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;

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