from the very sky, and tiny towns have
sprung up naturally on their edges.

Such a village is Sag Harbor, leaning out over
Shelter Island Sound, with Noyack Bay on its

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

left, a shadowy, quiet place of dreams, with
curious old houses that remind one of New Eng-
land in its most romantic precincts — houses that
have stood for generations and heard the noisy
world rush by. And it is curious how, in a little
American town like this one will run across a
Chinese laundryman who has set up his shop far
from his native land. A Hop Sing next to a
garage on the main street of such a village ! An
anachronism that one finds it hard to understand.
There are old fishermen here and roundabout who
have never been to New York, no, not once in
all their lives; yet they would tell one they had
had a pleasant time of it, and would not count
the years as lost which they have spent in this
venerable village.

An ancient, tired town by the water's-edge,
Dreaming away its life in the afternoon.

A shadowy, weary ghost behind a hedge,
Under the light of the moon.

A sad, old-fashioned woman in a shawl,

Behind drawn curtains when the twilight nears.

A stiff, prim matron at life's carnival,
Yet with something that endears.
l6o

SAG HARBOR AND NORTH SHORE

Ernest and I had delightful friends at Sag
Harbor, whither we went by train one perfect
morning, the kind of friends who, knowing they
were not to be at home on this particular day,
nevertheless left word with Sarah, their marvel-
ous cook, to prepare a luncheon for us that we
knew would be fit for Lucullus, and bade us stop
without fail at their cottage and make it our
own.

And we did. They lived on Hog's Neck, just
across a little bridge, and the water kissed their
lawn, so that they could go out for a swim di-
rectly from the house and sit down to luncheon
in their bathing-suits. They had a view that
would delight the soul of any one, and I can
think of nothing finer than to spend honeyed
afternoons on their veranda, doing nothing at all.

We left a note of thanks for Frank and Bertha
Case, and we wanted to embrace Sarah, so lav-
ishly had she fed us ; but the afternoon was mov-
ing on, and there was some walking to be done
before we reached a place where we could sleep
that night.

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

Hog's Neck is real country, and the road leads
straight to a primitive ferry. Upon the rocking
little craft perhaps three automobiles, by much
maneuvering, could huddle, and about a dozen
passengers; and when I asked the boys who ran
it how often they made the trip, they answered
in all honesty, "Oh, as often as any one signals
from the shore." The strip of water that sep-
arates Hog's Neck from Shelter Island is scarcely
a stone's throw in width, and it is like crossing
a miniature English Channel to get over. The
water, choppy, and trying to be exceedingly dis-
agreeable and rough, reminds one of a kitten imi-
tating a tiger. If we had been in a little back-
woods region of Georgia we could n't have found
a more archaic ferry or one more enchantingly
simple.

The shores are deeply wooded on both sides,
and here Long Island bears another aspect, and
one can scarcely believe that this is part of the
same island that is low and flat and dusty and at
times fashionably foolish, or foolishly fashion-
able, as one prefers. This is one of the great

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SAG HARBOR AND NORTH SHORE

charms of the place — that it is so different in
different localities, and the unexpected greets
one at every turn. Who was it that said that
water, to a landscape, is what eyes are to a hu-
man face? There are so many beautiful blue
eyes on Long Island that the wanderer is always
sure of expression and animation in the counte-
nance of the country.

If one should wish to leave Sag Harbor by
another route than ours, I can recommend a back
road, leaving the main street of the town on the
left, that takes one to Southampton and all the
points in that direction. Noyack Bay and its
snug inlets and, later, Little Peconic Bay can
be seen through the thick trees, and one can ride
or walk here without meeting a soul. Once in a
while there will be a cluster of farm-houses, and,
miraculously, a shop of some sort, like a rose in
a forest. But these will be but momentary hints
of civilization. I trudged this road once with
Peb, the companion of many a loafing trip, and
we both said we had seldom come upon a more
happily sequestered trail, and I remember we

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

wondered why motorists did not use it more fre-
quently. But of course then it would quite lose
its charm, and simply become like any other thor-
oughfare, a scenic railway for the shouting multi-
tude. I recall a turning where we were in doubt
as to which way to proceed, so we asked a farmer
who happened at that moment to come out of his
woodshed, delighted, I think, to see a human
face. There was one other house in the neigh-
borhood, and we asked him where we were.

