Diary of Two Motorcycle Hobos                   

Introduction
Bill and I were married during World War I, and after he returned from
France, he wasn't sure in what field of endeavor he wanted to earn his
living.  He had taken an electrical engineering course at Norwich
University, a military college in Vermont, but, because of the war, did
not graduate.  His grandfather, with whom he lived after the divorce of
his mother and father, wanted him to become a lawyer. So, after a
succession of unsatisfactory jobs, either to him or to his boss, and
while employed by the United States Fidelity and Guaranty Co., he took a
night law course at the Brooklyn Law School.  His job as investigator of
theft had shown him much of the seamy side of the law and dissuaded him
from becoming a lawyer.  He finished the law course, however, and paid
for his diploma, but never bothered to pick it up. He had been
interested for some time in the stock market, and in why people buy into
companies that they know nothing about, gambling with stocks as they
would with chips in a Casino.  Would it not be much safer and surer if
investors knew something about the companies into which they were
buying? When his grandfather wanted to purchase a cow, he went to look
at the cow, feel its legs, inquire about how much milk it gave, its age
and forebears, etc.  Why shouldn't this same principle be applied to the
buying of stocks? Feeling he was just the man to do the investigating,
Bill consulted with several friends on Wall Street, but, finding no one
enthusiastic about his ideas, and knowing the proof of the pudding is in
the eating, he decided to take a year out to test his theory. My reasons
for wishing to take the time off were quite different.  Although I
thought Bill's stock theories were sensible, I wanted to get him away
from New York, with bars (saloons they were called then) on many
corners, and away from his buddies, both of which I considered
contributed greatly to his excessive drinking.  A year in the open,
which we both loved, would give me a chance to straighten him out. We
had given up our apartment on Amity St., and were leaving from my
parents' home on Clinton St., Brooklyn. It was not always convenient to
write my diary every day on the trip, so the headings often cover
several previous days.  As I sent my notes home in letters to Mother, I
made no reference to Bill's drinking; in fact he drank very little
during the year, and the trip did us both a lot of good.

During the editing of the diary, for clarity's sake, I have added a few
place names and explanations of now-unclear activities; otherwise the
diary is as a young couple found their world in 1925-26*. ____________
*Bill and Lois wintered 1926-27 at Clinton St., in Brooklyn.  The last
of diary of Motorcycle Hobo "trip" was completed in April 1927.  The
author scribed this work in the 1920's, but it was not typewritten until
1973.

PART I
New Poughkeepsie, N.Y.
Thurs., April 16, 1925
It is cold in April riding a motorcycle without a windshield, but
breathing in the ozone as we whiz along is most invigorating!  When
sitting on the driver's seat and turning on the gas I feel as if the
whole world were mine.  The sense of power, somehow not the machine's
but mine, is tremendous. We are off at last, and such a time as we had
hitching and tying all our bundles on the motorcycle, before leaving
Brooklyn this morning!  The passers-by must have thought we were bound
for the Arctic with presents for all the Eskimos.  In the bow, on the
rear of the sidecar, behind the driver, or in between, we finally found
niches for everything that we could possibly need during the year--books
and radio, gasoline stove and basket of provisions, seven army blankets
and a mattress, a small trunk full of clothes, a tent and many odds and
ends, including ourselves under several layers of underwear and as many
strata of sweaters. Our friends and relatives bid us goodbye as if in
truth we were headed for the Arctic, for most of them considered it just
as wild and crazy an undertaking.  No doubt they are right for we both
tossed up good jobs and have but slim funds for a long trip, planning to
stop and earn more as soon as we run out. He has a definite plan to make
the trip useful in a business way, and has taken along to study four
huge Moody's Manuals on industry, each as large as an unabridged
Webster.  Crazy or not, it is fun to have the open road and unknown
adventures ahead! When it began to rain soon after leaving Brooklyn, we
did not mind too much, for both of us wore home-made waterproof zippered
coveralls that keep out wind and wet, and every box and bundle has its
waterproof cover, laboriously home-made out of army shelter-halves. The
preparation for this trip has taken some time.  A mattress filled with
kapok is warm and soft and yet so light it can be rolled into a small
bundle.  Seven army blankets sewn together on three sides make a fine
sleeping-bag, better than the store ones for we can choose the proper
layer according to the weather, under one on warm nights and four or
five on cold ones, and each morning they can be turned inside out to air
and rotate their use.  A toilet article kit made out of black oilcloth,
lined with rubber and bound with gray tape, looks quite stylish and has
plenty of room for pajamas and towel besides the toilet articles.  Our
food is all in waterproof oiled silk bags which occupy very little
space.  It would seem we are well prepared for rain or cold. About fifty
miles from home the trunk began to rattle and bounce, so we hunted up a
blacksmith and had him install an iron brace extending forward from the
trunk rack to the back of the driver's seat and on to this brace the
trunk was belted.  We hope it will turn out to be as satisfactory as now
it appears to be. This took time and together with a late morning start
it was nearly dark when we reached Poughkeepsie.  Luckily we found a
splendid spot for our first camp, a glade in the woods beside a brook
and quite sheltered from the wind.  Violets, both yellow and blue ones,
spatter the grass in front of the tent and bloodroots whiten the
hillside. After studying the whims of our new gasoline stove, lighting
it many times only to have it blown out by the wind again and again, we
finally caught the knack and ate supper in front of a roaring fire.  We
could hardly wait till dark to try out the electric light in the tent
which Bill hooked up to the motorcycle battery. So right after supper we
crawled under the blankets to read for several hours while listening to
the radio, a superheterodyne which Bill had made himself.  Such comfort
and luxury for motorcycle hobos!

"The Camp," Lake Emerald, North Dorset, Vt.
Friday, April 17, 1925
This morning early we took baths in the brook while the sun was drawing
the frost from the ground and making a great steam about it in the tree
tops.  The spot was so lovely that we dawdled with our breakfast and
packing, which delayed us of course in starting. Near Kinderhook, N.Y.,
as we were readjusting our luggage, a large touring car stopped beside
us.  We thought it was out of gas, but the sober one of the two
occupants got out and found the tank nearly full.  Then pulling up the
hood, he gazed vacantly inside.  Apparently neither he nor the other,
who was giving varied and fanciful directions from the dark recesses of
the car, knew a thing about engines in general nor this one in
particular, so he called on Bill to help. However, my husband also knows
little about a car but, being electrically minded, sought the trouble in
the parts he knew best.  After a few peers and pokes he called for the
radio earphones and then for the radio itself, and, like a doctor with
his stethoscope, he sounded the lungs of the patient.  By attaching a
wire from one of the radio B. batteries to the engine he discovered
something wrong with the timer.  Thus scientifically verifying the
practically proven fact that the car could not run, Bill decided to
t[ake] it to a garage, although it was heavy, being loaded with several
cases of something that had played its part in unsobering the unsober
one.  Bill, proud of his Harley-Davidson, thinks it can do anything.  So
he hitched the two machines together with a rope and our good little
one, heavily loaded herself, valiantly towed the big sick one three
miles to a car hospital.  But the ordeal was too much for our cycle. 
When we tried to start her she would not budge.  The strain had
apparently burnt out her clutch. We were pretty discouraged, but Bill
endeavored to fix her.  The other machine was soon cured, the sober
occupant insisted upon giving Bill $5 for his trouble and the injury to
the motorcycle.  Bill would not have taken the money if he had not felt
that the poor buzz-wagon was badly hurt.  Fortunately, however, after
Bill had tightened a few screws, the clutch worked as well as ever. 
Overheated, it had only been paralyzed for a while. So once more we
started on our journey.  Upon reaching Troy we bought some provisions,
including half a dozen eggs, which we put in a canvas washbasin in the
bow of the sidecar where it would not matter if they broke.  After
driving sixty miles to North Dorset, Vermont, in order to get around
Emerald Lake we had to cross railroad tracks, the planks between which
had been taken up, so we bumped over in great shape.  We could hardly
believe our eyes when we found not one egg even cracked.  No wonder we
are proud of our pop-cycle. We have just scrambled and eaten the six
eggs, after pitching our tent beside the lake, as it was too late to get
from Charley, the local handy-man, the key to "The Camp," Mother and
Dad's bungalow.

"The Camp"
Sat., Apr. 18, 1925
In spite of the beautiful stars last night we awoke this morning in six
inches of snow.  Gritting our teeth, we ran down to the lake for a most
refreshing and invigorating plunge, the water being warmer than the air.
We did not loiter, however, but hurried back to the warm tent heated by
our gasoline stove, where, after a good rubbing down, we tingled and
glowed all over. Having gotten the keys to The Camp we are making
ourselves completely at home.  We plan to stay a week or so to fix up
some of Bill's grandfather's affairs in East Dorset.  He died last
summer and his estate has a number of loose ends to be found and tied
together.

The Camp
Mon., May 25, 1925
Two tragedies occurred in the insect and bird life today.  For years I
have wondered what funny little bugs come from the ugly brown beetle
shells seen in the spring near the water's edge, and today I found
out--to my surprise--a glistening, iridescent green dragonfly? 
Fascinated, I watched the metamorphosis. This morning on a rock near the
water I noticed a clumsy insect body, with wings tightly furled,
protruding from one of these shells.  Its six legs were all out and I
could see just where they and the folded wings had fitted into their
housing.  Placing it on a chair on the porch I watched it emerge. 
Slowly drawing its rather chunky body free of the casing, it began to
teeter and seesaw and to my astonishment, its body lengthened and grew
thinner until it was twice as long as the shell it discarded.  At last,
appearing satisfied with its slender green length it began to unfurl its
wings, which were crumpled, webby and opaque.  But as they unfolded they
became smooth, iridescent and transparent; then before my eyes the
dragonfly lifted high four perfect, glistening new wings.  They took my
breath away they were so beautiful--so bright, shiny and shimmery. 
Fluttering them a few times it flew several feet to the porch railing,
where it posed a moment to catch its breath before plunging into the big
world.  Alas, it soared only a few yards before a phoebe bird darted
down and gobbled it up!  I sat down and cried.  It had been so fresh,
young and new!  Later this afternoon one of the babies of the same
phoebe bird fell out of the nest and was killed instantly. 

The Camp
Sun., June 7, 1925
I have hunted and hunted during the past week hoping to find a beetle
shell with the creature still inside.  The nymphs must live in the water
for the discarded cases are mostly close to the bank, although a few
apparently crawl inland several yards.  There are many empty husks, one
or two with the dragonfly nearly out, but none with the complete beastie
within.  I did so want to observe the entire drama, to watch an earthy
grub crack through its cage and emerge-transformed. We stay on and on,
still trying to find and tie those loose ends.  Although we are working
hard and things have not turned out as we planned, we are enjoying our
sojourn.  The country never smelt so sweet, it seems, as it does this
year since the apple blossoms first budded. Everybody in the
neighborhood is catching the biggest and fattest trout, that is,
everyone but Bill and me, though we have often tried.  Bill, however, is
improving, for in the Battenkill yesterday, he caught a mess of four
whappers, from about 5:30 A.M. till 1:00 P.M., saying he did not dare
come home again empty-handed. Hoping for continued luck, after supper
last evening Bill and I drove to the Battenkill and, as usual upon
leaving the machine, locked it.  Returning later with three nice trout,
we discovered we had put on the wrong lock to which we had no key. 
Perhaps it would be a long drawn out chore to remove the lock and better
be left until daylight, so we departed to Grampa's near-by empty house
to spend the night, and hopefully, in the morning, to enjoy a tasty
trout breakfast. The whims of fate are often trying!  In the morning
there were no three nice trout, not even one!  A neighbor's cat had had
a piscatorial treat instead of ourselves.  Luckily someone had left a
sample of wheatina at the door, which with milk from the creamery, made
a passable breakfast after all.  And to think, in two minutes, the
garage man knocked off the lock with a hammer.

The Camp
Mon., June 15, 1925
The weather was perfect this morning, crispy clear with creamy clouds
casting interesting shadows on the mountains.  The sun was hot but the
breeze fresh and cool, blowing away the mosquitoes and gnats, which, by
the way, have been terrible this year.  But this afternoon in our
pasture, brimming with strawberries, as soon as I started to pick them,
it began to thunder, the sky grew black and the breeze died down, just
the opportunity the gnats and skeets had been looking for.  Even when it
started to rain my companions were not deterred-and I suffered the tort[
] of Tantalus.  A harder job I never had than to keep to my silly
resolution to pick every berry in a certain luscious spot.  I did it,
however, and with a full quart and a half in my pail, ran for home and
into the pond. The frustrating gnats are so small they can hardly be
seen and are never heard.  They get inside your clothes and into your
hair.  They sting your eyes and lips and ears.  Not one inch of your
body is safe from them.  Mosquitoes are far better sports, announcing
their approach and challenging you to catch them before they catch you. 
But enough of such an irritating topic!  We had a funny lunch today, or
rather, as it was nearly three o'clock, high tea without the tea (Aunt
Emma used to read to us about high tea in her old English story
books)--ice cold coffeemilk, strawberries, crackers and penuche.  Too
hungry to wait for the latter to harden, we spread it on our
crackers--odd but good.

