rights of admission to each country, and would thereby prevent a people discriminating among the streams of immigrants which offer themselves. But, without such discrimination, it cannot remain in any sense a spiritual unity. Hence, it is likely that immigration barriers will be even more jealously reserved from international control than tariff barriers have been.

Will the crowded and blindly multiplying peoples tamely submit thus to be excluded from areas on which they might unload their surplus population? May they not make the rearing of such dikes a casus belli? Even now the Japanese show themselves restive in the presence of anything which savors of exclusion, and it is not hard to foresee a time when the peoples of India and China and Siam and Egypt may challenge the barriers which keep them out of all the more desirable markets for their labor.

Nevertheless, while the overpopu

lous nations are certain to become aware and resentful of exclusion, as at once an unjust handicap and an imputation of inferiority, the number of peoples resolved to withdraw from the game of competitive fecundity constantly grows. We have seen Canada, Australasia, South Africa, and several South American republics come into line with the United States in the matter of immigration. As the dense populations become more mobile, the sense of pressure will grow until, perhaps, Europe will make common cause with the younger societies in recognizing in international law the right of every nation to surround itself with such immigration barrier as seems good to it. Whether the pullulating peoples will acquiesce in any such principle is on the knees of the gods. It may be that the most terrific of all wars, which would involve, no doubt, the entire human race, will be fought on this issue.

III. GETTING ALONG TO SHINNECOCK

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ETWEEN Patchogue Patchogue Bellport there is a road that dips and turns, with here and there a bridge to break the monotony of one's walk and glimpses of pools and streams to add delight to what is a charming province.

The morning we left Bayport, or, rather, the morning I got back to it after a few days' necessary absence in town, dawned beautifully bright. There were jewels on the green, opulent hedges. It was still late July, and the country wore that look of richness that comes at this gorgeous season.

I had a new companion with me this time, a young fellow named Gordon. He had been in the war, and he said that walking quietly around Long Island appealed to him after the noise and confusion of the trenches.

We got on to Bellport, that village which contains charming little houses, some of which rest neatly on the ground, as though they had no cellars,

and give the impression of well-constructed scenery in a light opera. There are gates that click delightfully, old-fashioned flower gardens, paths bordered with phlox and hollyhocks. A blue bay shines in the sun, so radiant that it has been painted by many artists, notably William J. Glackens, who used to live here. Indeed, many artists have loved this quaint little village. James and May Wilson Preston still make their summer home within its quiet confines.

Many of these towns, however, have lost during the last few years that simplicity which was once one of their most cherished possessions. Evening clothes were never tolerated; it was always white flannels and the most inexpensive frocks at every dinner party or dance. But the rich creep in everywhere, lured by the easy-going spirit they would give anything to emulate; and then the inevitable tragedy occurs. They kill the very thing they love the most, and frocks and frills, laces and jewels, conventional

costumes, are put on in the golden heart of summer, and the old simplicity goes as new complications arrive. A barn dance becomes a stately festival in an over-decorated clubhouse, and the flivver is superseded by yellow cars with magnificent names, and it 's good-by to real fun and democracy.

It 's too bad, but in America we never seem able to keep, for three or four consecutive years even, the same atmosphere we were bent on creating. We rent a lovely cottage, invite our friends into it, and then immediately run away from it. For we have heard that the next town down the road is smarter or more thrilling, and if the stock market has done well by us, we must get a bigger house and flutter a bit more, soar just a little higher.

to encounter carts and wagons than hurrying motors. For Brookhaven is just what its name implies, a quiet little village where one would have time for contemplation, where there is not the slightest pretense or desire for it; a tiny side room, as it were; a pleasant place to take a nap, to write a letter, or to read a book. Several artists and writers find the summer months to their liking here, and you can't wonder at their choice. If one should not wish to keep house, there is a homelike inn where the best of food is to be obtained, and the place is near enough to New York to make commuting possible, even though not desirable. There is a bit of bay to sail or row upon, fishing, and the kind of human society a thinking man longs for. Round about Brookhaven the grass grows high, like a boy in the back country whose hair is allowed to get shaggy because there is no barber handy. And there are delicate lattice fences and trellises painted a rich blue, and all the oldfashioned flowers in the world, seemingly, peep over them and smile at you and flirt with you as you go down the road. This is the sort of village I dote

upon, informal, gentle as a nun, but ready for a party any time the right folk come to pay it a visit.