"Oh, you can call this Skunk's Corners, I guess.
It ain't got no name." And then he politely di-
rected us, and told us, as he leaned over the fence,
seemingly eager to go on talking, that he was
one of those many farmers who had never had
the courage to make their way to the big city.

But this road was not ours to-day. We were
going across to the north shore, and after the first
ferry we knew there would be another. Shelter
Island is full of romantic suggestion. Almost in
the center of it there is a tangled old graveyard,
a veritable Spoon River cemetery, with tumbling
headstones placed here many decades ago, at a

166

Shelter Island

SAG HARBOR AND NORTH SHORE

period when parents evidently opened the family
Bible when a child came into the world and
selected the name for it that the finger first fell
upon ; for here sleeps many a Moses, Esther, Sam-
uel, and Daniel, and there were likewise such
quaint, old-fashioned names as Abbie, Calvin, Je-
mima, Hepzibah, Caleb, Phoebe, and Asenath.
At Shelter Island Heights there stands a rather
grand hotel that seems to be filled all summer, for
there are good fishing and sailing along these de-
lightful shores, and many large craft seek safety
here during storms, and thus is accounted for the
island's beautifully practical name. City people
fish from the piers, and Ernest and I saw dozens
of catches within five or ten minutes. Indeed, it
was so easy that it soon wearied us, if not the
fishermen, for I prefer a little more uncertainty
in any undertaking. The whitecaps tossed on the
bay, and the water fairly churned and seethed as
we waited for the larger ferry. Down on our
right lay Manhanset, where there used to be a
fine hotel until it was burned to ashes about three
years ago. Now there is a club-house in its place.

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

You can reach Greenport in about five minutes,
a sleepy town at the railroad's end, a full stop,
a period, as it were; yet there are snatches of a
sentence beyond it, and if the words do not piece
together properly, that is because few people take
the trouble to hear them.

Now, Ernest is an actor, and he has also been
on the screen. Therefore I was not surprised on
this out-of-the-way and tossing ferry to have a
total stranger come up to him and tell him how
much he had liked him in a certain part. An
actor never quite gets away from the world; he
is everybody's friend if he is at all popular, and
even his profile is not his own. But I was hardly
prepared for a second recognition, coming so soon
after the first, when we walked up from the
wharf through a street in Greenport. Here a
young man of pleasant mien most cordially hailed
him by name, and took us both immediately into
his general store (though I did not matter at all),
where everything from jewelry and clocks to plows
and rubber gloves was for sale. Trade was a
trifle dull that afternoon, and Ned was lonesome,

170

SAG HARBOR AND NORTH SHORE

no doubt, and full of talk. He turned out to be
the former dresser of stars like Nat Goodwin and
Shelley Hull, and when these two actors had died,
he left the theater, though he loved it, married
a motion-picture actress, and opened a shop in
this far-off town. To see an actor in the flesh
on this quiet street brought back with a rush the
scent and memory of scenery and cosmetics, and
he just could not help dragging Ernest in and
talking over old stage-times. One could sense
a latent and wistful craving for the theater,
though he pretended to be enamoured of his trade.
Yet he allowed customers to wait, I noticed, while
he chatted on with his important friend. Thus
do our scenes shift, and we find new sets in which
to go on with our performance, such as it is,
whenever the Prompter directs us.

Greenport is full of ship-chandlers, and tall
masts rock in the bay. In the winter-time the
town virtually depends upon scallops and oysters
for its livelihood, and the fishermen go out in
hordes and come back laden with spoils. In
November there is always plenty of duck-shoot-

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

ing around Greenport, and it is no extraordinary
achievement for one man to bring home two
hundred birds a day. When a town is a hun-
dred miles from New York, the people do not
run in and out very often. A year may pass be-
fore they go up to the city. And so they make
their own lives in their own locality; and now
with the long arm of the motion-picture theaters
reaching into every nook and corner of the world,
there is no excuse for lonely evenings. These
theaters are patronized to the point of suffoca-
tion, and on the enchanting moonlit night when
we should have walked down country roads
Ernest and I, through force of habit, went to
view what turned out to be an atrocious film.
We noted the long line of cars outside the hall —
as long as a string at the opera, truly — and
thought again of the responsibility of the makers
of the unspoken drama. But what a story we
sat through, with only one beautiful woman's
face to redeem it ! We were not a little ashamed
of ourselves for sitting there in the darkness, for
one of the tragedies of living in a great city is