The Camp
Mon., July 13, 1925
There had been so much rain lately that our brook gushes and foams down
the mountain into the lake just as it does after the melting of the
snow.  I have been using one of its shallow pools as an icebox and one
morning when I went out to get food the cupboard was bare.  After some
hunting I found the butter and bacon way down under the bridge, but a
whole quart of milk had disappeared entirely--swept out to sea, no
doubt. Recently while picking raspberries in the pasture I heard a
peculiar snort and turning just in time, saw three deer waving their
white tails high in the air as they leaped over the fence and bounded
out of sight.  Also thrilled by discovering two pink lady-slippers, I
transplanted them in front of the house for Mother.  Bill and I are
having great adventures with the East Dorset Water Works which Bill's
grandfather had owned.  When he died, maps of connections and shutoffs
from the main pipes running down the town's two streets could not be
found.  So Bill with Charley's help has dug and dug until every shutoff
is located, repaired or its good condition verified. We had to be sure
at night that lanterns were lit near the holes dug in the roads.  One
night it was already dark when I placed the lanterns and not being very
familiar with the locations, I walked straight into a hole and down,
just as neat as could be, landing on my feet.  However, I did not make
such a neat job of climbing out, for the top of the hole was above my
head and the sides steep and slippery. Another night we were in bed when
Bill began to wonder and worry about those lanterns, afraid that
Charley, who was supposed to attend to them, had forgotten and that
somebody would fall and hurt themselves.  So up we got, throwing on
coats over our pajamas, and down to East Dorset we steamed.  Luckily the
lanterns were in place, thus easing Bill's mind.  Back in bed, this time
we slept. Until today when I came across an old white cloth window shade
in Grampa's attic, I had been unable to find anything suitable on which
to make a map of the water works.  The material, length and width of the
shade are just the ticket.  Careful measurements have been taken and the
location of every connection, every house and almost every tree in town,
sketched in.  From now on we will know where the shutoffs are alright,
alright. Today Mr. Shaw's cook, a singularly thin and angular woman,
stopped on the path around the lake, and gazing up at the bungalow with
her arms akimbo, asked, "Where does Mr. Shaw's Dr. Burnham live?" 
(Answer: "here.")  "If this is not the Big House can I go to see hit?" 
(Answer: "yes.")  Returning, she observed, "My God, what a 'ouse; my
God, what a rookery!  Mr. Shaw, 'e 'as a strong, 'ansome 'ouse." At the
other end of the lake, Mr. Shaw lives in two buildings, one a stone "Big
'ouse" and the other a wooden dining room and servants' quarters.  But
here at my Dad's, both bungalows are on a par, one primarily for guests.
The Camp Tues, July 14, 1925 Before leaving Brooklyn we had decided this
expedition must pay for itself and that we wouldn't diminish the scanty
store left in the bank.  Although we had hoped to travel a long distance
before it would be necessary to earn more, the prolonged stay here has
eaten up most of the $80 we brought with us; and now we must find work.
After first looking into the water power development on top of the Green
Mountains near Readsboro, Bill hopes to get a job at the General
Electric Co. at Schenectady, N.Y., thereby killing two birds with one
stone: learning all he can about G.E., and earning enough money to
travel another leg of our journey. We hate to leave so soon after Mother
and Dad's arrival yesterday but we feel we must be on our way and have
been packing, tugging and tying all day.  Our duffle is piled high on
the motorcycle and tomorrow we become vagabonds again.

PART II
Near Somerset Dam, Vt.
Thurs., July 16, 1925
Saying goodbye to our friends took so long yesterday, that it was nearly
dark and we'd covered only thirty miles from North Dorset before we
found a camping spot in an orchard on a hill.  It seemed ideal--except
that apparently there was no water.  After pitching the tent we set out
with a lantern to find some, walking and walking until we met a man in a
buggy who told us there was a good well, half a mile back, in an orchard
on a hill--right where we were camped! This morning, noticing that there
was a house near by, we hid behind bushes while dousing each other with
buckets of water.  Then, gazing at the extensive view, we breakfasted on
sandwiches and fresh pineapple Mother had put up for us; the pineapple
having worked a little, Bill found delectable. We were still in sight of
our own Dorset Peak when the front chain of the motorcycle broke with a
terrible bang.  Bill tried but couldn't fix it.  What a forlorn couple
we were as we walked the machine into the Harley agency in
Bennington--mechanical trouble so soon on our long journey. However,
with the cycle wearing her brand new chain, our spirits rose, as she
flew up the mountain without a grumble or whimper, the grades steep but
the road fine, leading through the wildest country.  Five young
partridges, hardly able to fly, fluttered across the road and a big hare
leaped ahead of us for a long distance.  We passed a few deserted
houses, one bearing the sign, "Town Clerk's Office," another announced
boldly that it was the "Town Hall"--everything handy but the town
itself! Somerset dam is huge--nearly a mile long, forty feet wide at the
top, and sets back eight miles of lake.  What Bill calls a penstock
carries the water, and crawls out of the dam like a great wooden
centipede, worming its way to the power house. After carefully selecting
a spot with a marvelous view of the distant hills, in no time we were
attacked by every known species of gnat and fly, forcing us to eat
supper inside the tent, with the netting drawn tight.

Near Bennington, Vt.
Sun., July 19, 1925
Because of the insects yesterday morning, we could hardly stay down at
the river long enough to take our plunges.  Later while fishing, the
only bites Bill got were on his face, neck, hands, wrists and ankles,
even though slathered with fly-oil. As we prepared to leave our "buggy"
camp, a tiny field mouse played hide and seek between the cylinders of
the motorcycle, remaining there unafraid until Bill started the engine. 
At the Seersburg Power Station on the Deerfield River, we were greeted
by the most terrifying sound, like express trains rushing towards us
from every direction--the starting of the generators.  After Bill had an
informative talk with the operator, we drove to Whitingham Dam, a third
as long, but three times higher than Somerset, with an interesting
"Tunnel to Hell," a tremendous concrete funnel preventing overflow.  We
camped last night near another power station, Davis Bridge, also on the
Deerfield, and the coldest water in which we had ever bathed. In the
morning we drove back over the mountain towards Bennington to this
attractive stop I had noticed on our way up.  While I did a huge washing
in the brook, Bill caught a couple of nice trout.  After putting them on
the fire to "stodge" for supper, I had the most ideal shower imaginable,
lying back in a perfect armchair in the rocks, under a small, not too
cold, falls. In my writing now in the tent with the electric light
hanging over my page, and catching faint strains of harp and fiddle from
Bill's earphones. A Bonfire crackles in front, near the brook, and there
is not a bug or beastie to annoy.  In fact this whole camp has been
perfect.

Morowski Farm, Schenectady, N.Y.
Tues., July 21, 1925
Perfection is short lived.  Late that evening a thunderstorm came up,
raining cats and dogs all night, the first chance to test our new tent,
especially its guaranteed waterproof canvas floor.  We had always dug a
ditch around our army pup tent for drainage, but naively, we imagined
this to be unnecessary with our miraculous new one; that we could even
pitch it in a puddle and remain dry.  We soon learned the truth,
however. Feeling the dampness seeping through, I awakened Bill. 
Whereupon, donning his waterproof zippers, he bravely launched forth
into the rain and discovered that the tent was standing in a small lake,
three inches deep, in a clay-like hollow.  The canvas floor hadn't done
too badly, after all.  Sponging up the puddle and pushing a mass of
ferns underneath to raise the floor off the ground, he then ditched the
tent. Inside, dry newspapers and shelter halves kept us fairly dry the
rest of the night. But what pleased us most about the test-run was that
the window I had meticulously made similar to windows in Abercrombie
tents did not leak a drop.  It is equipped only with mosquito netting
but a waterproof shade, conveniently pullable from the inside, and
running between outside flaps--thus preventing wind and rain from
blowing inside.  Pretty trappy, I can tell you, both inside and outside!
In the morning the sun and wind dried everything thoroughly.  But we
have learned a lesson--always ditch the tent, even a grand new
"explorer's" one with a canvas bottom and a window! Near Schenectady we
obtained permission to camp on an attractive looking farm.  The
presumably Polish family--father, mother, three daughters and two
sons-is cordial and helpful.  They all seem devoted to the younger boy,
Leon, obviously sub-normal and decidedly unprepossessing.  He fell on
his head when six months old, they say.  The parents run the farm while
the children, except Leon, work at the General Electric plant, helping
with the chores when they return. After pitching the tent under a large
oak in a field and buying provisions from our neighbors, we built a
table and bench for eating and cooking, from boards Mr. Morowski gave
us, so we are quite elaborately established. Yesterday and today we both
looked for jobs in town, as our capital has sunk to $4.  Work is slack
and the G.E., as well as other companies, is laying off employees.  I
tried for a sales-clerk's job in a department store, but the man would
not take me on my face alone, telling me to come back tomorrow with
references, and if I had experience in selling linen he would take me
immediately.  My selling experience being as non-existent as my
references, I am out of luck. A sign hung in front of a restaurant
saying, "Dishwasher Wanted," but I simply could not bring myself to go
in.  I had had a theory that it would be interesting to take any job
that came along, for the experience as well as pay.  But reality often
explodes theory.  At any rate, after three days neither of us had yet
found a job. Leon has been a big help, bringing water and keeping the
stray cows and boys from disturbing our things.  His conversation is
unique.  "You wop?"  and "When ya goin' to git married?" comprise most
of it.  He is a good-natured and the pet of the neighborhood.  The girls
never return from work without bringing him candy, or some trinket.

Goldfoot Farm, Scotia, N.Y.
Wed., July 22, 1925
We have jobs!  Both of us!  Working on a farm!  This morning Mrs.
Morowski came running out in the rain waving a newspaper, containing a
want ad for a farm hand.  We set out immediately to persuade the unknown
farmer that he needed both of us.  The rain simply poured down, but
could not dampen our spirits; it did, however, dampen those of the
motorcycle, causing a short circuit.  We hated taking the time to fix
it, scared that someone else would nab that job. However, no one
did--but neither did we.  The man was sure he needed only one person,
adding that Bill looked higher priced, anyway, than he cared to pay. 
Whether this was a compliment we never could determine.  At any rate,
the man told us about neighbors who might need two people. Upon arriving
at this second farm, down a muddy sideroad, we must have looked so wet
and bedraggled that we were engaged purely out of pity, for the folks
kept reiterating they should not spend the money on help this season. 
However, Bill's boast that he was a good milker clinched the matter.  So
we are hired help at $75 a month for both, with board and keep.  I'm to
assist with the housework and Bill to milk and work in the fields.

Goldfoot Farm
Fri., July 24, 1925
We are laboring like Trojans, trying to keep up with our bosses.  Mrs.
G. especially is a human dynamo.  When she was younger, she says, she
used to carry 2 one hundred pound bags of meal upstairs, one on each
shoulder--a regular Amazon.  As I am willing to do all the housework,
she is free to work in the fields, which she loves, and is worth three
of her husband who, though tireless, is a putterer, going round and
round in circles.  Although this rainy season has provided much time for
repairs, a pleasant day was chosen for Bill to fix the mowing machine,
the "boss" having little mechanical sense.  In fact, besides milking ten
of the twenty cows night and morning, most of Bill's time has been spent
doctoring implements and tools. Robert, a little boy about 11 years old,
whom Mr. and Mrs. Goldfoot are bringing up, is a most pathetic
youngster, wistful, cowed and overworked.  Mr. and Mrs. G. are both
good-natured and kind to him in their way, but they don't seem to
realize that a boy, particularly such a delicate, sensitive child, needs
something besides work, work, work.  He is most inquiring and constantly
plies Bill with whys and wherefores. It's fun experimenting.  Having
never made a pie in my life before, I made two today, a blackberry and a
custard as well as six blackberry tarts.  They were darn good, if I do
say so.  Let's hope my luck continues for I have not confessed my
ignorance to my boss.  Just before leaving The Camp, Mother tucked a
little cookbook into our duffle, thus saving the day. Such appetites and
so many potatoes!  I am sick of them!  We eat potatoes three times a
day, sometimes sliced and fried, sometimes diced and fried, sometimes
baked, creamed, mashed or just plain boiled.  Tonight we are having
potato cakes.  I wish I could think up some new way to cook them.  I
won't french-fry them for this bunch, because I would be at the stove
all night.  Yesterday I spent over an hour frying forty-eight slices of
squash.  For once I overdid it, and we had fried squash again for
supper.

Goldfoot Farm
Sat., July 25, 1925
Today we have been exceptionally busy.  It is now 9 P.M. and the folks
are still in the fields, haying with a lantern.  It will be all hours
before the dishes are washed.  A few of today's accomplishments will be:
three meals prepared and three sets of dishes washed, a pudding, two
pies and a cake with icing made for the weekend, nine milk pails and
separator washed in the morning and again at night, windows and lamp
chimneys cleaned, lamps and oilstove filled, range blackened, floor
swept twice and mopped thoroughly, rugs and porch swept, and my knickers
mended. When we first came we got terribly tired, but now we are feeling
fine and really enjoying it.  After supper Bill goes up to our room
(Mrs. G. calls it "the office") and studies his big books, four Moody's
Manuals, while I write, and Mr. And Mrs. G. listen to our radio, Bill
having rigged it up for them.  Robert reads a while, then goes to bed.
The Goldfoots took us to a church social last night, where the people
seemed a hard-shelled bunch.  But Robbie had a wonderful time, eating
four plates of ice cream without batting an eye.  Being very timid, he
is afraid to do anything but eat.  When asked if he wants to drive the
hayrake or do something mildly adventurous, his one reply is, "I
daresn't take a chancet."  However, he seemed to enjoy his ride in the
motorcycle last night, though holding on tight all the way. Goldfoot
Farm Sun., July 26, 1925 It's Sunday and the day has been ours--except
for morning and evening chores, and a runaway calf, almost as hard to
catch as a greased pig. The first thing we did on our own was to take a
bath in a nearby stream.  It was certainly great to wash in something
larger than a basin, even though we could only splash in a shallow pool.
Ma and Pa Goldfoot are very particular about Robert's washing his face
and hands, but I bet, during the week we've been here, not one of the
three has washed any further.  Every bit of water has to be lugged in
and, after use, lugged out again and thrown away.  To complicate
matters, there are two kinds of water, pump water for drinking and
cooking, and brook water for washing and cleaning.  The pump is 100 feet
from the house and the brook as many yards.  Robert keeps two big milk
cans filled with brook water and brings in a pail from the pump when he
thinks of it.  I never ask him to get water, because he has so much else
to do.  Besides helping with the milking, haying and churning, his
particular job is feeding the livestock, consisting of four horses,
hundred of chickens, eight pigs, twenty cows, one bull, twelve calves,
six cats and a dog.  The cats are the favorites of the establishment and
have to be fed hot potatoes, mashed up in either gravy or warm milk.  No
cold dried up stuff for them! After our baths we visited the Adirondack
Light and Power steam plant on the Mohawk River, and experimental
station for G.E.  Not only is it kept in applepie condition but is
decorated with potted palms; swallows fly among the high steel rafters. 
A grating in the floor permits one to observe masses of gayly painted
pipes of all sizes, resembling a tangle of huge angleworms, and to
follow the course of each pipe by means of its identifying color.  The
boiler room is a good place to keep cool on a summer's day, for no heat
is wasted.  Bill absorbed much interesting information.  The Mohawk
River is used here as a barge canal and we enjoyed watching a good-sized
launch go through the nearby lock. At Amsterdam we felt in such holiday
spirits that we hunted for something reckless to do to celebrate, but
nothing better turned up than gorging ourselves on three ice-cream sodas
apiece-disgusting! The low rolling hills in this section are covered
with cultivated fields and trim prosperous-looking farm houses.  Driving
home the long way around, under a flaming sunset sky, we reached here
just in time for milking. Our first week as farm hands has ended.


