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dream or a fairy-tale. Greener grass I have seldom seen; and then the scrub bay-trees, like gorse, blueberrybushes, and goldenrod! A wonderland opens before you for several miles, with clean, curving roads running through it like devious highways of the king. Windmills extend their arms, and architects have wisely placed here only the type of dwelling that sinks naturally into the landscape. Shinnecock Bay is as blue as the Mediterranean, and on a point to your right a graceful, white lighthouse stands. I could look forever upon this scene. From an airplane the moors must look like a Persian rug, spread across the island through some miracle, fit for a beautiful queen to walk upon. There is only one flawthe practical telegraph poles should be removed, or at least hidden in some way. We had camouflage in the war; why not in time of peace?
"By Jove! it's great!" Gordon said, as I knew he would. "Why did n't "Why did n't you tell me we were coming to this?"
"Because I wanted it to take your breath away, as it has," I answered. And then we fell silent; for if there is one thing I can't endure, it is the kind of friend who raves forever over a sunset or the starry expanse of heaven. and gives you no time to think of the wonder itself.
We were to lunch with friends at Shinnecock, another surprise I had for Gordon, who thought we would hurry through this paradise, and make a tramp-like entrance into thrillingly smart Southampton. He was happy over the prospect of several hours in such a spot, as well he might be. I kept from him the fact that I even hoped to be asked to sleep on the "You mean the Ostermoors,"
said my witty young companion; and I have not forgiven him yet, though in justification he keeps reminding me what an inveterate punster Charles Lamb was said to be.
Not very many New-Yorkers—or Long-Islanders, for that matterrealize that at Shinnecock Hills, within a stone's-throw of fashionable Southampton, there is a small Indian reservation, primitive Americans elbowing, as it were, with an overcivilized hodgepodge, lending added color to the crazy-quilt of a hectic society. A contact like this is almost unbelievable; yet there it is, and I wonder what the chiefs and squaws would think of the bathing-beach at Southampton if they took the pains to view it, as we did, on a certain Sunday morning. Here was the dernier cri in feminine costumes, and church was just out. The chapel is conveniently and thoughtfully placed almost next to the bathing-pavilion, in order, I suppose, that the holy innocents may emerge from one sort of spiritual bath and step into quite another. A fearless clergyman, the day we were there, had given the idle rich a severe lecture, under which many of them sat in mute unconcern, and then filed out to the glowing sands of pleasure, as though the withering words they had just listened to had never been uttered. Oh, wasted wrath and worse than wasted advice! Yellow umbrellas and pink-and-green and salmon bathingsuits seemed of far more importance than ecclesiastical visions of a solemn day of judgment, and the so-called fashionable world laughed and gossiped and frisked about as of old, before any world war rocked this
There are many beautiful gardens in Southampton, but I saw only two of them, each lovely in a different way. One was that of Mr. H. H. Rogers, a formal Italian thing of glory, with the sea singing almost up to its very borders, and with nothing between it and Spain but this same plunging, foaming ocean. For the narrow strip of land that begins at Fire Island ends at Shinnecock Hills, and Southampton triumphantly touches the sea itself and listens to her song all day and night. The other was the less formal garden of Mr. James Breese, back in the town proper, a riot of luxurious beauty, with vistas east and west, north and south, as in Mr. Rogers's garden, and statues and busts and fountains, and a fragrance forever arising out of the clean, opulent earth. Down such garden walks one would love to loiter through the slow summer afternoons, or see the moon spill its silver on quiet nights. The peace of gardens! The assuaging comfort they bring with the noisy world on the other side of their high
After the colorful and stiff parade of Southampton, it was soothing to get to quiet Water Mill, only a few miles away, where the dunes rise high, and where to Gordon and me, thanks to a lavish hostess, a picnic was given on the beach on a certain evening when the stars were blazing in the sky and the moon was a fragment of pearl against deep-blue velvet. If you ever pass through Water Mill, be sure that you turn sharply to the right when you come to a house set at the side of a little inlet, and make for the shore about a mile beyond. The sand has formed mighty hillocks here, and as far as the eye can see there is a noble coast-line, with spray continually veiling the shore. A few houses bravely face the thundering sea, and one or two were recently washed away, I was told, in a great storm.
The day after our picnic we went by motor to Easthampton, that lovely old town with one of the finest main streets in America, shadowed by elms, chestnuts, and maples. In the center of it, beyond the great flagstaff, is a
quiet little cemetery rolling down to a stream, whereon a swan or two drifts and dreams the hours away, like those sleeping under the hill. It was here that "Home, Sweet Home" was written, and the house where Payne penned his immortal words is still standing, a shingled cottage with old doors and windows and cupboards, now made into a little museum. John Drew, Augustus Thomas, and Victor Harris are among those who make their summer homes in Easthampton, and there is a colony of as interesting folk as one could wish to meet. By no means so smart as Southampton, this town has a charm distinctly its own, a rich tone and color like some old volume. And it is an old village, for it was settled in 1649. I know of no better place to wander about. There are byways in every direction, and there is always that broad, heavenly, and shadowy main street to come back to. No wonder Payne could write his deathless poem in such a spot!