172

SAG HARBOR AND NORTH SHORE

the fact that seldom can we view the moon as
she should be seen. "That pale maiden," as
Shelley called her, requires, like all magnificent
things, the right frame, the right setting, for a
perfect revelation of her loveliness. In the coun-
try the wide expanse around us gives the oppor-
tunity we need to see her charms. The long,
narrow corridors of town streets half conceal her
wonder, and too soon she sails over the roof-tops
and behind the clustered chimney-pots when we
look up from some crowded thoroughfare, hoping
for a glimpse of her serenity. Moreover, smoke
may rise, like a veil, and the moon, unaware of
our eagerness, may coquettishly hide behind it.
She should know that she is hardly the type of
woman, though she is very old, who requires arti-
ficial aids to set off her glory.

I often wonder if those who live in the coun-
try are aware of the riches they possess in such
abundance. A moonlight night in July or Au-
gust is anything but lovely in the city. Out
where the hills rise or the plains expand or water
whispers, the world is drenched in a cascade of

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

beauty, and sometimes the magic is such that it
makes the heart ache. Only for an instant does
the moonlight rest on the iron streets, but for
long hours it floods the valleys where the coun-
try folk are privileged to dwell, and on many
a cool cottage it tumbles in lavish Niagaras of
peace. Yet "in such a night" we sat in a stuffy

movie !

Orient Point is the real period on Long Island's
north shore, just as Montauk Point thus punc-
tuates the south shore. The next morning Ernest
and I determined to get there. Never was there
a more perfect day, with diamonds dropping on
the sound and in the bay. Just after East Ma-
rion is reached there is a strip of land so narrow
that Orient Harbor and the wide sound almost
meet. In heavy storms the waves all but cross
the road, and sometime we may have an Orient
Island, beginning with Terry Point and extending
the few miles eastward. A heavy stone wall de-
lays the seemingly inevitable separation, but it
may crumble in a gale of violence and cause
Orient Point to be lonelier even than it now is.

174

SAG HARBOR AND NORTH SHORE

For the hotel is vacant — a long, low, brown build-
ing as forlorn as a deserted railroad. Its closed
eyes tell the passer-by it is sleeping in the shad-
ows, and so few motorists get out this far that
there is nothing to disturb its slumbers. It is a
pity that they will not push toward this region,
for the farm-lands are lovely, and the clean little
homes are in refreshing contrast to some of the
statelier mansions one can grow so weary of.

We were told of Hallock's model farm, with its
overhead system of irrigation, run by a man of
ideas and his three sons. Potatoes and Brussels
sprouts are the chief vegetables raised, and it is
a sight to see long rows of plants with apparently
endless lines of pipe above them, with clever ar-
rangements for the turning on of water. The
extensive farm runs to the edge of Gardiner's
Bay, where the owner has his own wharf, his own
boats for transporting his crops direct to the mar-
kets of New York. Another young farmer in
this neighborhood, where the soil is rich and fer-
tile, earned, the legend runs, upward of thirty
thousand dollars in one season; and if this is

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

true and I am unconsciously creating a boom in
real estate, I hope I shall not spoil the country
for those already happily established there. Both
Orient and East Marion are fine little villages,
and I would not care to see them ruined by a
sudden influx of passionate pilgrims determined
to grow rich and stay forever.

The path to the point is much like that on the
south shore, narrow and crooked; and when you
arrive at the tip of the land, the sense of being
monarch of all you survey comes over you thrill-
ingly. In the blue distance lies Plum Island,
with Fort Terry like a sleeping lion upon it; and
in between the brownish-red lighthouse, resting,
apparently, on a single rock, yet impervious to the
crashing waves.

Some campers had pitched a tent on the lone-
some shore of the point, and no doubt fared well,
with fresh vegetables and fruit easily purchasable
roundabout, and all the fish, and more, they could
catch in the sea.

Near East Marion is St. Thomas's home for
city children, where seventy-five youngsters can

176

SAG HARBOR AND NORTH SHORE

be accommodated at one time. They come in
relays every two weeks, and go back to town
brown and ruddy, plump and spruce.

