For what would the fisherman's luck be worth
without the song of the reel?
The Old Road
There is an old road that I love to follow. If one may judge by appearances, it is but slightly used by travelers, for it seems to lead nowhere, and is quite content in its wanderings, winding through cañons, over hills, and down valleys. I am told by one who ought to know—for he is an old resident—that if you follow its tortuous course far enough, it will lead you to a town called Walnut Creek, but I cannot vouch for the truth of this assertion, as I have never found a town or hamlet along its winding course. In fact, I remember but one place of abode along its entire length, and this, a weather-beaten cottage nearly hidden by the pepper and acacia trees that surround it.
It is a quaint little place, and might have inspired the poet to write that beautiful poem containing the lines,
Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
And be a friend to man,
for the cooling draught passed out to me one hot afternoon from this house would certainly class the occupant as a benefactor.