In a field at the edge of the town, just where city
and country begin to have a bowing acquaintance, the
college boys were at football practice. Their scarlet
sweaters made gay patches of color against the dull
gray-brown of the autumn grass.
"Seven-eighteen-two-four!" called a voice. There
followed a scuffle, a creaking of leather on leather, a
thud. I watched them, a bit enviously, walking backwards
until a twist in the road hid them from view. That same
twist transformed my path into a real country road--
a brown, dusty, monotonous Michigan country road that
went severely about its business, never once stopping to
flirt with the blushing autumn woodland at its left, or
to dally with the dimpling ravine at its right.
"Now if that were an English country road," thought
I, "a sociably inclined, happy-go-lucky, out-for-pleasure
English country road, one might expect something of it.
On an English country road this would be the
psychological moment for the appearance of a blond god,
in gray tweed. What a delightful time of it Richard Le
Gallienne's hero had on his quest! He could not stroll
down the most innocent looking lane, he might not loiter
along the most out-of-the-way path, he never ambled over
the barest piece of country road, that he did not come
face to face with some witty and lovely woman creature,
also in search of things unconventional, and able to
quote charming lines from Chaucer to him.
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