k who doffs
his silk hat to a couple of overdressed ladies with parasols in a
passing victoria.

And there is the photograph of the fat man. He is very large--both high
and wide. He has filled the lens and now compels the eye. His broad face
beams a friendly interest. His moustache is a flourishing, uncurbed,
riotous growth above his billowy chin.

The checked coat, held recklessly aside by a hand on each hip, reveals
an incredible expanse of waistcoat, the pattern of which raves
horribly. From pocket to pocket of this gaudy shield curves a watch
chain of massive links--nearly a yard of it, one guesses.

Often I have glanced at this noisy thing tacked to the wall, entranced
by the simple width of the man. Now on a late afternoon I loitered
before it while my hostess changed from riding breeches to the gown of
lavender and lace in which she elects to drink tea after a day's hard
work along the valleys of the Arrowhead. And for the first time I
observed a line of writing beneath the portrait, the writing of my
hostess, a rough, downright, plain fashion of script: "Reading from left
to right--Mr. Ben Sutton, Popular Society Favourite of Nome, Alaska."

"Reading from left to right!" Here was the intent facetious. And Ma
Pettengill is never idly facetious. Always, as the advertisements say,
"There's a reason!" And now, also for the first time, I noticed some
printed verses on a sheet of thickish yellow paper tacked to the wall
close beside the photograph--so close that I somehow divined an intimate
relationship between the two. With difficulty removing my gaze from the
gentleman who should be read from left to right, I scanned these verses:

SONG OF THE OPEN ROAD

A child of the road--a gypsy I--
My path o'er the land and sea;
With the fire of youth I warm my nights
And my days are wild and free.
Then ho! for the wild, the open road!
Afar from the haunts of men.
The woods and the hills for my spirit untamed--
I'm away to mountain and glen.

If ever I tried to leave my hills
To abide in the cramped haunts of men,
The urge of the wild to her wayward child
Would drag me to freedom again.

I'm slave to the call of the open road;
In your cities I'd stifle and die.
I'm off to the hills in fancy I see--
On the breast of old earth I'll lie.

WILFRED LENNOX, the Hobo Poet,
On a Coast-to-Coast Walking Tour.
These Cards for