I shall trudge one more day's journey. Then I think I shall be far enough from New York.

--I pa.s.sed a tramp to-day; and while we walked together I composed an address:

"My brother--for are we not brothers, thou and I?

"Have we not fled from the sleek man, thou and I? And is it not we alone that know Truth?

"Thy clothing is ragged, and there is hunger in thine eyes; it is so also with me.

"It is thy fate to wander; it is my fate to wander too. And with restless eyes to look out upon the world, to meet with distrust from men.

"Yet not for that am I sad, nay, not for that, but for a deeper sorrow; because I was sent out into the world with a curse upon me, because I was sent out into the world a Drunkard.

"Yea, so it is, my brother.

"And that for which I thirst is not easy to find; and when I have found it I am not content, but must seek more; and so I have only desolation.

"Who laid this curse upon us, my brother?

"That we should dwell in sorrow and unrest?

"That no man should heed our voice, and that we should grow weak and faint?

"That we should die, and be forgotten--thou and I?

"Oh, tell us wherefore--ye wise men."

June 9th.

I have walked another day. I am beginning to get away from the suburban towns, and into the real country. I knew that it would cost me a good deal to go to a hotel last night, and it was warm, so I slept in a hay-stack!

It was quite an adventure. Now I've got my pockets stuffed full of rolls, Benjamin Franklin style.

--My mind is like the ocean after a storm.

The great waves come rolling over it still; it is all restless, tossing.

But it is sinking, sinking to rest!--Heaven grant that I may find my place of refuge before it is quite calm.

It is everything or nothing with me; I am made that way. Either I give every instant of my time, every thought, every effort to my work, or else I close up like a flower and wait. I can not write poetry and hunt a lodging too.

So I am waiting--waiting.--

June 10th.

I began inquiring to-day--a shanty, a barn--anything. Every one thinks it necessary to be very much puzzled about what I want it for. My clothes are still fairly respectable, and so they tell me about pretty summer cottages--only so much per month!

June 12th.

I have been tramping on and on for two more days. I do not believe I shall ever find what I want. Nothing but one old musty place in ruins, so far!

And my money is going, and I am wild with anxiety! I am almost tempted to turn back to the ruin.

June 13th.

I am sitting in a room in a dirty hotel. It was raining to-day and I had to come here. I shall probably have to pay fifty cents too. I won't stay to breakfast.

Oh what will I do if my money gives out? I saw a cottage to-day, that a man said I could have for ten dollars a month. I was tempted to spend nearly all I had and take it, and live on bread and water. I am desperate.

June 14th.

"Perhaps maybe you'd like 'Oaklands,'" said the farmer, laughing.

"Oaklands" turned out to be the home of a millionaire "dry-goods man" who was in Europe. I did not want "Oaklands."

"I don't know of anything else," said the farmer, scratching his head. Then he added with a grin, "unless it be the cook-house."

"What's the cook-house?" I asked, suspiciously.

"Oh, it's a kind of a little place they've got 'way out in the woods," said the farmer. "It's where they goes when they goes picnicking."

My heart gave a jump. "What sort of a place?" I asked.

"They've got a big platform chiefly, where they put up a tent. The cook-house ain't nothin' but a little two by four shanty, with a big stove in it."

"How big is it?" I cried.

"It's about half o' this here room, I reckon."

("This here room" was about six of my rooms in New York!)

"And where is it?" I cried. "How can I get there?"

"Oh, you don't want to go to no sech place ez that!" said the farmer.

"There ain't no bed nor nothin' in it! An' it's two mile out there in the woods!"

Let anybody imagine how my heart was going! "Who can show it to me?" I panted.

"Why," said he, "I'm the man that's in charge of it; but I--"