Never before had I so wished that I could rearrange the geography of the United States as when we turned eastward from the Grand Canyon. If I had the power of Him who shaped this earth I would have put it within a mile of the Atlantic Ocean and within a stone’s throw of the Hoboken dock, and having shown my guests the Canyon, I would have put them on board their home-bound steamer, and as they sailed away I would have cried out with ancient Simeon: “Now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace!”
XIII
The Grinnell Spirit
BETWEEN the Grand Canyon and the ship there might be “many a slip,” especially as I was to conclude my guardianship of the travellers in my own town, prosaically placed in the great Mississippi Valley, which consists of two plains—one at the top and the other at the bottom, filled with corn and hogs, and most prosperous and contented people.
The place towards which we journeyed holds two things which are the biggest, most beautiful, and best things in the world—my home and my work, both of which my guests wished to see. I was anxious that they should; for there, if anywhere, they could come close to that I gloried in most, the American Spirit.
After the barren plains, the monotonous miles of sage-brush, and the long, straight stretches of railroad tracks, it was good to look upon green meadows and commodious farmhouses sheltered by groves of maple and elm, and surrounded by great fields of young corn just peeping above the black, rich clods.
During the last few hours of the trip the Herr Director thought every station at which the train stopped was our destination, and began gathering his various belongings. When finally we reached it he jumped out almost before the train stopped, so eager was he to see the place where he was to spend at least a fortnight, and really see the American home from the inside.
Again fortune favored me. It was early June. The air was soft from recent rains, the grassy lawns were wonderfully green; peonies were opening their buds, adding touches of color, snowballs hung thick upon the bushes, and blooming roses filled the air with sweet odors.
It seemed as if our neighbors had conspired to make the town ready for my distinguished visitors, and I could see that they enjoyed the peace of it, the friendliness of the park-like streets, the sight of well-kept homes set in gardens, and the cordial greetings of the people we met.
Their appreciation of all they saw before reaching the house, and their evident delight in the rooms prepared for them, not to mention their astonishment at finding their trunks awaiting them there, afforded me not only pleasure, but a great sense of relief; I felt that the race was won. I had faith to believe that they would be happy in our town of six thousand inhabitants, which is not unlike other places of the same size. It has its public park, two or three shopping streets, churches, schoolhouses, a few factories large and small, clubs, lodges, and all the things of which like towns may legitimately boast; yet it has a background peculiarly its own.
It was founded by an intrepid pioneer who brought a colony of New Englanders from the hills of Massachusetts to this treeless prairie, and with the imperious will of his race said: “Let there be a town!” And lumber was carted over miles of deep mud, cabins were built and there was a town.