PART III
Goldfoot Farm, Scotia, N.Y.
Mon., July 27, 1925
From all we hear we have struck the best place to work in the
neighborhood.  We hear that most everybody hereabouts is either stingy
or cranky.  George and Ella Goldfoot certainly are neither, although
they have no flair for management.  Everything in the house is placed
most inconveniently, so the least little job takes innumerable steps. 
Their chief fault, I imagine, is over-ambition, trying to tackle more
than they are able to accomplish.  One of two large farms goes almost
entirely to waste because it is impossible to get around to tending it. 
Cherries, pears and apples rot for want of picking.  For a couple of
years they have had to buy several hundred dollars' worth of hay because
there was not time to cut their own.  There are fields of rye, oats,
wheat, alfalfa, and corn, yet they buy grain for the chickens.  They try
to grow watermelons and cantaloupe, besides the regular garden
vegetables.  They sell eggs, chickens, veal, and butter; every other day
Robert and Mrs. G. churn as much as forty-three pounds at one time. This
morning Bill was astonished by the missus' saying that right after
breakfast she had to kill a calf to take to town.  Sure enough, before
the men had finished milking she had caught and killed a calf, strung it
up on a pulley over the barn door, all quartered, ready for market. 
Nothing fazes her; certainly she is the "swashbuckleer" Bill calls her. 
It used to take a full day a week to deliver her produce in town with
horse and buggy; but today Bill took her in the motorcycle, calf and
all, thereby saving her at least half a day.

Goldfoot Farm
Tues., July 28, 1925
Lately Bill has been talking a lot about "dirt farmers."  Well, Mr.
Hall, a neighbor, is certainly of the earth, smelly, and a good example
of the tightness of the folks hereabouts.  Before going to the field
where he was supposed to help with the haying, he gave me a long
harangue about the evils of the world in general, and his wife in
particular. "You'll never save-by anything unless you git up at sun-up,
no matter how hard and long you work the rest of the day," he says. 
"I've seen folks that telt how hard they worked, goin' out at night
a-mowin' with a lantern.  Wal, mam, I've been over to see them same
folks at seven or eight in the mornin', and they hadn't had their
breakfast yit. "And another thing, you can't git along unless you and
your wife pull together.  That's what ails me.  My wife is terrible
extravagant, and no matter what I save-by we'll never be well off, for
she spends such a heap.  I took her and the gal down to git shoes
yesterdy.  They each liked a pair marked $2.95.  She would've paid that
price, but I says to the clerk, 'That's pretty steep.  Can't you make
'em cheaper?'  He says as how I was a good customer he'd give 'em both
to me for $5.75.  Some better, hey! "I bought two oat forks in town
yesterdy, also.  Don't ye tell anyone I paid only 40¢ apiece for 'em,
'cause I told Seth Smith I'd git him one for 50¢ and I don't want him to
know I'm taking 10¢ off him. "I don't care whether your man smokes or
not, it's a filthy habit and I'd rather see a man dead drunk than
smokin'. "I tell you, my old woman is mighty cranky these days and don't
do a stroke of work any more.  I don't know what ails her.  She says her
glasses are broke, so she can't darn my socks, but I caught her down
churnin' and reading some old trashy magazine at the same time.  She
could see well enough for that alright, etc. etc. etc." Mrs. G. told me
Mrs. Hall makes their clothes, bakes bread, raises garden vegetables and
berries and sells them in town, while the mister sits around,
complaining about her, and comes late to help his neighbor with the
haying!

Goldfoot Farm
Thurs., Aug. 6, 1925
Bill and I often have a hard time keeping our faces straight, the male
boss being such a scream.  Talking incessantly, everything he says is by
way of, or in parenthesis to something else, which he seldom reaches. 
He changes his mind a dozen times whether to water the horses before or
after supper and then ends up by asking "Ella."  Tonight there was an
unexpected letter for them.  Pa, striding to the door for light, read
out loud an invitation to a Variety Shower.  Coming back to the supper
table he sat quietly while I explained a Variety Shower to them.  Then,
thinking of some point he wanted to verify, he went to the door again to
reread the note out loud.  Discussing the matter and starting to sit
down, he didn't quite make it before, wanting to satisfy himself about
another point, to the door he went again.  He must have done this at
least five times.  We stuffed potatoes in our mouths to keep from
howling with laughter. As is to be expected, Ella and her mother-in-law
do not see eye to eye.  The last time the old lady was here George had a
lot of green apples on the cellar floor, to make cider.  Ella, noticing
they were rotting and breeding a thousand little flies, said to George,
"Get this dumb mess out of here."  The old lady, hearing the remark,
said Ella wanted the applies out because she was "too darned lazy" to
make cider.  So Georgia's mother, laboriously grinding up a few apples
with a cheese grater, squeezed the mush through a rag, so her George
could have his glass of cider.  This, of course, via Ella. The missus
has showed me how to stew up elderberries so they are delicious, with
lemons, vinegar, raisins and lots of spices.  I serve them nearly every
day either in a pie or as sauce.


Goldfoot Farm
Fri., Aug. 7, 1925
Being very religious, the farm folks here never work on Sunday, or not
more than is absolutely necessary.  They are shocked at Mr. Green who
"claims to be a Christian, yet plows on Sunday."  Instead of swearing,
they modify most every noun with "dumb."  Did not Pa learn his lesson
when he was a young man working at G.E., by losing two fingers after he
had sworn a naughty "damn!"  When Ma is mad at the horses she calls them
many terrible names; all of them, however, escape being swear words. The
old man cannot rake hay in a straight windrow to save his life.  Bill
says he tries to rake his name in hay.  When an appealing wisp at the
other end of the field catches his eye, he heads for it, but a still
more irresistible bit off at an angle will change his course again. 
Bill, the missus and Robbie laughed all afternoon at his capers, until
finally turning too acute an angle, he broke the rake. My heart aches
for poor little Robbie, who has been looking forward all week to a
picnic tonight.  The Sunday School teacher was to pick up the boys and
take them to a nearby lake for an outdoor supper.  As Robbie was crazy
to go and as it seemed harmless enough, I put in a good word with the
missus, but she said there might be tough boys along who would teach him
swear words.  So Robert did not go.

Goldfoot Farm
Thurs., Aug. 13, 1925
The folks barely skinned into the barn with a load of hay today, before
it poured.  It has rained a lot lately, but the weather makes little
difference with my work, although one sunny day I enjoyed weeding the
garden.  One showery day Mrs. G. remarked, "It jest let up rainin' a few
minutes in order to git a fresh holt." When we first came, no haying
could be done even on a clear day, because of broken machinery.  Now
Bill has repaired most of their trappings, or purchased parts--the hay
wagon pole, the tedder, the big fork that lifts hay into the barn by
horse pulley, and the mowing machine were all mended.  Since then Pa has
broken the hayrake and another wagon pole.  Yesterday, however, they got
in all the wheat, four loads. The boss had a couple of teeth out the
other day, and when he complained the next day about his jaw aching, the
missus replied: "Why don't ya' keep ya' mouth shut?  Ya' go around chin
waggin' all day and ya' mouth gits full of fog." Robert says funny
things too.  Bunching hay after it has been raked he calls "deedlin' the
hay."  The other day it looked like rain and Robbie said: "Oh, dear, we
jest deedled the hay and how we got to undeedle it all." Robert's
grandfather used to be a policeman, but now he cuts the grass in a
cemetery, "scuffles" the gravel walk, and gets a nice big tip from the
undertaker every time he helps dig a grave or let down a box. Among the
array of Pa Goldfoot's jobs before he became a landed proprietor, were
turnkey in a jail and coachman for Sam Insull, a new prominent public
utilities magnate.  Pa has great stories about working for Mr. Insull,
whom he calls "a high-daddy" now but says he weren't "such a big
muck-a-muck" when he drove him, in a who-wheeled gig drawn by a
high-stepping horse, into Wall St. and back from Orange, N.J., where
they often saw Thomas Edison. The missus also has stories about working
as an upstairs girl for a Major and his wife in Saratoga, N.Y.  Now the
Goldfoots have hired help of their own. Last Sunday, before looking over
a small power plant at Mechanicville, N.Y., we watched two shiny oil
tankers go through a nearby lock and talked with the canny Scotch
lock-keeper.  It is a great relief to Bill after his disillusioning
experience with defaulters and shyster lawyers in his job as
investigator for U.S. Fidelity and Guarantee Co. in New York City, to
find the real workers of the country to be honesty, kindly people.

Goldfoot Farm
Wed., Aug. 26, 1925
Robert has changed greatly in the last two weeks, often smiling now and
even occasionally getting the giggles when Bill kids and plays with him.
While haying Bill will say,, "Sock 'em, Robbie," or "Stamp 'em down,
Robbie," or when Robert, a little sulky, mumbles his words, "Speak up
like a man, Robbie," and Robert smiles and reacts playfully.  He's
evidently crazy about Bill.  Today they went together to buy a calf. The
Goldfoots pay $5 for a calf, feed it for about six weeks, then sell it
for $19 or $20. Four kittens were born yesterday, thus rounding out a
dozen. The house is filled with empty bottles in brilliant blue, of all
sizes, for the folks are large consumers of patent medicines.  The small
ones with holes punched in their tin tops are used on the table for salt
and pepper.  A medium-sized one stands on the stove filled with cooking
salt.  Preserves and pickles in the large ones line cupboard shelves.  A
couple of spoonfuls of "Nervo" from the blue bottles, in a glass of
water, is swallowed upon arising every morning by both master and
missus.  It evidently takes some time for Nervo to work, for the missus
is pretty silent and sullen for a couple of hours but as the day goes on
she brightens, although occasionally she needs a second dose. A row of
various bottles adorns the sideboard: Balsom of Myrrh, Sloan's Pain
Killer for Man and Beast, Epsom Salts, Castor Oil, salves of various
kinds, a pink liquid in a bottle without a label, a bottle of large flat
yellow pills and one of round red ones.  The boss takes the latter after
every meal and recommends them to Bill, saying they must be good because
they come all the way from Chicago.  Bill calls them, "the boss' Chicago
dynamite."  Somehow they constantly drop on the floor and roll into
out-of-the-way corners, where I find them when I sweep. The missus says
Robert needs something to "sweeten him up," and that even by giving him
salts in his coffee every Monday, he is pretty sour by Saturday.  Last
Monday, wary, he did not touch his coffee and thought he was getting
away with it, but the missus had come down late that morning, so had not
put in any salts.  The next morning, however, when Robbie took a big
unsuspecting gulp, oh, boy what a sputtering! Yesterday morning Rich
Morton, the wealthiest, canniest but stingiest bird in the neighborhood,
came ostensibly to get butter, but probably really to pump Bill about
G.E., as he has some of its stock.  Rich has never been known to have
been bettered in a bargain.  How his splendid, intelligent wife stands
her existence I fail to see.  Since a horse eats his head off during the
winter, Rich buys one in the spring and sells it in the fall, thus
making it necessary for Mrs. Rich to walk to shop or to church, often in
the snow. Rich has a lot of labor-saving devices for his own farm needs,
but nothing to make the housework easier.  At one time he had a phone,
but Mrs. Rich called her mother twice in the same day, whereupon it was
immediately discontinued.  No one knowingly will work for him, so during
the haying season he depends upon drifters who soon quit, the pay being
poor.  Consequently Mrs. Rich has to work in the fields. Rich, a real
mortgage shaver, holds mortgages on most of the farms in the valley,
including a large one on the Goldfoot's, as they were completely burned
out four years ago.  When he says he'd like some apples or asks Pa to
help him with the haying, as he often does, Pa always does what Rich
wants, as he is afraid Rich might foreclose or refuse a future loan, if
needed. The Goldfoots can't see what is the good in having all that
money, anyway, as the Mortons never enjoy spending a cent and have no
children to inherit it.

Morowski Farm, Schenectady, N.Y.
Thurs., Sept. 3, 1925
We left the Goldfoots yesterday, and are now camping, for a day or so,
at our old stand on the Polish farm.  The $93.75 we received for our
labor seems pretty big to us, after having been so flat broke, but
believe me, we worked for every penny of it.  Our bosses seemed sorry to
have us leave; the old lady, usually demonstrative only with the cats,
actually kissed me goodbye.  They asked us to stay another month, but we
hanker after the open road and made quite a concession in remaining two
weeks over our month.  We do hate to leave Robbie, and wish we had more
to give him than one of Ernest Seton Thompson's books we had with us. A
letter, arriving at the Morowski's soon after we left, was waiting for
us, because Mrs. Morowski did not know where to forward it.  One of the
Power and Light Companies where Bill had applied had offered him a job. 
Such employment might have been more interesting and profitable
mentally, but I doubt if, at the end of six weeks, we would have been
any better off financially; and I am sure we would not have been as well
off physically, for we are both fit, husky, and as brown as Indians. We
spent the morning making our camp ship-shape and are off to town now to
spend some of our hard earned cash on provisions.

