All this side of the Island has Indian names, though on the other they are more English; a few English names here, too, of course, only it is the Indian ones you remember best, they are so queer. And it seems right, in memory of the Indians, that many roads are cut through lovely woods. Could you forget names like "Speonk" and "Moriches?" I know you could not forget the woods either, if you saw them once, or the perfume of the pines and the yellow lilies growing wild. Even they had an Indian name, Captain Winston says, or their roots had: "sebon" or "shubun"; and the legend is that the lilies are the spirits of Indian children who come back each spring to their old playgrounds.
There is another thing they say, too: if you travel along this sandy road (it's really part of the big sandbar which makes Fire Island—Fire Island that walls in the South Bay)—if you travel by moonlight, or come on the road between Moriches and Bellport, you can see prints of naked feet, one straight in front of the other, as the Indians used to walk; and they are not the feet of Europeans. I like those tales; and the ways through the woods (even where there are villages, like one I loved, called "Watermill") are so romantic, it would be more strange not to have Indian ghosts!
Bellport I could not pass through without stopping, because of the curiosity shops. I had not much money to buy things, but I wanted to look. So the procession stopped; and the three boys we call Tom, Dick, and Harry—the ones who love me—clubbed together and bought me an old black japanned tea tray with flowers painted on it. Their hearts would have been in broken pieces if I had said no, I could not take it. So I said "yes, thank you!" and that put me into trouble, because then Mr. Caspian bought me something also: a tiny model of an old whaling ship. It was perfect, and cost a great deal. I knew, because I had asked the price and he had heard me. But what could I do? I was thinking what to say, when the wife of the shop man rushed up and reminded him that the model was engaged, and could not be sold to this gentleman. That gave me time to finish thinking! I said no one must buy me anything else, so I was in time to stop Mr. Caspian from giving me a fat silver watch of the time of the Georges. It would have gone well with our house, but I should not have liked it from him. He thumped the watch down when I refused, and Mr. Storm bought it under his nose. I will tell you by and by what happened about it and the model ship.
We took our déjeuner at a place of the queerest name of all; or, no, it was the lake that has the name; we were in a restaurant on the shore, with a flowery terrace shaded by pines. Could you pronounce the word "Ronkonkoma," if nobody told you how, and you had not Indian ancestors haunting your heart? When we were at our tables—two, drawn near together—Peter Storm called out that Mrs. Winston offered a prize for the person getting the right pronunciation. She knew, because her husband had learned it in some book. We all tried, and Mr. Caspian and I spoke it the same way—at least, it sounded to me the same. But Molly made Peter Storm umpire (that means a person who decides when there is a dispute; and is hated if in baseball or football), and Peter decided for me, because I put the emphasis in the right place—"Ronkonkoma." What do you suppose the prize was? The fat watch I had wanted! It seemed that Peter (I would not call him Peter to his face) had bought it for Molly. And I may as well tell you at this same time, she gave me the ship for a present that evening. It was for my birthday, she explicated. Though it was passed by some weeks, she had wanted to find a thing I liked; and she had gone behind the back of Mr. Caspian to bargain with the shop woman, so it could be a surprise. She knew it would be spoiled to come through Mr. Caspian. I shall not dare to put the ship at home where he can see, but it will be in my room, where he can never come. His face looked so cross about the watch of the Georges! I couldn't help to be pleased.
If Peter Storm were not the man he is, above caring much for girls, maybe I should think he had arranged these two things to happen with the help of Molly. But that is not possible. It would only be a great conceit of mine.
We had quite a splendid déjeuner at the lake of the prize name, with Blue Point oysters, which you will have heard of because they are of an importance like royalties. They are born close by Ronkonkoma Lake, at a place named after them. I will not say they are named after it!
When we started again, I was allowed to drive for miles—not ordinary common miles, but a spin through a kind of motor heaven ruled by the god of "Things as They Ought to Be." I think his name in America is Billiken. It quite belongs to him, though he inspired a mortal to make the road forty-five miles! You will have to do it in your head in kilometres. The Parkway (they call it) is private, and you pay to go through—only a very little, though it is worth much for the joy. There is no dust and no crowd and no noise, and no policemen springing out like Jacks from boxes; and they let you go forty miles an hour. It is a pity to rush so fast, though, unless you turn and go back again, because the fun is over too soon. Besides, there is scenery of every kind. One would say they had brought bits from every part of the world. There are woods, dark perfumy pines, and white birches like bridal processions of young girls in white. There are hills and rocks, with emerald ferns, and wild flowers almost like Switzerland; and gorse, and fragrant shrubs which must be like the "maquis" they tell you of in Corsica. There are meadows lovely as lawns, and glimpses of blue water like nymphs' eyes suddenly opening from enchanted sleep, perhaps to close when you have gone! I hope they do, for I hate to think of everything going on when our backs are turned as when we are there to see, don't you?
I could have cried when we came out of the Motor Parkway, and I must give up the wheel because of Mr. Goodrich, who fears I might snap in two pieces at the waist and wreck his family. But it was very pretty country still, so I was soon consoled. It is difficult, wishing to live in so many villages! If I had to choose, I do not see how I could; and Peter says it will be the same with me in New England. But, ma chére, if you could see Jericho! I do not mean the one we speak of when we say "I wish I were in Jericho!" but the Jericho of Long Island, where I should love to buy all the beautiful old houses, I could not possibly choose between! I would stay in one after the other, and sit in rocking-chairs rocking back and forth like so many old ladies do. But I should not be old. And I would have a man sitting in another chair, rocking, too. He would look like Peter Storm in some ways—that is, he would have such eyes as Peter's. I cannot take interest in other eyes now, his are so living, and they have all the expressions as with ponds which show the moods of the sky. But I would not say this to another than you, not even to Molly! And speaking of ponds, chérie, on Long Island they carpet them with water lilies, or else with ducks, and sometimes both, beautifully mixed together. For modern ducks to be smart and fashionable must not swim or move about much. If they do, it gives them muscles, and to have muscles, makes tough. How glad I am there are not creatures thinking things like that about me when I play tennis or dance or drive a motor! But ducks do not seem to be bitter about it. They just float through life and smile in that way they have, when they are not waddling slowly in front of motors. By the way, Peter says the "race memory" of ducks and chickens and especially geese (who are clever though misunderstood) is improving so much they do not now always cross a road when a motor car is coming. They begin to remember from their ancestors it is wise to wait.
After Jericho and another sweet place called East Norwich we came close to Oyster Bay. Maybe your new cousin from America has told you about it, and of Mr. Roosevelt, who is one of the heroes of America and has been soldier and President and explorer and a little of everything. He lives at Oyster Bay when he has time to live anywhere. And he is a "great chief," so it is well to have a place called Sagamore Hill. You will see why when you learn more about Indian things, as you will have to do if you marry an American man, you know! I cannot stop to tell you now, because I have come to the mysterious part of my letter; and the only place that matters is the place which is lent us to live in.