The next town to Greenport of any size is the
beautiful old town of Southold, which, five years
ago, celebrated its two hundred and fiftieth anni-
versary with a pageant during several days of
festivity. The Rev. John Youngs came from
England three hundred years ago and built the
first house in Southold. This ancient building
is still standing, just off the main street, and it
was a German innkeeper, a man who had been
in Southold twenty-three years, who directed us
to it. When people settle in this charming vil-
lage, you see, they generally remain; and it is no
wonder, for the broad avenues are sheltered by
tremendous arching trees, and quiet broods here,
and peace is the town's best companion. The
Presbyterian minister has also shepherded his
flock for twenty-three years, and the ivy-grown
cemetery, like the one on Shelter Island, is a per-
petual reminder of vanished days, with Mehe-
table, Temperance, Lorenzo, Salter, Dency, Abi-

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

jah, Harmony, Arminda, Abner, Susa, Thaddeus,
Erastus, and China (doubtless the son of an old
sea-captain) all resting serenely while the world
wags along. And a certain Samuel, so his tomb-
stone informed us, was "gathered to his fathers
like a shock of com fully ripe."

As Ernest and I passed out of it on our way to
Cutchogue (which sounds like a sneeze, but is
really a nice little town), we heard Caruso's
voice coming from a phonograph in a poor man's
home, a modern note, literally, in a quaint old
village that has snuggled under its trees these
many years.

We shall always hold Southold in specially
happy remembrance, for it was there while sit-
ting on the porch of the inn, that a young man,
overhearing us speak of our walking trip, straight-
way offered, if we felt tired, to take us on to the
next village in his runabout; and when we de-
clined, with thanks, his unexpected offer, we dis-
covered that he made his suggestion despite the
fact that in a short time he was going to take a
charming young lady riding in the opposite di-

178

" Caruso's voice coming from a phonograph "

SAG HARBOR AND NORTH SHORE

rection. Courtesy to two strangers could surely
go no further, and when we saw him dash hap-
pily away with loveliness beside him, we cer-
tainly wished him well. But a town as nice as
Southold would be sure to contain just such nice
folk.

After we had left Southold and walked sev-
eral miles, we stopped under a tree to refresh
ourselves. Few motors were out on this lovely
afternoon, and we were in no hurry at all.
Ernest is English, and though we had had a deli-
cious luncheon at Southold, he craved his tea,
and began to ruminate on the lovely inns of Eng-
land, where one could always drop in and get
some bread and cheese and bitter beer, if nothing
else. The mere mention of these delicacies made
my mouth water.

"There is nothing to do," I said to my reminis-
cent friend, "except to press on to Riverhead,
maybe stealing or begging a ride; for there's not
a place along here where we can get even a
snack."

Indeed, the road was a canonical one, with
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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

little to interest us save now and then a clump
of beautiful trees. I was hot and dusty, too,
and suddenly, for no reason at all, but prompted,
no doubt, by the same imp that had lured us
into the movies, I wanted to see a New York
paper. I wanted it, I suppose, because I knew
I could not get it; and Ernest began to laugh at
the strings that still held me to the city, country
pilgrim though I pretended to be. And he re-
minded me of that line of Hazlitt's, in the essay
"On Going a Journey," "I go out of town in order
to forget the town and all that is in it."

"Ah," I answered, "but does n't he also speak
of the advantages of walking alone4? Talkative
companions, he held, were — "

"I won't speak all the rest of the way, if that 's
how you — and Hazlitt — feel," Ernest answered,
with a smile in the corner of his mouth; and
though later I begged for his clever conversation,
he was adamant and would not converse at all
until we got to a cross-roads near Mattituck.
Here was an inn, not comparable with the Eng-

182

SAG HARBOR AND NORTH SHORE

lish taverns, of course, where people "met to
talk," a sign informed us, punning outrageously.

"The very place to break your silence," I sug-
gested to my friend; and, laughing, we went in
for tea.

Two young ladies had a table near us, and I
gathered from such scraps of their conversation
as came to us that they were librarians, out on a
jaunt also, but in a car. They left the room
first, and Ernest and I, sitting by the window,
could see them as they stepped into the smallest
insect of the road I have ever beheld — nothing,
literally, but a child's express-wagon, with a
home-made attachment in the nature of a steering-
wheel, and a mysterious little engine concealed
somewhere which caused the wagon to vibrate
down the road. They rattled off, their tiny suit-
case on the back, as happy, apparently, as we.
They saw our patronizing smiles as they went
down the path, and smiled back good-naturedly,
not at all flirtatiously. I suppose they guessed
we were laughing at their makeshift conveyance,

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

but they had the air of being used to that sort
of thing and seemed not a whit embarrassed at
what we thought.