Yonkers, N.Y.
Sun., Sept. 13, 1925
You never can tell where you'll be, one day to the next.  Ten days ago
Bill received a wire from Dr. Strobel, his Mother's second husband,
telling about a recent accident to his car, and asking Bill to come down
to Yonkers to straighten out some sort of legal trouble it had caused. 
So we stored our camp-gear in the Morowski's barn and left Schenectady
immediately.  Driving all night, we arrived in Yonkers at 4 A.M.,
awakening the household. Today Bill heard a dealer's demonstration of
the talking movie, in which he had been interested, and I am just over a
light touch of the flue. Dr. Strobel's legal troubles are not too
serious and are now settled.  Tomorrow we leave for Schenectady.


PART IV
Farm, Schenectady, N.Y.
Tues., Sept. 15, 1925
After driving all the way in the rain, we arrived about 8:00 last night
here at the Polish farm.  The Morowski's insisted we spend the night,
and as many more as we wanted, in their best bedroom upstairs, and as I
still had a bad cold, that we sleep under a feather quilt.  As there
were no other covers, we sweltered with it and froze without it. 
Although everything is nice and clean, the hundreds of hungry, dazed
flies in the room persist in getting under foot.  There were no flies
downstairs, so I presume, when shooed out below, they sought refuge up
here. Huge pouter-pigeon pillows, the cases edged deep with lace, adorn
the bed; tall tinted statues of saints stand on each end of the mantel;
and brightly colored religious chromes in gaudy gilt frames boxed in
mahogany and glass hang on the walls.  These bright religious pictures
and statuary color every room in the house.  As it continued to rain we
stayed another night, but this time took up our own blankets, sleeping
the night through instead of it in spurts under the feather bed. I
cooked our food my way and Mrs. M. cooked hers their way, at the same
time, on the same stove.  She gave us milk, pears and cake, but when I
offered her one of our cheese omelets, she said she never had eaten
anything like that and guessed she never would.

All day, while I cut out and sewed up a new trunk-cover to replace the
one we had lost, she talked about matrimony, her friends' matrimony, the
chances of her daughters' matrimony, her own matrimony, and just
matrimony in general.  No wonder Leon's favorite expression is "When ya
goin' to git married?" A fortune teller had just told the daughters some
remarkable truths, of course: their mother would receive an important
paper from a big company which a tall light haired man would explain to
her; she must do exactly as the man says.  When we were here before, a
letter had come to Mrs. Morowski from the state about eliminating the
grade crossing of the railroad which skirts their land.  She had asked
Bill about it, and he, a tall light haired man, had written a letter to
the state for her.  Everything as the oracle foretold, with one slight
exception--both letters were written six months before the girls visited
the fortune teller.

Hudson, N.Y.
Mon., Sept. 21, 1925
Leaving the Morowskis' on Friday, we headed for Hudson where Bill wants
to look into a cement plant.  Because of a puncture just as it was
getting dark, it behooved us to camp immediately.  While Bill labored on
the tire I scouted out a peach of a site, near a garden loaded with
vegetables, and picked up four rather passe tomatoes and two shriveled
ears of corn, from the ground.  Somehow, it seemed perfectly ethical to
walk into someone's garden and help myself to inferior produce, fallen
off the stalk.  Be that as it may, I l soon had my "come-up-ance," as
the Irish say.  With my booty safely in the motorcycle, I got permission
to camp on the hill, from a man walking towards us.  Then, noticing a
perfectly good ear of corn on the road, I picked it up.  Thereupon the
man called out to help ourselves to corn and tomatoes, as he had more
than he could use. Bill swears he could tell by the twinkle in the man's
eye that he saw me raiding his garden and was heaping coals of fire on
my head.  But I think he only saw me picking up the corn in the road,
and out of the kindness of his heart, gave us the vegetables.  At any
rate, I surely felt cheap. Three days after leaving our vegetable garden
camp we still have corn and tomatoes.  The corn, slightly old to eat on
the cob, had made luscious fritters with the honey Mother sent us,
making a hit with Bill. Our new location, outside of Hudson, is not far
from a pump, and also has a pear orchard handy.  And, what is more, we
obtained permission to pick the pears.  Our tent is pitched under a
cedar tree with a barberry bush at its base.  Along the fence grow wild
grapes and bittersweet.  In the nearby field scrubby sumac and purple
asters set off each other.  We certainly are lucky in finding charming
places to camp. Saturday we went through the cement plant that Bill
wanted to see, finding it efficient and well run. A queer thing happened
on Sunday.  It was easy to do our week's washing with our two canvas
pails and the nearby pump, and afterwards I hung it on a low line.  Upon
returning from a long walk with Bill I noticed a lot of grasshoppers on
the clothes.  Closer inspection showed certain garments, the woolens and
silks, were simply riddled with tiny holes, while the cottons were not
eaten at all.  I caught a couple of grasshoppers in the act of devouring
my only pair of silk stockings.  How pure their taste is-nothing cheap
or sleazy for them!  I can understand now what a terrible thing the
plague of grasshoppers in the Bible must have been.

Hudson, N.Y.
Tues., Sept. 22, 1925
We had an annoying time at another cement plant yesterday.  It must have
been the irritating color of the office walls, a sickly mustard, that
rubbed everyone the wrong way.  Upon Bill's stating that he was
interested in the company's stock, and asking if he could see the plan
we were passed (like the perennial buck) from one person to another,
till the assistant superintendent was called.  After a long wait and
endless questions he said he had no authority to give permission, but if
we cared to wait he would wire the general superintendent in New York
City.  As Bill determined to see the plant, we waited and waited until
finally the answer came that Bill could go through, but not me.  Maybe
they thought my purse had a bomb.  At last a guide arrived and Bill was
taken around the whole establishment--but on the run, as closing time
was nearing.  When the assistant super said he was afraid Bill had not
had time to see very much, Bill answered, on the contrary, he had seen
very striking comparisons between this and the rival cement plant.  The
man seemed to take the remark as a compliment, instead of the way Bill
meant it.

Near Poughkeepsie, N.Y.
Thurs., Sept. 24, 1925
Again we visited the first cement plant and again we were shown
cordiality by the powers-that-be, Bill having a long talk with the chief
chemist, whom he considers A-1.  After which we drove to Hudson for an
early dinner. Stopping in front of a rather pretentious looking
restaurant, he hesitated about entering in our camping togs.  However,
when we took the plunge the Jewish proprietor bowed and pulled our
chairs out for us, and after a fairly good mean, asked if everything had
been satisfactory, saying: "I noticed you hesitated about coming in.  I
hope you will never do so again." After our explanation he replied (now
for the point): "Ah, but it is not your clothes, but your personalities
that count." Leaving Hudson this noon we are now sitting in front of a
huge bonfire on the same spot near Poughkeepsie where we camped the
first night out of New York last April.  A lot has happened, but we
haven't gone very far since then.

Egypt, Pa.
Sat., Sept. 26, 1925
Our Poughkeepsie camp was so charming that we played around till almost
11 o'clock before crossing the ferry to New Paltz. Delaware Water Gap
was a great disappointment.  Hot dog stands spoiled every site, forcing
us to camp way down in the valley on the far side. The country in this
part of Pennsylvania, though, is fascinating, steep hills like green
chocolate drops, little toy villages hidden in narrow valleys down each
of which runs a brook and a road.  At the frequent crossings the long
Dutch names can hardly squeeze into the signboards.  Formal brick or
stone houses are softened with lacy iron railings and fences.  One
fence, realistically painted green and brown, was made to look like a
privet hedge, another resembled a grapevine growing on a trellis. We
pitched our tent on the top of a hill where we could see in all four
directions, but there is no brook, so we have to lug water from the
not-too-far-away house.  Mrs. Baer, the farmer's wife, and her three
little girls, came to see us this morning, bringing carrots and
cabbages. Bill is very much interested in the stock of Giant Portland
Cement and has come here to look over the plant.

Egypt, Pa.
Mon., Sept. 28, 1925
Today Bill received a letter from Leonard, his brother-in-law, reporting
a terrible car accident, in which Dorothy and the baby were badly hurt. 
We cannot wait to be with them and will leave in the morning. Bill,
finishing some matters in the cement plant, did not return until nearly
9.  I was left with only candle light.  Two of the farmer's little boys
kept me company while Bill was away, Harold entertaining me with stories
and riddles, and Joseph singing to his own accompaniment on the ukulele.
Just as their father came for them Bill pulled in.

Egypt, Pa.
Sat. Dec. 5, 1925
We are back after nine weeks in town.  Our invalids are well on their
with to recovery, and it is good to be on the road again.  We left
Yonkers Monday noon with a brand new windshield, a great protection in
this wintry weather. When we reached lower Jersey it had looked like
rain, so we decided to camp immediately, in the lee of an old deserted
farmhouse near a brook; and where, because of the rain, we stayed two
nights.  We can drive or sleep dry in the rain, but we cannot either
make or break camp dry in the rain.  However, we enjoyed a walk in the
rain, returning to read in our cozy, warm tent.  It developed we were on
some hunting preserve, for a friendly and chatty keeper came to see what
we were up to. The next day, feeling we had to go on in spite of the
rain, we reached our old camping ground here in Egypt, just as it
cleared long enough to pitch the tent and get our duds under cover.  But
it has rained and blown hard every minute of the four days since. We
have slept, dressed, read, written, listened to the radio, received
visitors, cooked, eaten, washed dishes--and ourselves to some extent--in
this seven-by-seven space for about one hundred hours and the tent and
its appurtenances, including ourselves, are beginning to show wear and
tear.  Considering everything, however, we have kept remarkably dry,
warm, clean and orderly.  The trick of sleeping with newspapers under
and over us has kept out wind and cold.  Bill has gone down to the plant
every day and I have taken several walks.  I certainly wish it would
clear, though! When Bill wasn't at the plant he has used every spare
minute to write a detailed report on the Giant Portland Cement Co., its
management, efficiency, production, labor situation, and prospect for
future growth, and is sending it to Frank Shaw, the only one of his Wall
St. friends who might be interested in paying for Bill's continuing such
a service. He has bought some of the stock himself and is giving two
shares ($37 worth) to Mother and Dad for Christmas. Today being
Saturday, Harold arrived at 8:30 A.M. and stayed all day.  After helping
Bill with the motorcycle, they both drove over to North Hampton to get
supplies.  Harold says he is going to go camping the way we do when he
grows up. This afternoon the Baer's boarder who works at the cement
plant dropped in, staying about three hours.  Having had "a bit of a
nip," he generously offered us anything we wanted at the farm, saying,
"Just charge it to me."  His language was often quite "salty."  When I
asked him if he had been in the navy, he replied, "Yes, mam, I'se
sailorized a heap." One afternoon the three little girls came over with
apples, then later Harold brought corn he had popped.  I am more and
more impressed by the kindness and generosity shown campers.

Washington, D.C.
Sat., Dec. 12, 1925
During the eight days we stayed in Egypt it rained, snowed, froze or
blew on every one of them.  Sunday, the day it froze, the sun came out,
so to celebrate, we took a long walk and had dinner in a small country
inn near Ballietsville.  The dinner hour being past when we arrived, the
proprietor gave us what was left, but the roast duck, fresh killed pork,
celery, pickles, bread, butter and coffee tasted darn good to us.  The
owner put nickel after nickel in one of those awful electric pianos that
sound like a whole brass band off key.  Between firings, a little girl
played melancholy records on a raucous phonograph, so altogether we felt
very festive.  When leaving Egypt on Thursday we were bundled warm, and
the new windshield, the mattress and a hot water bottle made riding in
the sidecar very comfortable.  Shifting seats often, the driver had
little chance to get really cold. As it takes so long to pack and unpack
in the cold we spent the night in a small hotel near Lancaster, where my
Dad had lived as a boy.  I wish I had known earlier that we were passing
this way, for I would have loved to visit some of his old haunts. 
Because of fog we could see little of the country, but the Susquehana
River was splendid, twice as wide as I had expected.  Crossing it on a
toll bridge I wondered where my Dad's old swimming hole had been.
Although the old machine worked irregularly, we managed to reach
Washington in pretty good time.  Bill immediately called a business
friend, H.E.C. Rainey, who directed us to a hotel where we revelled in
hot baths and clean clothes, before dining with him at the University
Club.  It seemed queer to be so grand after having been so otherwise. 
Next day we moved into a cheaper room--large, clean but not elegant,
with a bathroom far from modern.  Bill took the motorcycle to the Harley
agency, not only to find out what ails her, but to save garage rent.
Today Rainey showed us embassy and residential sections of town.  Bill
is crazy about Washington and, having been overseas during the war, says
the European cities, being older, are more picturesque, but for sheer
beauty, they can't beat this town.  We spent an interesting and
instructive evening with the Bells, my mother and dad's best man and his
wife.

Washington, D.C.
Sun., Dec. 15, 1925
This morning we visited Arlington Cemetery, solemn and impressive, the
new amphitheater stunning.  Walking over to inspect the Radio Station we
found no visitors were allowed, so spying a trolley in the distance, ran
for it, but missed.  When the conductor finally spotted us he stopped
the trolley, backed it up, and we jumped aboard, amid the amused glances
of the whole carload of passengers.  That's service for you!  The
Washington monument being under repair, we could not ascend, but we
walked along the tree-bordered lagoon to the Lincoln Memorial.  The
whole effect is perfect, so simple and dignified yet on such a
magnificent scale. For dinner we went to a neighboring boarding house
where the table was loaded with enough food for an army, all for 65¢ . 
One could have as many helpings as wanted, and maids were constantly
refilling the serving dishes.

