That
topic alone would serve for several hundred words, but we will not
be opportunist.
We stood at the front door of the baggage car, and in a pleasant
haze of the faculties we thought of a number of things. We thought
of some books we had seen up on East Fifty-ninth Street, in that
admirable row of old bookshops, particularly Mowry Saben's volume of
essays, "The Spirit of Life," which we are going back to buy one of
these days; so please let it alone. We then got out a small
note-book in which we keep memoranda of books we intend to read and
pored over it zealously. Just for fun, we will tell you three of
the titles we have noted there:
"The Voyage of the Hoppergrass," by E.L. Pearson.
"People and Problems," by Fabian Franklin.
"Broken Stowage," by David W. Bone.
But most of all we thought, in a vague sentimental way, about that
pleasant Long Island country through which the engine was haling and
hallooing all those carloads of audacious commuters.
Only the other day we heard a wise man say that he did not care for
Long Island, because one has to travel through a number of
half-built suburbs before getting into real country. We felt, when
he said it, that it would be impossible for us to tell him how much
some of those growing suburbs mean to us, for we have lived in them.
There is not one of those little frame dwellings that doesn't give
us a thrill as we buzz past them.
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