An hour or so later, riding in a fine motor be-
cause we had dared to ask a lift, we encountered
these girls on the road. They had had engine
trouble, and, recognizing us, blushed with morti-
fication. I suppose they imagined we were in our
own car, and we were just snobbish enough to
like them to think so.

Our triumph was short-lived, however. Two
miles or so farther on, our host dropped us, as
he turned to the right and our path lay straight
ahead. And it was not long before we heard a
strange rattle behind us, and those gay librarians
sailed by us, waving their handkerchiefs and call-
ing out, "Say, who's lucky now5?" It was we
who were humiliated as they faded into the land-
scape, going, I should say, not fewer than twenty-
five miles an hour in their homely little box-car,
like so much pretty freight. But just before they
disappeared, and knowing, perhaps, that they

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Riverhead

SAG HARBOR AND NORTH SHORE

would never see us again, one of them blew us a
kiss — yes, fearlessly she did it, this prim librarian
off on a summer holiday !

In Riverhead there is a lovely little garden
which the motorist will be sure to miss. That
is one of the compensations of walking — you come
upon spots of beauty almost accidentally. For
instance, had I not gone into a chemist's shop
for some tooth-paste and, in coming out, looked
down the street, I would never have caught a
glimpse of water that beckoned me from the road.
A private dwelling stood at the intersection of
two paths, and at first I was afraid I was tres-
passing; but no signs deterred my progress, and
soon I came to this miniature Cliff Walk, sur-
rounding a lake at the river's head, with a dam
flowing toward the village, and flowers blooming
in rich profusion all about. The backs of sev-
eral charming houses looked out upon this en-
chanting enclosure, and along the narrow way
moved young lovers in happy pairs. Riverhead
itself is nothing but a stereotyped, dull town, with

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

a big jail, a monument or two, and several con-
ventional hotels; but this spot lies like a jewel
on its breast.

188

CHAPTER VIII

THE MIDDLE OF THE SLICE

WE had intended, on another jaunt, to
go from Riverhead to Wading River,
touching the villages roundabout and getting
glimpses of the Sound in all its lavish color, and
working our way to Oyster Bay. This time I
was with Peb, and once more the weather could
not have been finer — crystal clear in the morn-
ing, yet warm, with now and then a haze ; for we
were deep in August, and the world sometimes
drew a veil around itself on these torrid after-
noons.

But the road from Riverhead was anything but
exciting. It led us to a wide, bleak, dusty, un-
developed, seemingly endless highway, and we
grew mighty weary of our tramping. There is no
sense in trying to make headway when one feels
like this. The map had not told us how stupid
this region was to be; so we made up our minds

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

we would hail the first passer-by on wheels and
crave the blessing of a lift. To get to a town
was the only wise thing to do. There we could
loiter about in the shade, and perhaps reach the
water and take delight in looking on long, sandy
stretches of beach.

But travelers on wheels evidently knew this
forlorn and scraggly precinct and would have
none of it. I don't recall, in all our journeying
along main roads, that there were ever fewer cars
rolling by us. However, after we had been mak-
ing the best of it for several miles, a man came
along in a handsome car, and we looked long-
ingly at the empty back seat of his machine, and
hailed him politely. Instead of pausing, he took
on added speed, and whizzed forward in such
haste that he left us railing at him in a cloud of
thick dust. I hope he had a breakdown or that
the village constable arrested him for speeding,
for I never wanted a ride more, and I was parched
with thirst. It isn't pleasant to contemplate
such a selfish soul when one is footsore and hot
and hungry all at once.

190

" We grew mighty weary"

THE MIDDLE OF THE SLICE

But our next motorist, if one cares to call a
butcher in a cart by so high-toned a name, was far
more human, even though his business was the
unpleasant one of killing cattle. He took us
aboard with an exceeding warmth of spirit.
Maybe he was lonesome; but he said anywhere
we wanted to go, he 'd take us there. We liked
him for that, — who would n't? — and when the
road forked, and he slowed down to let us decide
whether we wanted to go on to Wading River
or continue with him to Smithtown, we of course
told him Smithtown was good enough for any
sane traveler, particularly as it was his village,
and he had praised it as I have heard few resi-
dents praise their own birthplace. Smithtown
was, according to him, the finest little place on the
whole island, and we would n't be making any
mistake if we spent the night there. Hotels?
Of course; several of them, and he, being an old
inhabitant, would take us personally to which
ever inn we chose, and make sure we were put
up comfortably. A thriving place, a most pro-
gressive town, full of nice people. Oh, yes,