Washington, D.C.
Sun., Dec. 22, 1925
Yesterday morning I planned to go to the Walter Reed Hospital to visit
the Occupational Therapy Department where I had worked during the war
when Bill was in France.  Before going I called Peggy Beckwith, who
summers in Manchester, Vt., as my family does.  She invited me to meet
her at the Corcoran Art Gallery, have lunch with her, after which she
would drive me to the hospital.  Hating to remind her that it would then
be Saturday afternoon and the O.T. Department closed, I succumbed to her
invitation. At the Corcoran we saw some fine portraits of Laszlo and
then were driven in her grandfather's Rolls Royce by chauffeur to the
Freer Gallery, where we enjoyed pastels by Whistler in the Peacock Room.
Peggy's home, where we lunched, is a fascinating two-story white house
with green shutters and fir trees on either side of the front door-like
a Christmas card.  Being one of the oldest houses in Georgetown, it has
a passageway to the Potomac, used, they say, by freed slaves in
"underground railroad" days.  When Peggy drove us in her own gray
Franklin roadster to the Walter Reed, where, as I had imagined, all
occupational therapy was over for the week.  Although we had a swell day
and it was interesting to visit the hospital, I missed my sentimental
reminiscing of the O.T. Department. Bill spends hours at the patent
office and is excited about all that he is learning.  However, living in
Washington costs too much for us to stay long. We had a charming dinner
and a second visit with the Bells one night, and on another dined with
Peggy Beckwith and her mother.  Most every other evening we have met
Rainey, had supper and gone to the movies with him, as he is a great
movie fan.  On several visits to the House and Senate we enjoyed hearing
the arguments of the "gentlemen," but one day it was more like a
cockfight--anything but "gentlemanly" or dignified.  We have also spent
quite a time in the Congressional Library, looking at engravings,
lithographs, old government documents and portraits.  I was much
entertained by some cartoons of the Civil War period. My Christmas
shopping is done--cards written, bundles wrapped, and nearly all mailed.

Robert Lee Camp, Pelham, N.C.
Thurs., Dec. 24, 1925
While we were packing our paraphernalia on the motorcycle, an old lady,
poking her head out of a window, asked if we were going to Florida. 
Nodding my head, she gave us a long list of real estate men in Miami,
haranguing for nearly an hour about the great opportunities in Florida. 
We did not get a word in edgewise to say that we were not interested in
real estate. Mt. Vernon was our first stop.  George Washington's lovely
and interesting home has a glorious location, and the grounds are
superb.  We both loved it. Although all signs say, "To Richmond and the
South," the sunny south seems a myth to us.  When it grew dark and began
to rain, we were forced to crawl for hours through slippery red clay,
between endless tall dark pines, all the way into Fredericksburg. At an
old-fashioned boarding house where we ate rabbit for the first time, our
friendly and chatty supper companions were a young flying lieutenant and
his wife, and a truck driver on his way to deliver a Ford chassis in
Florida; the latter giving his name and address, even urged us to look
him up.  Certainly everybody down here is most cordial. When finally
bedded for the night, I continued to ride the motorcycle, and the
reflecting silver screen of raindrops ahead, between walls of tall dark
pines, kept recurring before my eyes, until at last I fell asleep. The
next day on the road a car with a New York license passed us, its
occupants shouting, "See you in Miama."  Later they stopped and when we
asked if they needed help, they hollered back that we could help make
away with their extra hot coffee and sandwiches.  The excitement and
comradery among those on route to Florida is as if we were all on our
way to the Klondike. It was dark when we reached a little town called
Burkville and the manager of the only inn was at the railroad station to
round up customers.  Finding us getting gas nearby, he hauled us in.  It
was not much of a place, but warm, which was the main thing. The state
of Virginia has greatly surprised us, for we had expected it to be
enchanting.  From Mt. Vernon down we never saw another fine southern
mansion or even a cute little house; nothing but ramshackle,
dilapidated, unpainted shacks and log cabins.  Evidently the "gentry"
live out of sight or in some other part of the state.  The terrain is
heavily wooded-pines, pines, pines and almost tropical tangles of briar
and southern smilax, reminding one of Brier Rabbit and Uncle Remus.
Virginia is also the "shootinest" place.  You'd think by the sound that
each day was the Fourth of July.  Every other man and boy carries a gun,
particularly at this Christmas season; making as much noise as possible
seems part of the celebration. When we reached Danville, almost on the
Carolina border, late this afternoon, we found lots of mail and a big
Christmas package from home, filled with all sorts of good things.  A
delightful surprise was a check from Frank in a letter congratulating
Bill on his fine report, promising to carry him for some of the stock
and suggesting Bill continue his investigation and reports on other
appropriate companies. Spying a pine grove on a side hill out of the
wind, we inquired at a log cabin if we could camp there.  The folks
seemed delighted and the old man and the boys came along to help. So
here we are, ensconsed in a tent--to spend Christmas.  Although it is
bitter cold, we hope, with the aid of the newspapers, heated stones and
our faithful hot water bottle, to be cozy enough.

Robert Lee Camp, Pelham, N.C.
Mon., Dec. 28, 1925
Early Christmas morning old Mr. Brown came over to invite us to
Christmas dinner.  Such hospitality!  We did not learn its full extent
until we had been here several days. The senior Browns live in one log
cabin, their son, daughter-in-law and children in another, close by. 
Each cabin consists of two separate buildings, living quarters and
kitchen, joined by a covered breezeway.  Bill has to bend to enter the
low doors.  There is one small glassless window in each room, but the
whitewash log walls help to lighten the dark interior. The whole family
gathered around the kitchen table for Christmas dinner, five of the six
children standing, as there were not enough chairs.  Salt pork, turnip
greens, sweet potato custard, corn pone (coarse white corn flour, salt
and water baked in a frying pan), cake decorated with jelly beans, and
the vilest coffee we'd ever tasted.  Coffee beans bought green are
roasted and ground.  At each boiling a little fresh coffee is added to
the old grinds.  The brew (I cannot again call it coffee) grows bitterer
and bitterer as it is reboiled again and again, and the pot gets fuller
and fuller of old grounds, until of necessity it has to be emptied, and
then half an inch of old grounds is kept to "sweeten the pot." Before
dinner we women-folks had picked the new tender greens from turnips left
in the ground all winter.  The sweet potato custard, more like a stack
of pies, was served a layer at a time, our three days here having
reduced the pile by six layers, with four soggy ones still to go.  The
children were too excited to eat anything but cake, jelly beans, and
custard, although they drank that awful coffee.  Probably having dessert
only at Christmas they were allowed to make the best of it. Raising
tobacco for a living, the Robert Lee Browns are paid only once a year
when the crop is sold, which generally is after Christmas.  If the crop
is poor very little money remains after their rent has been deducted. 
Mr. Brown took us into one of the delightfully fragrant tobacco barns--a
small log building with chimney pipes from the brick fireplace, running
around inside to dry the big crinkled leaves hanging from every rafter.
In spite of being terribly hard up they are a jolly crowd, with
apparently no self-pity.  As the children have received no Christmas
presents this year, other than a little knitted cap given the baby by
his grandfather and a few jelly beans for the othes, Mrs. Junior hopes
to get a doll for Barna with the first dollar she can lay hands on. 
Having had eight children she looks older than my mother, yet I am sure
she is about my age, in her early thirties.  A cheerful, capable soul,
she is never at a loss for a bright answer or a joke. Saturday we dined
at the Juniors' on the identical menu we'd had on Christmas, the old
folks bringing the food over with them.  Robert Lee, J., away looking
for Santa Claus, must have found him all right for he returned slightly
"aweather."  His uncle has a still hidden in a bush. Yesterday we took
over much of the food Mother had sent us, the old folks again insisting
we eat with them.  We feel they would be really hurt if we refused. 
Surprisingly the kids had never tasted butter before nor had any of them
eaten celery before.  Besides the things we brought, including a greatly
enjoyed canned plum pudding, potato pumpkin (what we call summer squash)
was the only variation from the previous meals.  The youngsters "ooed
and ahed" over the candy, crackers, peanuts (here called goobers), as
well as the Christmas cards, fancy wrapping paper and ribbons from our
gift box. In the evenings, with the baby crawling on the warm floor
boards before us, we all sit around the open fire, telling stories. 
There is no light but the flickering flames which silhouette dancing
giants on the rear wall.  The men chew dried twisted tobacco leaves kept
in a jar on the mantel, while the women gnaw on sticks of snuff.  The
hiss of spitting into the fire is continuous, and all the honors for aim
and distance should be pinned on the old lady.  By the hearth stands a
broom made of tassels from crown grown especially for this purpose. 
Several times passers-by have stopped for hot water to thaw their
radiators and have been invited to join the circle.  The first night
when we were strangers, and each night since, both families have urged
us to sleep inside. I don't remember ever being so cold--even up in
Vermont--as on our hike yesterday.  The folks here say the cold has
seldom been so intense.  The blue bird I saw today shows how unexpected
this cold must be.  There are also lots of cardinals and, of course,
millions of buzzards.  All the way down from Washington there was one or
more circling overhead. I was hoping there would be mistletoe near this
camp but, although we saw plenty on the way down, we can't find a twig
here.  Mistletoe, little green wads in the tops of oaks, is a vampire or
parasite or whatever the word is. We plan to leave tomorrow, and near
Winston Salem, only sixty miles from here, to drop in on Bill Smith (an
old Brooklyn friend) and his wife, to beg the use of their bathroom. 
Our bathing has been sketchy these cold days.

PART V
Rural Hall, N.C.
Thurs., Jan. 7, 1926
When we left Camp Robert Lee Tuesday morning, the family all turned out
to see us off.  They surely were good to us and seemed sorry to have us
go. Now we are under a roof again, visiting Bill Smith and his peach of
a wife, Ethel, whom we had not met before.  Both urged us to stay on and
on.  Although they had only recently moved into this large old house,
they are now expecting to move out again.  They call it "just camping
out," but to us it is luxury. Wednesday evening we all went to the
movies in Winston-Salem and Thursday Bill sought information at the
Chamber of Commerce, while I bought two shelter halves for 75¢ each, a
doll, a baby's sack, some candy and toys for the children at the Robert
Lees'. Although North Carolina, with surfaced roads and many up-and-down
towns, appears far more prosperous than the parts of Virginia we saw,
Winston-Salem is an unattractive, messy tobacco town, with small,
disorderly shops.  At sales counters, I was pushed around just as rudely
as in a lower New York bargain basement.  However, the Reynolds Tobacco
Co., makers of Camels and Prince Albert tobacco, and the leading
industry, is putting on a campaign to renovate the town. Friday, mild
and balmy, Bill Smith took us in his Studebaker to High Point, a
splendid city about thirty miles from here, laid out on modern lines,
with fine public buildings and one hundred and forty factories, mostly
for furniture, segregated in one section of the city. Bill Smith is
quite a chicken fancier and has some very fine birds.  My Bill calls him
"the Squire" and it certainly fits him for, although he is manager of
the toy wagon department of the furniture factory across the way, he has
the air of the country squire and the master of all he surveys.  Tonight
we are to have [a] couple of the farm's own pullets for dinner. The
Smiths think the factory where Bill works is on the rocks because of
competition with the better located factories in High Point, so they are
looking around for the next jump.  My Bill and Ethel have great
arguments on economics, she having keenly observed the trends about her
and formed a number of interesting opinions.

Charlotte, N.C.
Tues., Jan. 12, 1926
We haven't gone far in the last week, the weather was so sleety and
cold.  Since we left the north we have had hardly anything but rain or
snow.  There one expects the cold and it is invigorating, but here, it
chills to the bone and is most annoying. On Wednesday Bill looked into
the matter of glue used in the manufacture of furniture in High Point. 
As Thursday was fine we could find no excuse to linger longer, so with
many regrets, we left the Smiths. Reaching Charlotte too late to camp we
took a room in a small hotel and left the motorcycle to have new spokes
put in the wheels.  Expecting to leave the next morning we arose early,
but found an inch and a half of snow on the window sill.  We were
snowbound, for our machine skids badly in the snow, which remained on
the ground for the next three days. Charlotte is a fine town, the center
of the cotton industry.  Today I had lots of fun fixing up the box I
have been intending to send the Browns.  The doll for Barna wears a
store dress, a pair of rubber bloomers and a shirt I made out of an old
handkerchief of Bill's.  The maid, noticing that I was cutting up a
handkerchief, gave me some pieces from the linen room to put in the box.
For the boys are 10¢ store toys, and the baby gets a little knitted
jacket to match the cap her grandfather gave her.  Mrs. Junior had told
me her eldest girl planned to get a jacket for the baby, but hadn't been
able to because funds were so low.  So I feel sure our gifts are what
they want.  I also included some snapshots I took there.

