e walks; Albany, its Helderbergs; and San
Francisco, its Golden Gate Road. And I recall with a pleasure which the war
cannot take away a number of suburban European walks. One was across the
Campagna from Frascati to Rome, when I saw an Easter week sun go down
behind the Eternal City. Another was out to Fiesole from Florence and back
again; another, out and up from where the Saone joins the Rhone at Lyons;
another, from Montesquieu's chateau to Bordeaux; another, from Edinburgh
out to Arthur's Seat and beyond; another, from Lausanne to Geneva, past
Paderewski's villa, along the glistening lake with its background of Alps;
and still another, from Eton (where I spent the night in a cubicle looking
out on Windsor Castle) to London, starting at dawn. One cannot know the
intimate charm of the urban penumbra who makes only shuttle journeys by
motor or street cars.

These are near journeys, but there are times when they do not satisfy, when
one must set out on a far journey, test one's will and endurance of body,
or get away from the usual. Sometimes the long walk is the only medicine.
Once when suffering from one of the few colds of my life (incurred in
California) I walked from the rim of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado down
to the river and back (a distance of fourteen miles, with a descent of five
thousand feet and a like ascent), and found myself entirely cured of the
malady which had clung to me for days. My first fifty-mile walk years ago
was begun in despair over a slow recovery from the sequelae of diphtheria.

But most of these far walks have been taken just for the joy of walking in
the free air. Among these have been journeys over Porto Rico (of two
hundred miles), around Yellowstone Park (of about one hundred and fifty
miles, making the same stations as the coaches), over portages along the
waterways following the French explorers from the Gulf of St. Lawrence to
the Gulf of Mexico, and in country roads visiting one-room schools in the
State of New York and over the boundless prairie fields long ago.

But the walks which I most enjoy, in retrospect at any rate, are those
taken at night. Then one makes one's own landscape with only the help of
the moon or stars or the distant lights of a city, or with one's unaided
imagination if the sky is filled with cloud.

The next better thing to the democracy of a road by day is the monarchy of
a road by night, when one has one's own terrestrial way under guidance of a
Pro