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

Smithtown was O. K., and he did n't care who
heard him say so, and he 'd tell the world. He
did n't mean to be boastful, but —

Thus he rambled proudly on as we drove
through desolate country, and almost wished we
had gone our own way. We came at last to the
entrance to Camp Upton, now almost deserted of
soldiers, but with the rifle-range still active.
Then we passed down shadowy roads, with here
and there a farm-house that seemed miles from
anywhere, for this is a sparsely settled district.
A gorgeous sunset was before us, and as the twi-
light came down like a slow curtain at the opera,
we wondered why more people did not know
about this fine road through the middle of the
island, and use it instead of the more sociable
thoroughfares that lead to town. We went by
beautiful Artists' Lake, through Coram, Selden,
and New Village, and I kept thinking that surely
the next town must be our destination. It was
getting chilly, and of course we had no coats, and
our butcher did drive fast and was everlastingly
chatty.

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THE MIDDLE OF THE SLICE

Finally I ventured to ask him how much far-
ther we had to go, and he answered nonchalantly,
"Oh, maybe eight or nine miles." But it seemed
to us we must have traveled twenty, and it was
getting on to half -past eight, and both of us
were disgracefully hungry, when some straggling
houses at length came in view. These, I thought
with relief, must form the outskirts of humming
little Smithtown. In a moment the electric signs
of the movie-theaters would greet our eyes, and
we would eat in a brilliantly lighted dining-room
(I could visualize the typical American hotel),
and then we would swiftly fall into a deep sleep,
despite the fact that glittering signs winked in at
us through our windows.

"Are we nearing your home town*?" Ernest in-
quired.

"We 're in it," our butcher replied. Every
goose was a swan to him. Instead of the roaring
main street we had thought of, we found our-
selves in what was virtually a pasture, with
houses scattered all about us; and in a moment
the hotel, around which I had imagined trolleys

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

would heave and dash, was before us — a calm
somnolent frame building on a little knoll, with
only one lamp in the window, and an innkeeper
and his wife who welcomed us with true bucolic
hospitality. We were overjoyed with the silence
and the peace of it. Cobblestones? We found
none in Smithtown; only soft, clean, winding
streets and lovely trees and birds and flowers.

The country in this neighborhood is delightful,
and one can ramble about it for miles and never
grow weary of it. There are little hills and cozy
turnings, waterfalls and sequestered farm-houses
and larger estates, some of real magnificence.

Running through the middle of Long Island
is the fascinating line of the Motor Parkway,
built several years ago for the delight of the
motorist who revels in high speed, and is happy
only when he has the right of way. It begins
just north of Floral Park, and leads direct to Lake
Ronkonkoma, where the French restaurant called
Petit Trianon has been for many seasons, a dream
spot if ever there was one. The lucky motorist !
How many places there are of mushroom growth

196

>:'

Smithtown

THE MIDDLE OF THE SLICE

that are only for him ! But coming for luncheon
at this inn, he will be likely, being a speed fiend,
to go back as he came, on the glistening Parkway,
and miss the rustic beauties of the town of Ron-
konkoma, where Maude Adams lives in seclusion
during the summer. So, while he gains much, he
also loses a great deal; and, while the king's
highway is beautiful, like all things kingly it is
lonesome; and save for an occasional toll-gate
keeper one encounters few people on this level,
gleaming stretch that runs like a long, smooth,
brown-velvet ribbon beneath the wheels of one's
car.

Though we missed the province between
Wading River and Port Jefferson and Setauket
at one time, we took the trail on another occasion,
passing through such lovely villages as Shoreham,
Rocky Point, and Miller's Place. The towns
themselves, which are very popular as summer
colonies, are not literally on the water, but some
of them reach out to the Sound, and bathing pa-
vilions, like jeweled fingers, touch the sandy
shore. This has always been for me one of the

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

high spots of Long Island, perhaps because I can
never forget a paradisial week I spent here sev-
eral years ago at the lonely cottage of a friend,
with only one servant to look after my needs. I
recall sunrises of tropic beauty, and flaming sun-
sets that could not be matched even along the
Mediterranean, and hours of such complete soli-
tude that I completely erased the thundering city
from my brain and existed only in a realm of
dreams. There was one day of tapping rain,
when a roaring fire was necessary, though it was
summer then, too. For the remainder of that
week I walked along miles of sun-smitten beach,
as alone as the first man in the Garden of Eden,
and never again do I expect such a sense of calm
as came over me then.