Near Marion, N.C.
Fri., Jan. 15, 1926
Tuesday the snow was still on the ground, but we were spending so much
money in Charlotte for room and food, and extravagantly for movies every
night, that we simply had to go camping again.  Before we could leave,
as usual Bill had to call on a few odd bankers (not that these were any
odder than any other bankers).  One of them phoned another that, "Mr.
Wilson of New York is here."  The mystic words, the "open sesame"
everywhere in the south seems to be, "New York."  Just whisper them and
the door flies open.  On the other hand, they want to think that the
growth of the south is entirely due to their own energies and
imagination and will stoutly say, "This town is growing from within,
without any help from the outside."  Of course, what really started the
expansion of the south (and evidence is everywhere, especially in North
Carolina) is the influence of two men, Walter Hines Page who aroused
interest in better education, and J.B. Duke, who through his power
developments, has made industry possible on a grand scale.  Another
factor was the coming to the south of northerners with money and
initiative. The experience of Danville is an example of what happens to
unprogressive towns.  J.B. Duke wanted to bring his own cheaper power
into the city, where there were a few small industries, the largest (we
are told) cotton mill in the south, a municipal power plant and his own
huge tobacco factory, but the authorities would not permit it.  So he
moved his factory to Durham, and Danville has rued the day ever since. 
Although the cotton mill remains in Danville, the other industries have
moved to where cheaper power is available.  As a result many merchants
have failed. Unmistakably a sectional feeling exists here.  We
northerners pride ourselves on having pep and initiative, while the
southerner scorns these characteristics, calling them by very different
names, such as "arrogance" and "intrusion." Sunday, while still in
Charlotte, we walked the five miles and back to a Ford Assembly Plant,
and peeking through one of the thousand sparkling windows, were so
intrigued that upon leaving Charlotte on Tuesday, we went out of our way
to drive there.  Unfortunately, it was not visiting hours, so again we
could only peek.  A man dressed in spotless white was tending gleaming,
efficient looking motors--and a sign read, "Every man is required to
wear clean overalls every Monday."  At least we know the plant is bright
and shiny. So on we went to the Southern Power Co.'s steam plant at Mt.
Holly on the Catawba River, a fine big layout with two old-fashioned
10,000 kw. turbines, and two new 15,000 kw. ones.  The chief engineer
told us they could not hope for the efficiency of northern plants
because of the higher caliber of labor there; nevertheless the plant was
very fine.  At Mountain Island, three miles further on, we went through
another waterpower plant with four upright 15,000 kw. Turbines. By this
time the day was nearly gone, so we found a suitable place, in the piney
woods, although we had to shovel the snow away and put down boughs. 
When we were purchasing provisions earlier, the tiny store soon filled
with curious observers.  Everywhere, we are the cynosure of all eyes,
and lately, of all ears, since, in a vain attempt to find what ails the
motorcycle, Bill had removed the muffler. It seems as if he had excluded
every possible source of trouble, and yet the poor old buzz-wagon runs a
temperature, having not been really well since we left New York.  When
we run fast she loses power and backfires, and now she can hardly go up
a little grade in high, sometimes even necessitating a shift to first. 
It used to be my pride and joy to pass every car on a hill, but now it
is my shame and sorrow that every car passes us--and with the muffler
off we make such a hullabaloo about it! After leaving Washington we
thought she would be hunky-dory, and she was for a while, but soon the
old trouble came on her again.  The carburetor had been cleaned there,
new spark plugs put in, and a block of wood discovered in the oil tank. 
Seeming to know their business, the garage men assured us they had put
her in fine shape. In Winston-Salem the brakeband had been eased up in
case it was dragging.  In Charlotte a new chain was put on and new
spokes placed on the wheel.  Bill, wondering if the new carburetor put
on in Brooklyn might be the trouble, went for the old one as a last
resort.  But nothing seems to do her any good.  In fact she seems a
little worse after all this doctoring-probably just plain tuckered out,
carrying such a heavy load.  But enough of the poor pop-cycle!  Gastonia
is called the "City of Spindles," because it has more cotton mills than
any city in the south.  The other day, Bill, wearing his traveling
coveralls, "uber-alles," we call them, much tattered now, torn and
generally disreputable, his sweater cap and pipe, strode into the
Gastonia Chamber of Commerce.  The man, after looking him up and down,
asked what he could possibly want with pamphlets about the city,
apparently it being difficult to recognize what a mighty brain and heart
lay hidden behind the eccentric garb. Speaking of eccentricities, the
ramshackle barns in these parts have no doors--thus, probably giving
rise to, "Close that door. Were you brought up in a barn?"  I have
always wondered where that remark originated, because all the barns I
had ever seen had doors.  Sheds on all four sides are sometimes added to
barns here, making them look like wooden circus tents.  In Pennsylvania
the barns are wonderful, stone halfway up and the rest of red-painted
wood.  White scrolls decorate the windows and doors, with often a sheep,
horse or cow painted white on the side wall.  When it rains, cattle in
an enclosed yard crowd under the deep overhang of the eaves. Tuesday,
about halfway from Gastonia to Asheville, we camped up a side road, and
again snow had to be cleared away.  Bill walked quite a distance for
water, the nearby wells being dry.  At best here, the water is not very
good; it's pretty muddy from the red clay soil.  When dry or not frozen,
clay makes good roads, but slipperier than the dickens when wet.  Most
of the roads in North Carolina are concrete and marvellous. Again Bill
tinkered with the machine and corrected something out-of-whack in the
carburetor, optimistically hoping this is the end of our trouble. At
Chimney Rock big realtors, expecting the bottom soon to fall out of the
Florida boom, have purchased a large tract of land for a summer resort. 
A tremendous lake, fifteen square miles of water, is being constructed
and large hotels erected.  Lots twenty-five by seventy-five feet, with a
view of the Rock, are selling from $2,000, to $10,000, with no building
restrictions.  Some of it will probably develop into what Bill calls, "A
hot-dog vendor's paradise," like the Delaware Water Gap, but on the lake
further from the road it ought to be truly beautiful.  About halfway up
the mountain, a small inn with cottages, called the "Cliff Dweller,"
resembles a colorful toy train of cars from below. The sun was bright,
the sky a deep blue and the ground and mountains white with snow on this
cold brisk day, as we climbed into the Blue Ridge Mountains, through
gorgeous scenery.  The road wound, circled, horseshoed, and tied itself
in knots all the way from Chimney Rock to Asheville, which we reached in
early afternoon. The mountains are not in long ranges as they are in
Vermont, but poke up here and there in separate peaks, Asheville being
on a high plateau with a circle of mountain caps around it--a huge pie
with a crinkle crust.  The city itself is higgledy-piggledy and
dingy--but the surrounding scenery is superb. While I waited at the
Asheville post office for Bill, four separate individuals asked where we
were from and where we were going.  One woman from New Hampshire,
remarking that only Yankees would have the initiative to get up such a
rig, invited us to her home, giving us the address.  Coming here with
$2,000, she has made $6,000, in real estate, at the same time supporting
her daughter and grandchild. Journeying towards Marion, forty miles
distant, we climbed down from the plateau with wonderful outlooks across
deep gorges at every turn.  Mt. Michel, down the side of which the road
alternately snakes and plunges, is the highest of ten peaks over six
thousand feet in this area. To top off this exhilarating trip we found a
peach of a spot to camp, in the woods, near a spring and under a
sheltering hill.  The machine ran smoothly all the way, up and down the
mountains, no doubt also exhilarated by the brisk, clean air.  Let's
hope it lasts.

Near Marion, N.C.
Sat., Jan. 16, 1926
Winter is more colorful here and not as bleak as in the north.  Besides
the firs, many trees, shrubs and vines stay green all winter--holly,
magnolia, rhododendron, laurel, azalea, and smilaz.  Green blades of
winter wheat pop up through the snow.  Long slabs of burnt orange bark
shingle the trunks of pines that produce exceptionally large cones.  The
birds are lovely: robins, bluebirds, brilliant cardinals and vereos with
that nostalgic song that one hears on mountaintops in the north, and
many others unknown to me. Last night, sitting around the fire, we were
startled by the most unearthly scream--perhaps a horse in mortal agony,
or a hog being butchered.  It had to be some animal in its death throes.
In the morning, the anguished sound hit a remembered chord from Bill's
army days--the braying of a mule.  How could he ever have forgotten it! 
The cold is so severe that water freezes on the dishes before I can wipe
them, Bill's dampened hair stiffens upright before he can comb it, and
we bite off from the unspreadable stick as much butter as we want with
each mouthful of bread. Bill spent nearly the whole day writing a long
letter to Frank, thirty-odd pages.  When he finished, instead of moving
on, while the sun sparkled on snow and water, we walked up an old wood
road and across a stream, overhung with rhododendron, on a rickety
bridge. Speaking of sparkling, on several mornings the inside of the
tent has been covered with tiny crystals, from our breath, I imagine. 
Living in a tent is far more interesting than between four walls.  For
instance: car lights make fantastic silhouettes of objects between; in
moonlight grasses and boughs form decorative patterns on the fabric of
the tent; looking from the outside, when our electric light is lit
inside, the green, translucent tent is eerie, like a fairy habitation
that might fly away at any moment. The two extra shelter halves are just
the ticket for wind breaks.  Later I plan to make Bill a new
"uber-alles" out of them, but at present they are too useful.  After our
walk I tied them to trees around the fire, making a cove for myself, and
had a grand old bath while Bill wrote.

Between Hendersonville and Asheville, N.C.
Sun., Jan. 17, 1926
Yesterday morning we broke camp and drove the eight miles into the town
of Marion--not much of a place.  Gangs of seedy, seemingly ambitionless
individuals hung around the street corners, gossiping Saturday
afternoon.  Up till now I had wondered where the "poor white trash"
were, for all the folks we had met appeared intelligent and kind, but
his mill hand bunch could fit the phrase. The James Lake, a tremendous
storage reservoir for the Southern Power Co., which Bill wanted to see
at Marion, was nearly empty due to last summer's drought, but its
location among the mountains is magnificent.  Its fifteen thousand acres
of water enclosed by one hundred and fifty miles of shore is being
considered for a real estate development and will make a dandy.  One old
codger answered our question with an amusing but pointed remark: "No,
there ain't many summer people comin' here, praise be!  They and the
campers that don't do any real work are the ruination of the country!" 
That for us! It was much warmer yesterday, but today, Sunday, it is
raining, and we are spending it reading and writing in our camp.  The
folks around here are very strict about the Lord's Day, and not even a
gas station or a delicatessen is open.

Atlanta, Ga.
Thurs., Jan. 21, 1926
Monday morning, warm and sunny, we could not resist seeing more of this
beautiful countryside, so we drove back up the mountain to Asheville,
and calling Mrs. Patch, our acquaintance from New Hampshire, rented a
large, sunny room with bath and lots of hot water, in her comfortable
suburban house.  Mrs. Patch wanted us to be her guests but we insisted
on a business arrangement.  Her two stunning daughters and a really
beautiful granddaughter live with her.  Much interested in real estate,
she lauds Asheville to the skies, expecting tremendous activity here
next summer.  Real estate companies, looking for the reaction from the
Florida boom to come here, have bought most of the land in western
Carolina, as they had around Chimney Rock. On Tuesday, while Bill broke
into several banks and real estate offices, I gleaned what was new and
interesting from the industrial magazines in the library.  In this way I
have found some valuable bits of information for him. Because the
weather was so perfect for traveling, we left Asheville in the
afternoon, driving down from the heights, through beautiful scenery till
we came to a stunning wild spot near a place with the unlikely name of
Tuccoa-on-the-Tugalo.  The clear brook, supposedly the Tugalo, rippled
over rocks, reminding us of northern streams, most every stream and
river in the south that we have seen being muddy and sluggish. Passing
into South Carolina the next day, the roads, though not hard surfaced,
were at first not as bad as we had expected.  Further south, however,
they worsened until, upon reaching Georgia, they became unspeakable. 
Pushing on in order to make Atlanta before the prophesied rain, we
traveled through parts of three states and wound up at 10 o'clock at
night in a mudhole called Alta, and I mean literally a mudhole.  While,
somehow, the two motorcycle wheels stood on terra firma, the sidecar
wheel sunk completely out of sight, my elbows level with the mud, and
Bill, a leaning tower above me, in imminent danger of teetering. All
were abed when Bill walked into the little town for help.  However, he
did find a huge beam and plank.  After unloading everything from the
machine, we began to dig, each step sucking off my shoes, the clay-mud
being both heavy and sticky.  We no longer wondered why the mule team we
had noticed earlier could hardly pull a quarter load of this clay. 
Finally getting a path dug we put down the plank and while Bill pried
with the beam, I pushed--and out she same.  As it was then after
midnight, the road ahead probably no better, and everything already off
the motorcycle, we pitched the tent then and there, between the road and
the railroad tracks, and fell asleep immediately. Several times during
the night a car got mired and we called advice from our store of
experience, lending our shovel and planks.  In the morning we were so
anxious to decamp that we didn't bother to look for water for coffee or
to wash.  But we seemed glued to the spot, bogging down again in less
than a hundred yards.  We learned later there was a perfectly good
detour used by the well-informed, but no one had bothered to put up
signs. Soon after we began digging again the road boss summoned his
gang, and with all hands pushing, we slowly emerged.  A motorcycle with
a sidecar has more trouble than a car on such roads, but only because
the low-slung engine runs into the mud, but also because three wheels
cannot get as good a grip on slippery clay.  Before reaching Atlanta we
dug ourselves out twice more. All this red mud grows tiresome to look at
as well as dig at.  Cotton and corn fields must be terraced to prevent
erosion, as rain easily washes away the clay.  In a short time a disused
roadbed becomes a gully, and together with many other deep red gashes,
scars the countryside.  The terraced effect of the fields, however, is
picturesque. Georgia is flat with apparently few rocks, so that, about
fifteen miles from Atlanta, it was astonishing to see in the distance
the tremendous rock, Stone Mountain, rising almost perpendicularly
hundreds of feet.  The rock itself being a natural monument, is most
fitting for a great memorial.  Three men held by ropes of steel shafts
sunk in the rockface work with electric drills, but only Lee's head has
yet been cut.  The work appears both perilous and costly and will take a
long time to complete.