Between Brookhaven and Mastic and the Moriches there are any number of cool back roads, and people on farms here are primitive and plain, and would exult, if they were articulate, I have no doubt, in their cold sobriety and reserve. Through places like these you can walk for hours, and apparently it is a deserted district. There are plenty of houses, but no one seems to be in them. The shutters will be drawn in the "parlor," which is kept for the company that never comes, and one can almost see those dim and shadowy, unaired rooms, with shells and plush family albums, heavy lambrequins, and faded lace curtains, carpets with big pink roses for a central design, and a filigreed wall-paper that would make the heart ache, against which crude family portraits rest in austere rows. You are aware, as you pass, that even though no one is visible, there are eyes watching you, and people with little else to do are wondering who you are and where you are going. It rained softly the afternoon we got off the beaten road, and Gordon and I had this sense of being stared at to such a degree that we got into a foolish fit of laughter.

We decided that, although there was a certain kind of doubtful privacy on these back roads, they were depressing to-day, and we would work our way back to the main thoroughfare, and get to Moriches by nightfall. So we turned to the left, encountering a pleasant-spoken farmer who insisted on our riding with him, and who thought us quite mad to be on a walking tour when the thermometer registered eighty-five degrees in the shade.

"You don't have to walk?" he said. Even though we told him we liked going afoot, he was skeptical still, and I have the notion that he was suspicious, before he left us, of such a pair, and rather regretted the kindness of a lift. He was going to a railway station, so he dropped us at the main road, and we fared on to the next town for our evening meal.

Windmills begin to loom up around the Moriches and Eastport, dozens of them, that make you think yourself in a foreign land; and the salt air from the sea comes to your nostrils as you jog along. There is a freedom, a wildness, a beauty, about this part of the island unknown to other spots of the South Shore. And, then, to have a companion who has never been this far, and who has no idea of what a gorgeous surprise is in store for him when the foot of Shinnecock Hills is reached, adds a zest to the journey.

The towns are much alike, however. Speonk lives up to its ugly name, and though we saw goats and calves in a few front yards here, thus going the chickens one better, occasionally we would glimpse a lovely little cottage with an old-fashioned garden and a lovely old lady among her flowers. Quogue, which is semi-fashionable and sprinkles out like a broken jewel, could lure one from the main road any day, at any season; for it has a wonderful beach, and the ocean froths splendidly and angrily all along the coast. Hidden away, tucked in corners, are villages like Remsenburg in this region, just a handful of houses sparkling in the sun, where people who are wise enough to like peace rather than stupid fashion foregather and really

enjoy a summer as it was certainly meant to be enjoyed. And every village, no matter how small, has its roll of honor in the public square, a record of the boys who died in France, their names inscribed forever on a tablet; and you can hardly believe that even from these tiny places soldiers went forth on a certain day.

Outside Westhampton we came upon a quaint castle, built of cement, around which a staircase wandered, like a vine. A little tower stood near it. The extensive lawns in front of these curious buildings, which looked as if they had been transported from the Rhine Valley, were thick with startling statuary, and Gordon and I, fresh from a good sleep at Eastport, a real country town with a real flavor, and knowing we could easily reach Canoe Place Inn by noon on such a cool morning, stopped to view the castle. We found the owner, a delight ful man in middle life, with the blue eyes of a child, was a potter. only that, but a painter, an inventor, a dreamer, an architect, and a sculptor as well. His vases, which he

Not

colored through a secret process, were exquisite, and he showed us the furnaces where he heated his clay in the tower, and a rowboat on the lake behind the castle, composed of cement and wire, which he was mighty proud of, as he had made it with his own hands. A picturesque, charming gentleman, mowing the grass when we wandered in, apparently at peace with all the world, and glad of any casual visitor who evinced an interest in his quaint place with its busy enterprises.

We made Good Ground in three hours of leisurely going, and then the Shinnecock Canal, upon reaching which I wanted to watch Gordon's face.

For it is here that Nature makes a sudden and supreme gesture, as if to say: "You thought me rather stupid and commonplace up till now, did n't you? But just see what I can do!" And she lifts her hand, and presses it on the earth, and here, on prosaic Long Island, puts a bit of Scotland! It is a magical change, and for a moment you think you are living in a