200

CHAPTER IX

OYSTER BAY AND ROUNDABOUT ROSLYN

ONE thinks of Long Island as flat. So it is
in many parts; but roundabout Roslyn,
Oyster Bay, and Locust Valley, and even at the
Westburys, Old and New, there are hills, if not
mountains ; and nature has been lavish in her gift
of water, so that a house built on a rise of ground
commands a fine view, with clean mirrors reflect-
ing the sun and moon.

There are no end of by-ways here, and plenty
of back roads to ride horseback. Often, in going
to Huntington, where William Faversham has a
home, I had looked from the train window as we
came to Cold Spring Harbor, and determined one
day to take that shadowy path leading from the
station, so cool and fragrant did it seem. This is
really one of Long Island's pleasantest localities.
There is fashion, if you care for it, and country

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

simplicity rubbing elbows over the fences and
hedges, if you want that.

The Piping Rock Club is here, with the house
that Guy Lowell designed, a club-house with
massive wooden pillars, and sensitively and sensi-
bly conceived. A double polo-field sprawls di-
rectly in front of the wide porch, and beyond that
the golf-links, among the most beautiful in Amer-
ica, meander away. At Fox's Point, a few miles
down on the north shore, is the private bathing-
beach for Piping Rock members, and the lanes
that lead to it, for equestrians and motorists, are
haunted, cool hallways, with canopies of green
leaves and a soft carpet of earth. I do not know
a prettier beach, or one where the water looks
bluer and where, afar, the ships sail by so grace-
fully. In this region there are heavenly roads,
and quaint thatched cottages, and neat hedges
that make one think of rural England.

At fashionable Old Westbury there is the
Meadowbrook Club, and polo is played here dur-
ing the season by young men of stalwart frame.
There are hunt meets, also, and the whole country-

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OYSTER BAY

side is forever alive with sport of one sort or
another. The late Robert Bacon, once our am-
bassador to France, made his home at Old West-
bury, and his widow and sons still live there.
Otto Kahn has a splendid villa not far off; like-
wise J. P. Morgan. The locality is rich in his-
toric interest.

Plandome, Manhasset, and Port Washington,
particularly the latter, which is on Manhasset
Bay, are charming spots in summer, and Sand's
Point, jutting0 out into the Sound, is beautiful in
an Old- World way. Great Neck is a hive of
theatrical celebrities. Their motors dash in and
out, and many an actor commutes all the year
round from here, finding it no trouble at all to
reach his theater in time.

Of course there are hundreds of little places on
the south shore equally attractive. One thinks
of Cedarhurst and Lawrence, prim with box
hedges and barbered grass; and if one likes to
mingle with the crowd, the first spot that comes
to mind is Long Beach, with wheel-chairs and
loud bands and jazz, and thousands upon thou-

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

sands of bathers seeking what will always seem
to me a hollow form of pleasure in the thickly
populated sea.

If for nothing else, Long Island would be fa-
mous for two things: it was at West Hills that
Walt Whitman was born, and it is at Oyster Bay
that Theodore Roosevelt is buried. Two of the
greatest Americans we ever produced! From
1836 until 1839 Whitman published "The Long
Islander" at Huntington, and later edited a daily
paper in Brooklyn ; and for years Roosevelt lived
at Sagamore Hill, drinking in the wonder of the
harbor beneath his old home, finding it a shelter
in his unbelievably busy life. How many pil-
grims came to see him there ! No small town in
the world is better known, and the pilgrims con-
tinue to come; but now, alas! to his final home
on that hill in the village he loved and that loved
him.

Alec and I were two of those pilgrims on a cer-
tain glorious summer day. Three thousand other
folk had happened to choose that same morning
for a like journey, and a few veterans of the

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OYSTER BAY

Spanish- American War had come to put a wreath
on the grave of one of America's greatest men.
I saw Charlie Lee, the colonel's former coachman,
and later his chauffeur, sitting by the tomb — the
simplest but most beautiful stone I have ever
seen. There is nothing upon it but these words:

THEODORE ROOSEVELT

Born October 27, 1858

Died January 6, 1919

and his wife

EDITH KERMIT
Born August 6, 1861,

Died

A bronze wreath rests at the base of the stone,
and upon this is engraved only this :