Atlanta, Ga.
Mon., Jan. 25, 1926
As soon as we arrive here Thursday Bill called up an old friend from
East Dorset, Joe Reed, the breeziest, blusteriest, most likable
salesman.  From unending pep he is into every civic and charitable
organization in the city, knowing everyone, high and low. Joe,
apologizing for not having room for us, settled us in the home of the
parents of a friend, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, typical old southern folks. 
The most hospitable souls in the world, they have a fund of interesting
information and anecdotes, but as neither can see very well and the old
lady has been ill, no one tidies up, and the house is a mess, especially
because of the soot from the open soft coal grates which provide the
only heat. Although Thursday was like spring, it has been really cold
ever since.  In the mornings the old folks light the gas heater in the
bedroom for us, bring a pitcher of hot water, get us breakfast, and at
night see that a nice fire is burning in our room.  Treated so much like
guests we cannot retire to our room to read or do an odd job until
bedtime. After looking over the town Friday afternoon, Joe took us in
his Packard coupe to his home where we dined with his pleasant wife and
two cunning children.  A beautiful southern belle and her homely,
slap-stick fiance joined us in the evening, and a rollicking, jolly,
slap-stick time was had by all. Atlanta, a cosmopolitan bustling city,
is growing rapidly like most of the south, although prices of land here
are not as high as around Asheville.  Joe, enthusiastic about Atlanta,
talks climate incessantly, as they all do here, but we have experienced
only two or three beautiful days; there is snow on the ground again this
morning. Saturday morning Bill and I again snooped around town, blowing
ourselves to lunch and the movies as a one-day-early anniversary
celebration.  Coming out of the movies we ran into Harry Seward (he and
Ethel, now passed on, spent their honeymoon at The Camp in Vermont).  It
was fun to have dinner and go to the movies with him, apparently
contented and prosperous.  Quite a movie-ing day. The friendliness of
the people is the nicest thing in the south--everyone speaks to you. 
Old gentlemen, particularly in the country districts, touch their hats
as you pass.  I had a funny experience yesterday.  Earlier, when I
remarked to Joe how charming this custom is, he told me it was dying out
because northern women, not understanding, refused to return the bow. 
Soon after, while walking alone, a man in a car took off his hat to me
and bowed.  Not to be thought an intolerant northerner, I nodded my head
slightly.  He immediately stopped his car, saying, "How about a ride,
kiddo?"  Discretion in bowing is necessary, as in everything else, I
have learned. Sunday Joe took us for a ride before dinner at his home. 
I had no idea there was so much wealth here; beautiful suburbs extend
for miles in every direction.  In the evening we went to church with
Harry Seward.

Fitzgerald, Ga.
Sat., Jan. 30, 1926
Joe tried to persuade Bill to go into a real estate deal with him, but,
although Bill is interested in South Georgia farm land, he is not
enthusiastic about going into real estate. Leaving Atlanta Wednesday
afternoon we camped in a beautiful pine grove, in fine weather with a
romantic moon, outside of the town of Griffin.  We enjoyed our Atlanta
sojourn, especially the old couple where we stayed. The land in southern
Georgia has more sand and less clay than farther north.  Many fine farms
are separated by strangely intriguing swamps, where huge live oaks,
festooned with long gray moss, grow out of black swamp water, as do
small scrubby palms--the first we have seen.  The live oaks which also
grow on dry land have small uncut evergreen leaves, quite different from
northern oaks.  It was exciting to see even scrubby palms, evidencing
our arriving in the deep south at last. I am still trying to get
mistletoe for Mother, but it is either way up in a treetop with no way
to reach it, or if gettable, in front of a home.  Yesterday, however, we
spotted some and Bill climbed the tree in the rain to get it.  Many of
the berries, unfortunately, shook off before I could pack it.  We also
learned today how turpentine is procured from pines.  Instead of boring
a hole as for maple syrup, a sliver of bark is sliced off and a
container placed to catch the sap.  Some pines here are so resinous that
a lighted match is enough to set a log on fire. At Perry Bill heard of a
cement plant about twenty miles away at Clinchfield, the only one in
this section of the south; so, of course, he wanted to investigate.  We
asked an old codger walking along the road how to get there.  He didn't
know, because he said, he had never been there, and added, "I never go
any place that I have never been before."  The boss was away, returning
the next day, so we set up housekeeping in another pine grove where I
discovered two pine cones nearly a foot long, with their petals spread
out like a flower. In the morning Bill found the cement plant both
modern and efficient, the quarries containing more clay and sand and
less rock than those in the north; wages being lower, the production is
easier and cheaper. After leaving Clinchfield, so many conflicting
directions were given us, that we found ourselves in one place when we
expected to be in another.  Making the best of it, we ate lunch and
changed our plans. The day was chilly and rainy, the road rotten, and I
punk--either a little indigestion or the ill effect of foolishly
drinking brook water.  So Bill did all the chauffering in the rain and
the digging in the mud when we got stuck, which happened a couple of
times.  Wanting to get me to a room for the night, we pushed on in the
wet and dark, into this funny old inn at Fitzgerald.  We hope to leave
tomorrow unless it continues to rain or I continue to be ill--neither of
which casualties we expect.

PART VI
Jacksonville, Fla.
Wed., Feb. 3, 1926
At the inn in Fitzgerald two girls who had just driven up from Palm
Beach through Waycross said the road was practically impassable, that on
the way up, they had spent $150 on repairs to their Ford.  About twenty
miles along what we hope to be a better route, passing through a colored
section, someone yelled, "Look behind," and when we saw the stand
dragging, the tent hanging by a thread, and the blankets gone, a dismal
pall settled on us!  Our funds were low, seven army blankets would cost
a pretty penny to replace, the nights would be unbearable without them
and there seemed little hope of finding them. However, we retraced our
steps, asking at every cabin, sopping every car, and spreading the rumor
that there would be a reward if the blankets were delivered to Clark's
Garage in Ocilla.  At this garage where we last saw the blankets on the
machine, we left our name and address and then despondently resumed our
journey.  About halfway to where we had noted our loss, spying a cabin
off the road, Bill had an immediate hunch that we would find the
blankets there.  Upon inquiring, the negros had at first "seen
nothing'." Persisting, he heard a couple of old folks in a rear room
mentioning a large bundle, and after repeated questioning one of them
finally said she had seen "two low-down niggers" stop their car to pick
up something in the road, and she "reckoned they was agoin' to
meeting'."  The half-mile trail to the meeting house was so rough Bill
had to hike in.  While the hallelujahing enchanted him with its rhythm
and harmony, he searched each of the dozen or so parked jalopies, and in
the very last one found the blankets.  My, but we were thankful! Soon we
came to another bad spot in the road where four mired cars were helping
each other push through.  They hung around to see if we needed aid
too--but we fooled them.  Carefully picking his route, when Bill gave
the engine the gas, how the dirt did fly, to the admiration of the
onlookers.  Sometimes the old boat does do us proud. After spending the
night in the little town of Nashville, Georgia, we found mail waiting
for us at Valdosta, just before crossing into Florida.  Hardly believing
we were in the famous state at last.  We expected to have at least
decent roads; instead we bumped over washboard, crawling in low gear for
nearly twenty miles.  Not only the monotony of mile after endless mile
of poor road, through tall pine swamps, depressed us, but the fact that
this type of terrain was staked out for building lots. However, the
picturesque and well-equipped tourist camp at White Springs on the
Swanee River was a pleasant antidote, and the other campers congenial. 
The gray spanish moss draping the pines lends mystery to the woods. 
Being an air-plant it hangs on all kinds of trees, on telegraph wires
and fence rails, but is said to kill the fruit trees. Bill was
determined to find what made the machine run so inconsistently, so it
was late the next day before we got underway.  The time and energy spent
on the motorcycle is tremendous.  While we were eating a snack beside
the road an old black hog tried to join the party.  We have not seen a
white pig since leaving the north; those here are either brown, black or
spotted black and tan, like the Hottentot man in the limerick. Animals
appear in the strangest places here, cows, hogs and goats running wild
through woods and swamps.  On the road you never know when a so-called
domestic animal will pop out in front of you.  The wretched,
sorry-looking cows are used for meat, not milk. A fine cement road leads
into Jacksonville, but the tourist camp is miserable, crowded with all
sorts of harem-scarem people so that nothing left outside is safe.  Many
people live here from week to week, some with jobs, but most of them,
having no money, can neither go home nor travel south, and like Mr.
Micawber, are waiting for something to turn up. A little girl died in
camp and, as the family was very poor, other tourists chipped in for her
burial.  One man's tent burned down and the campers joined forces to buy
him a better one than he had before.  Much kindness is here, too. A
young fellow from New Jersey, who in October rode down in his Indian
motorcycle with a dog in the sidecar, said his machine was so shattered
that he sold it for $20, and has lived on the money ever since. 
Although a carpenter, he has no tools so he can't get a job, and is
trying to scrape up a stake somehow, to return to the north.  Our
Harley-Davidson has not shaken apart, but it definitely needs repair. 
Our young friend offered to fix it, and Bill let him try--but to no
avail.

Orlando, Fla.
Sun., Feb. 7, 1926
There is an old pavement with many holes between Jacksonville and St.
Augustine, and so narrow that, when passing, one car has to go off into
the rough.  We would have liked to have had more time to snoop around
enchanting St. Augustine, the oldest city in America.  The view at
sunset from one of the turrets of the old fort with its Spanish gates,
guns and cannon was stunning.  At the Fountain of Youth we paid 50¢ for
a draught of the famous water and to hear the guide's spiel about Ponce
de Leon and De Soto and the ancient chapel built out of coquina
rock--shell ground and pressed by the action of waves and time.  A daft
reformer, the president of the society which collected the fee, gave us
a diatribe against white slavery. Although we had sworn to avoid tourist
camps after Jacksonville, we were not able to resist the VERMONT
Tourist.  It turned out to be the best yet--running water, clean
toilets, cement washtubs, cooking ranges under cover, and tiny bungalows
to rent, for those who do not have a tent.  Our motorcycle, N.Y. license
and our pile of duffle are a great curiosity wherever we go.  People are
surprised at how much the machine can carry. The next day the old bike
made such a poor start that Bill gave her one more overhaul. 
Experimenting, he replaced the new Washington spark plugs with
supposedly worn-out ones, when, lo and behold, she ran like a bird.
After crossing the toll bridge to Ormond Beach, I let her out all the
way, and we whizzed along on the magnificent hard sand until suddenly
losing power, she stopped dead.  Again disappointed in the old bus, I
looked down and saw the carburetor hanging loose.  We had nearly lost
it! Orlando's twenty-nine lakes make it a charming residential city, but
the folks on the downtown streets are a motley crew-sharpers,
aristocrats, tough looking women, get-rich-quickies, and just plain
people. We arrived just at supper time at the home of Percy and Dora,
Dr. Strobel's son and his wife, who are expecting us to stay a few days.
Their two cunning boys are most well behaved, Percy being so strict they
don't dare be otherwise. Saturday our hosts took us and the children for
a picnic on Cocoa Beach.  Driving about sixty miles through endless
swamps of cypress, oak and pine, many kinds of heron fished the black
waters; mud turtles basked in the sun; and the blue sky and gray moss
set off the delicious new red of the maples.  While we ate lunch on the
beach, sandpipers gingerly picked their way along the water's edge, and
pelicans plummeted for fish offshore. Florida seems either intensely
cultivated or wasteland.  The soil in the swamps, however, is said to be
rich, so that to grow a fine truck garden it would only be necessary to
cut down the trees, dig out the stumps, drain, plow, fertilize, and sow
the seeds.  No trouble?  The profit from the resulting fine vegetables
is said to be well worth it.  But what about the birds, mud turtles and
small animals?  Where do they go? Much of the Florida peninsula has a
coral base, and there are strange tales that: water will bubble up
anywhere a twenty-foot hole is dug; but by digging three hundred fee
down, a swamp can be drained.  Most confusing? Tomorrow we hit the road
again, after a most pleasant visit with the Strobels.

Near Winter Haven, Fla.
Feb. 9, 1926
Yesterday near Haines City, we had four blowouts, the first of our
experience.  Some time ago, realizing we needed new tires, Bill wired
Frank for money, which we received in Orlando, but being anxious to
reach Fort Myers where we plan to visit Bill's mother and her husband,
Dr. Strobel, on their houseboat, we took a chance on the old ones--and
lost. Thinking a broken spoke had pierced the tube, Bill patched it, but
it soon blew out again.  Once more he patched it and once more it blew,
all on the back wheel, the hardest to handle because the wheel itself
has to be removed and both mudguard and brake loosened. Although I had
walked about a mile to buy patches, patches wouldn't do, so we had to
put on the spare, to get at which all the luggage on the rear end had to
be removed, then put back again.  A man in a Ford stopped to help.  We
went only a short distance before wham, we could hardly believe the
spare blew out!  A new tire was a necessity. The very beautiful sunset
brightened but did not shorten my two and a half mile hike into Winter
Haven.  Trudging from garage to garage I could find no suitable tires,
but I did spy a parked motorcycle with a delivery box in place of a
sidecar.  A little girl told me the driver was downtown, and I would
recognize him immediately because of his red sweater and fat cheeks. 
Sure enough, I did, and he drove me, riding on top of the delivery box,
to still another garage, where again there was no success.  A cop,
however, in the police station opposite, gave me an old smaller tire
with a slow leak, insisting it could be stretched to fit, and
volunteered to put it on.  So I was officially escorted in a police car
back to Bill, who, by the way, had been terribly worried as it was pitch
dark and I had been gone more than two and a half hours, during which
time he had set up the tent and fixed camp. Of course the cop's tire
would not fit, but the helpful man in the Ford, after an unsuccessful
search for me in town, did learn where two tires could be bought, the
cop driving Bill to purchase them and back.  People are certainly kind
everywhere we go. Now, after a surprisingly restful night beside the
road, we are nearly ready to start--but those old tires cost us a full
twenty-four hours.  Although still one hundred and twenty miles north of
Fort Myers, we hope to reach there today.