Amagansett, another old village, as fragrant as fresh hay, lies just beyond, drowsing the long summer hours away, dozing peacefully through lazy after
And then you reach a poorer hamlet, with the delightful name of Promised Land. We saw a tiny cottage here by the edge of the road that spelt serenity, if ever a house did. It was covered with thick vines, and its three stone chimneys rose like protecting bastions. The clipped lawn told of order and harmony and a sense of decent pride, and I imagined charming old ladies living here on a patrimony, content with life, happy in a hamlet with such a heavenly name. What a place for the sunset days of one's allotted span!
Until you reach Montauk, this is the last cluster of houses before the point is finally won. Many people had discouraged us from going beyond Easthampton, saying the roads were impossible, if not utterly impassable. But do not be deceived. The cinder-path that begins almost as soon as you are out of Promised Land, and soon develops into a good dirt road, is fine and hard, equally good for foot-farers or motorists. True, it is narrow, and if you are in a car, you will have to watch out for other travelers and turn at the right spot, as trolleys must delay at given sections when there is only a single track. Beyond this there will be no difficulty, and soon you will find yourself entering a locality as bleak as that country described in "Wuthering Heights." The moon must look like this. Gaunt ribs of sand rise on the ocean side, and here and there is a lonely coast-guard hut. It is as forlorn as the devastated regions of France, with formations in the dunes like shell-craters. Only the tanks are missing, and the stark lines of telegraph poles make you think of the crosses in Flanders Fields, row on endless row.
There is waving salt grass, and once in a while a pink marshmallow rose will lift its pathetic face in the sun. The sand-dunes take on a purplish tint, and there are purple shadows like miniature caves, with the sea forever chanting and beating its tireless hands upon the lonesome shore. Scrubpines appear, and then a little forest of scrub-oaks, until you imagine you are in Italy. A lonely railroad-track follows you on the left; and that, with a wireless station farther on, are the
only reminders of civilization. You are suddenly and gloriously out of touch with the world; and then you realize that, through the miracle of a modern invention, you can never quite get away from the vast city you have left so far behind you.
The island grows very thin here, and with the loud ocean on your right, you also have glimpses of Napeague Bay, Fort Pond, and Great Pond on your left. It is a constantly and curiously changing scene through which you wander. One moment you exclaim, "Why, this is Scotland!" and the next there will come a definite dip in the land, and you will discover farmers tilling the soil, and think you are in Connecticut. It is astonishing that so restricted a territory can contain so many shifting scenes.
And now the lighthouse, which has stood on the point one hundred and twenty-three years, gazing with its great eye from the edge of the world. out to the limitless ocean. The presThe present keeper has been there nine years, and his assistant told us that last winter, in a heavy storm, they were virtually cut off from the world for three months, and he and the keeper's
young daughter trudged through drifts of snow to Promised Land, nine miles away, for groceries and other supplies, and had, as one can imagine, a hard time of it. This young assistant, Mr. Kierstead, had been slightly shellshocked in the war, and he found the quiet life at the point soothing to his
"But is n't it lonely for you all?" was the inevitable question asked of every lighthouse-keeper.
"Oh, maybe, a bit; but we love it. And there are plenty of visitors in summer. In winter we can read, and we have a happy time of it."
The quarters where these two families live are as neat as wax, and I can imagine how the fresh salt air helps one's appetite. We grew hungry, seeing a delicious plate of hot cakes on the table.
Gordon and I were motored back to Southampton, and there we took a train to town. This was always an anticlimax, for no matter how tired one might be, after footing it here and there or even after motoring, one had no desire, particularly after a period of exultant freedom, to become part of a common package-a bean, as it were, joggling against other beans in a stuffy smoker or even in a parlor-car.
(To be concluded)
The Lighthouse at Montauk Point
Mr. Lansing's Plain Speech
By HERBERT ADAMS GIBBONS
HE peace conference and the treaties framed by it have had their defenders, especially in the United States,
where a group of what the French would call intellectuels has not ceased to intimate that critics of the treaties and the covenant are unreasonable and uninformed. Colonel Edward M. House organized last winter in Philadelphia a series of lectures on the Treaty of Versailles by experts and Presidential advisers attached to the American Commission to Negotiate Peace. Some of these gentlemen directly, and others by inference, said that American public opinion had been misled by correspondents whose judgments were based on gossip and rumor rather than on knowledge of what actually happened.
It is difficult for the professional writer to answer this sort of charge. Although he has as much pride in his accuracy as the college professor, and is fully as careful to base statements on source material personally investigated and tested, the newspaper correspondent is unable to cite his sources and quote his authorities. He deals with history in the making. He must be discreet. He must avoid using names. When he is accused of not knowing what he is talking about and of making sweeping assertions, he has to bide his time.
I was proud of the men of my craft at Paris. Taken as a whole, the work
of the American correspondents was as trustworthy as it was brilliant. Tested by wide knowledge of, and experience in, the field, as well as by training, a number of the correspondents were better qualified to acquaint their fellow-Americans with what was going on at Paris than any expert or adviser of the American commission. The experts and advisers attached to the American commission had no opportunities such as we enjoyed of knowing what was going on. Even when they participated in the work of the various committees, they were in no position to appreciate the forces at work that determined the decisions upon the very questions they were deliberating. This is why Colonel House's collection of Public Ledger Forum speeches must be taken with a grain of salt. Now, if the colonel had only written for us the frank and unreserved story of a primary witness instead of editing a volume of testimony of his subordinates, we should have had some real history. Colonel House is the American best qualified, aside from the ex-President himself, to make a contribution to the diplomatic history of America's participation in the war and peace conference.
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