A

THEODORE ROOSEVELT

Hommage

dela

Cote d'Azur
1'Eclaireur de Nice

Nothing more! And nothing more is needed.
The simplicity of greatness! Just as he would
have it. And if ever a man who loved and was

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

willing to fight and die for democracy was buried
democratically, it is T. R. An unpretentious,
almost scraggly cemetery it is, with a plain white
wooden arch for a gate — the sort of graveyard in
which one would least expect to find the solemn
tablet of a great man. At first I confess that it
seemed to me too simple, too democratic, if such
a thing can be; but after I had stood before that
iron grating for a while I found myself thinking
that I would not have had Theodore Roosevelt
buried anywhere else in the world. For this
grave is a symbol of the true America, a voice, as
it were, that calls from the soil perpetually, "I
was one of you ; I am still one of you, resting here
on this quiet hill."

And indeed he is. No man, dead, was ever
more eternally alive. Great-heart! "His soul
goes marching on."

Hail, but not farewell, Theodore Roosevelt !

208

CHAPTER X

DINNER AMONG THE STARS

summer night, having walked several
•*• miles from Oyster Bay and growing weary
of our tramp, I had a sudden inspiration. We
would take a train to Brooklyn — which, somehow,
one always forgets is on Long Island — and dine
at a certain roof-garden I knew there. Alec was
just the companion for such a dinner, for he had
never in his life been in Brooklyn, never on Long
Island until he walked with me these few days,
having only recently come from the Middle West.
He was one of those who, through the comic
papers, and from vaudeville teams, had come to
look upon Brooklyn as nothing but a jest. Little
did he dream, as little many a Manhattanite
dreams, that in this really lovely annex of the
metropolis is one of the most fascinating restau-
rants for miles about. And it is easily reached
from any part of New York.

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

Cool as a ship's deck, which it was built to
resemble, was this open room that seemed literally
to rest among the stars. We gasped at the pan-
orama spread beneath us and around us. A
blood-red moon, like a huge Japanese lantern,
hung in the heavens. As though we could touch
them if we would, the sky-scrapers of Manhattan
stood in gigantic rows, with the silver ribbon of
the river at their feet. The bridges, like cob-
webs or delicate lace — it was hard to realize they
were thundering* corridors of traffic, built of stern
iron and steel — were just beginning to blossom
with thousands of lights; and the stars, jealous
of this lesser glory, came out of the black velvet
of the sky in rapid battalions. Soon the night
was a luminous globe, with ourselves in the cen-
ter of it, amazed and appalled at the magnificence
around us. This glowing world; was it a dream?
White sails spread themselves on the water, and
ferryboats, like tiny worms of flame, crawled
into the purple wharves, slipping authentically
where they belonged. Far down the bay shone
one mystical star — the torch of the Statue of Lib-

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DINNER AMONG THE STARS

erty; and Staten Island's home-lights began to
twinkle and shine. A thin cloud would flash now
and then over the face of the moon, which kept
rising on the tide of the darkness, erased only
momentarily from our vision, and then coming
triumphantly forth again.

It was an evening almost too wonderful to be
true. Vaguely we heard the band behind us —
soft, insinuating music that rose and fell — stringed
instruments and the swish of dancing feet.

But it was the city on the other side of the
river that held us — that would always hold us.
As though in a dream we watched it, etched
against a tapestry, silent in its brutal strength,
pitiless perhaps, but kind, too, as a great lioness
is kind to her brood. Never can one be wholly
free from the power and lure of Manhattan.

In every sky-scraper a multitude of lights
gleamed, until finally these turrets of flame were
like Babylon on fire. Was this a modern city*?
Oh, wonderful beyond all naming were the archi-
tects who had conceived this terrible town by the

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LOAFING DOWN LONG ISLAND

sea, this seeming tumult of towers and ascending
steel!

Who wrought these granite ghosts saw more than we

May ever see. He saw pale, tenuous lines

On some age-mellowed shore where cities rose

Proudly as Corinth or imperial Rome ;

He saw, through mists of vision, Bagdad leap

To immaterial being, and he sought

To snatch one curve from her elusive domes;

He saw lost Nineveh and Babylon,

And Tyre, and all the golden dreams of Greece,

Columns and fanes that cannot be rebuilt.

These are the shadows of far nobler walls,

The wraiths of ancient pomp and glittering days,

Set here by master minds and master souls,

Almost as wonderful as mountains are,

Mysterious as the petals of a flower.

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