PART VII
Houseboat Diogenes, Hardy St. Pier
Fort Myers, Fla.
Mon., Feb. 15, 1926
	My, but we were glad to get here Thursday night about 8 o'clock. 
The folks had been looking for us and had supper waiting. The
double-decker houseboat, painted yellow with white trim, is the most
attractive abode imaginable.  Purple bougainvillaea covers a trellis
pagoda between the boat and dock and flower boxes edge the decks.  A
living room, kitchen and bath with all modern conveniences are on the
lower deck, with two bedrooms above.  Three folding double beds, one in
each bedroom and one in the living room, built-in chests, desk and
wardrobes are most compact.  Mother Wilson has put colorful cretonne on
the chairs and at the windows, and decorated with interesting sea things
and dried grasses. On the aft deck she feeds flocks of hungry wild
ducks, a few coming to her hand when she calls.  Most of them, though,
are very shy and scatter at the least noise or unusual motion, so it had
taken much patience and a long time to train even a few. Out of the
hundreds of varieties of palms in Fort Myers, the only ones I have yet
learned are the Cabbage, Royal, Sago and Coconut, as well as the
low-growing Palmetto, from the fibrous leaves of which brushes and whisk
brooms are made.  The Royal Poinciana tree, sometimes called Women's
Tongues, is shaped like an umbrella, with delicate, finely cut leaves,
and at this season, pods, perhaps eighteen inches long, filled with
beans that rattle in the wind, hang like earrings; Banana trees bear one
handsome dark purple bloom on a long stem; water hyacinths crowd all the
roadside ditches; the Flame Vine, with bright orange blossoms, climbs
over every available post or tree; the Sleepy Hibiscus never fully opens
its blossoms as the wide-awake varieties do; poinsettias grow ten to
fifteen feet high, and although still in bloom, most of the leaves have
fallen off. Many challenging projects have been constructed lately in
Florida; the concrete Gandy Bridge, six miles long crosses the bay from
Tampa to St. Petersburg; lakes are made where there was dry land and dry
land where there was water; a man named Davis has pumped sand from the
sea bottom and made a large island near Tampa. A plan is afoot to make a
causeway and bridge on the unfinished Tamiami Trail, by filling in this
part of the Caloosahatchee River, forcing Mother W., and the doctor to
move the houseboat. Stucco Spanish type dwellings are very popular here,
some of which are built with imagination, but many of them are
unpardonably ugly.  Truly beautiful subdivisions do exist, however, like
the ones outside of Jacksonville and Fort Myers; many others are poorly
conceived and dismally located, the prices of all being sky high.  The
most depressing are the abandoned, half-finished developments, where
people have lost their entire investments. Both Ford and Edison have
homes in Fort Myers that appear unpretentious, old-fashioned New England
homes, but dense foliage makes them almost invisible from the road or
water. We are visiting with the folks, basking in the glorious sunshine,
riding around the countryside, observing many interesting sights, and
enjoying loafing after our strenuous trip down.

Hardy St. Pier
Sat., Feb. 20, 1926
Yesterday was like Christmas all over again, for we received a box of
wonderful gifts from Mother--the pen with which I am writing, goodies,
and a nice wooly dress for later when we drive north (it is too hot now
to even think of wool); Bill has smelled grand all day from his new
shaving soap. Each day we have expected the houseboat to be moved.  More
than a week ago the men promised to drive the piles at the Fowler St.
Pier.  At that time the carpenters pulled the boards off the boat's
gangplank, placing the heavy flower boxes along only one side of the
deck, which of course caused a bad list.  Consequently the oil would not
feed into the stove, the icebox door hung open, and the water pipe was
broken. While we were all away one day, the iceman, climbing over the
makeshift gangplank, dropped the ice into the river, and has not shown
up since. At another time I was pressing Bill's pants, when the iron
suddenly got cold--an electrician had cut the wires; but before
nightfall Bill had spliced them, and we were in business again. In
addition, after Bill had fixed the water pipe, a storm swung the boat
back and forth so violently that the pipe was broken again.  Dr. Strobel
was terribly nervous during the storm, afraid the trellis and plants
would be smashed; but we pulled through without too much damage. To
complicate matters, Dora and Percy Strobel, with the two boys, arrived
in their Buick to spend the night.  Percy had just been offered a
partnership in the engineering company where he works, which of course
pleases his father. But we had no water, no food, no extra sheets, and
as this was Sunday, none could be bought. Then Mother W. had her turn at
being upset, it being the worst possible time for unexpected guests. 
She hates housekeeping anyway, but hates worse not to be gracious, and
not to have the house neat and clean, with plenty of good food.  So she
scrubs and polishes and cooks for dear life, hating it all the time. 
Therefore, we lugged in water, washed sheets, pillowcases and towels,
hung them in the quick-drying sun and took our guests to a cafeteria for
supper.

Fowler St. Pier
Thurs., Feb. 25, 1926
Finally the piles for our new mooring are ready, and after waiting two
or three days more for someone to tow us, we at last got started.  It
was fun being pulled up the river by a tiny motorboat.  The towing man
claimed to know the Caloosahatchee River, its channels and tides, but
when we were about one hundred feet from the new pier, the boat stuck on
the he bottom, and pull as he would, he could not budge it.  So he left
it there and we were stranded for the night. About 2 A.M. the doctor,
feeling the rise of the tide, began to pole the boat ahead, and before
long, with the aid of the rest of us awakened by the movement, had the
boat tied up at the new platform.  It was still a couple of days,
though, before we had electricity, and as yet there is no water.
Although the remainder of the lengthy pier is empty, another boat has
docked so near that we can almost touch it.  No one being on hand to
direct the pile driving man, he did the easiest thing--used one of our
piles and drove in only one new one.  The doctor and Mother W. are very
unhappy with the situation, not only because of the lack of privacy, but
because the other boat is in bad repair, and hence detracts from the
renting or selling value of this one.  Mother W. has offered to pay for
the driving of new piles and the bowing of the other boat further down
the pier.  The pile driver man told Bill that because he got stuck when
here before, he would not come in again.  So that is that. The first
Sunday in Ft. Myers we drove to Crescent Beach for a picnic.  Bill and I
went bathing, strolled on the beach and found delicate shells, sea
urchins, lovely orange and purple seafans, several kinds of sponges, and
a type of seaweed that, when dry, resembles a snake's skeleton. Another
day we drove to Punta Russa, the little fishing village on the gulf
where the news first arrived of the sinking of the battleship Maine.  We
were fascinated by a line of pelicans diving through the air to catch in
their huge beaks, before it touched the water, the refuse thrown
overboard from a fishing boat nearing the shore.  Every post of the pier
was decorated by a pelican finial. One day at Estero we visited a
strange community called "The Koreshan Unity."  Koresh, the founder of
the semi-religious, semi-scientific sect, believed that we are living on
the inside of the planet Earth, instead of the outside.  Upon entering
the "Unity" the hundred or so members give all their worldly goods to
the community and work without pay, the Unity supplying their needs.  In
charming thatched huts they ply their various crafts, and at the moment
many are preparing for an exhibition of their handiwork. One peculiar
old codger undertook to explain their "inside the earth" theory: out
into the bay for several miles stakes were set at right angles to the
shore, all supposedly the same height above the water and equidistant
from each other.  He contended, though it didn't look that way to us,
that the stakes farthest out are above the level of those nearby, thus
proving to them that we live on a concave, not a convex, surface.  No
ship disappears under the horizon, in their book. He later took us in
his motorboat for a delightful trip down a narrow, winding river, while
telling us stories and reciting doggerel of his own manufacture. 
Probably a poser, a bluffer, or even a charlatan, he was nevertheless
entertaining. For some unknown reason a reporter came to the boat the
other day to ask us all "How come?"  To Mother W. and the doctor--how
come the houseboat, and to Bill and me--how come the motorcycle.  We all
tried to explain at once, with the most confusing result, as evidenced
in this morning's paper.  Bill, recently turned thirty, was termed, "a
youngerly man just entering middle age."  His mother rose up in arms
saying, "Why, the very idea!  He is barely out of his twenties!"  Bill's
explanation of his stock market activities was more than wasted, for the
report said he had "a deep insight into some sinister methods."  Dr.
Strobel was practically in tears about his quoted remark that he had
"forgotten surgery," being afraid one of his colleagues at the Memorial
Hospital in New York would see it.  The poor reporter must have been
dazed by the various stories shouted at him and pinned the tail on the
wrong donkey, so to speak. At last we are well settled at the Fowler St.
Pier.  New flower boxes have been made and filled with geraniums, and
the water pipes are connected.  One never realizes what a blessing
running water is until it has to be carried in buckets.  River water is
too salty for plants or even for cleaning.  Water in the artesian well
on shore is too sulphury to drink without boiling, but all right for
cooking; the sulphur evaporates entirely when it stands long enough. 
The water is terrible everywhere in Florida. It is lovely at this pier
in spite of the closeness of the other boat.  Sunsets across the
mile-wide river are magnificent, especially from the upper deck; the
moon rises over the exotic gardens on the estate of Burroughs, the
adding machine magnate; and an exquisite odor of orange blossoms is
wafted on the air. Crab fishing off the back porch was fun the other
day.  All we did was to fasten a chunk of meat to a nail at the end of a
string, and we caught 21 crabs in as many minutes.  At the moment a crab
feels the air it tries to drop off.  The trick is to give it a quick
flip into a pail at the water's surface.  With practice we became
expert.  As Mother W. had planned something else for supper, we threw
them all back, thinking we could not provide a meal at any time.  But
the next day, when we needed them for supper, not a bite did we get.  So
we have never tasted Florida crabs. At first the state seems dull and
"samey," but on closer look the plants and birds are most varied and
colorful; everytime we go for a ride we bring home armfuls of new and
different flowers.  The tall straight, ringed, cement-like trunks and
feather-duster plumes of the Royal Palms, lining most every road in Ft.
Myers, are very impressive.  One luxuriant evergreen with spines on
trunk and branch is called the Monkey Puzzle Tree.  Many plants blossom
the whole year around--a continuous performance, orange trees even
bearing fruit and blooms at the same time. We have just had new spokes
put in the wheel of the sidecar, and it nearly broke us.  Prices are
very high here, the only cheap thing being grapefruit.  At the local
packing house, we can get all we want free by simply helping ourselves
to "culls"--fruit with blemishes on the skin or of odd size.  I wanted
to send some to Mother, but decided they were too ripe to pack.  I did
send her a box of nuts, shells, seafans, coconuts, women's tongues,
etc., packed in heavy underwear we no longer need. Fowler St. Pier
Thurs., March 11, 1926 We had a most interesting experience today.  The
four of us ferried in a launch, about five miles out into the gulf, to
Sanabel Island, fourteen miles long and undeveloped except for a few
cottages, a small hotel, and a tanning factory for shark and porpoise
skins.  Mother W. wanted to see a friend there who she hoped might buy
the houseboat. On Sanabel beach, noted for its beautiful and unusual
shells, there was no one around except two girls, one of whom knew all
the shells by name--butterfly, angel wing, turkey wing, devil's toe
nail, etc.  Besides a stunning orange seafan and a huge starfish, I
found a big conch with a beastie inside, its foot used as a door to lock
itself in. As Bill and I played along the beach, a big ship hove in
view, and after casting anchor, a motorboat shoved off towards the
beach.  Having heard rumors that Henry Ford had just arrived in Fort
Myers, we guessed it was his yacht, and sure enough, when easing up the
beach I recognized his lanky figure in straw katy and long flowing
duster.  The party of six, all equipped with baskets, was busily picking
up shells, so the two girls and I helped them find unique ones.  Mrs.
Ford told us she wanted to find interesting shells for her friends, as
they had never before been to the seashore. Bill would not go near the
Ford party, saying, "I won't intrude on the Dall of all flivvers."  They
were gracious and friendly, and when the girls and I gave them most of
our collections, mentioning we were from New York, Henry smiled
pleasantly, returned, "We are from Detroit."  (As if we hadn't guessed.)
Later Bill ran into a man who said, "It must be very shallow for your
yacht out there."  (His mistake is understandable, as Bill and Henry are
both tall and lanky.) After telegraphing Punta Russa for a boat, we sped
across the bay just at sunset.  Pelicans flying low in line were
silhouetted against the sinking sun.  The foam in the boat's wake
reflected a lovely shade of lavender, and the peaks of the waves were
touched with orange.  Although the folks did not sell the houseboat, it
was a glorious day. The mystery of Ford's whereabouts is amusing to read
about in the papers.  "He and Mrs. Ford and his new treasurer and his
wife, Mr. and Mrs. Ives, left Punta Russa Monday night in the Ford yacht
and none of their agents nor employees know where they went."  We could
help them out.  Edison sat near us at the movies one night, so we have
hob-nobbed with celebrities while here. A gusty wind this afternoon
bounced the houseboat around so gayly on the choppy waves that Bill
found discretion the better part of valor and did his reading in the
motorcycle on the stable pier.  This is the second time that the boat
has given Willie the Willies.

Fowler St. Pier
Tues., March 16, 1926
Tomorrow we leave for Brewster where phosphate beds are Bill's first
objective, staying, we expect, only a day or so before driving on to
Tampa.  We are not going to Miami, at least not until after Tampa. 
Because the Tamiami Trail through the Everglades is not yet open, one
must go north nearly to Barstow to cross the state.  Besides, Bill is
loath to draw money from Bayliss and Co. (where he has an account) until
the market improves, and living in Miami is expensive. Several repairs
are needed on the motorcycle.  They did such a terrible job here of
putting in new spokes that Bill thinks Tampa is a better place to have
the work done. In spite of the wonderful time we have had here, we feel
we must hit the road again.  When Mother W. gave us $20 for the trip,
Bill said he would take it only as a loan.  However, she explained it
was a coupon on a bond left her by Bill's grandpa, who would want us to
use it--for which we are mighty thankful.

PART VIII
Brewster, Fla.
Sat., March 20, 1926
We hated to leave Fort Myers, as it is a charming spot with an unusually
fine climate, even for Florida.  This was emphasized on our way north
the other day.  Near Arcadia smudge pots hung on the orange trees to
prevent fruit from freezing.  A bad frost had already killed young beans
and other vegetables.  One old lady said, "Frost don't matter much up
north because they're ready for it, but here we don't expect it. 
Fertilizer costs a heap when you have to replant." Thank goodness much
of the road has been scraped since we came down, and the puddles dried
up.  We shifted into second only once, whereas coming down we hardly
ever were able to drive in high gear. Naturally spring is not as
advanced here; the cypress hardly show green, but the few orange
blossoms in bloom are enough to sweeten the air.  White water lilies
fill the roadside ditches, instead of blue water-hyacinths which color
many of the drains usually paralleling roads in Florida.  The swamps are
blue with iris and a slender, grass-like blue blossom overshadows its
more delicate pink cousin in the fields.  I picked violets in the woods
this morning.  Spring is wearing her blue-flowered dress. The American
Cyanamid Co. Owns and runs the town of Brewster.  We expected to find a
ramshackle mining village but, arriving at night, a line of street lamps
led to a veri