The representative. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1893-1901, 1894-06-20
within two miles Of his house, started
ri ha Mountains


toward the mountains.
I walked along a rising road, bordered
with eucalyptus trees with their shining
blue-green leaves, intermingled with the
beautiful feathery frontage of the Aus
tralian Acacia. The road soon began climb
ing the foothills, and the city sank slowly
into the deepening distance. The walking
was not unpleasant, but the foothills (faint
green and dotted with brush) grew sleeper
The air was still and soft and spring-lke
The road was lonely and l had no guide
to the house; but l trusted to the lines
wherein he said:
BE my reward
Some little place to pitch my tent;
Some tree or vine
Where l may sit above the sea
And drink the wind as drinking wine"
knew had not yet reached the altitude
which he would seek; there was not enough
OF the sea and the sky within the sweep Of
the eye.
1 came at length to a little log hut which
1 recognized. 1t was almost the last house
on the road
looked first at the four or five little
cottages which stood in a row on the hill
side amid a carefully terraced and album
dainty watered fruit farm. The houses
were hardly more than Dakota claim shan
ties. Roses stood about, though it was
Christmas week. Small olive and orange
trees, trout ponds, beds of flowers, a team
blowing in the background-thes were the
salient objects at first view.
Then turned to the valley. Oakland Law
below fattened and remote, while afar in
the haze of the western sun, across the hav
where ferry-boats shuttled to and fro Son
Francisco rose on. its hill, and on the great
Pacific far beyond, shone sails of ships that
seemed to pause and wait indecisye and
hesitating. 1t was a spot such as a noet
would settle upon-a place of wide range
and pure air. with just enough of aloofness
though not out of reach of the city which
is after all, civilization as it exists TODAY
good or bad; all vices and virtues finding
there fullest development in these hot-beds
AT the door of one of the little houses the
poets mother, a wholesome, pleasing G erma n
type, met me. She told me her son was not
at home. She asked me to make myself
comfortable in the next little cottage till he
came.
1 walked about, waiting for him. st,dv,na
the landscape feeling meanwhile the snIen.
did altitude of this home At last q man
came walking up the road whom I d.
vined at once to be the poet He wore a
coat upon his arm.
AS he approached he reminded me very
much of Whitman though he looked sterner
and less patrarchal, of course. He eyed
me as possible interviewer, 1 suppose
His hair was getting gray and his beard
was long. There was nothing absurd in
his dress, nothing unusual save a certain
simplicity and freedom from conventions
IlneH. AS ne greeted me IN OH-hand West
ern fashion, l looked into his quiet blue-
gray eyes and liked him. He impressed me
at once as frank, simple soul of great
strength and marked individuality.
He took me by the hand and half dra good
me into his own little cottage. II vas
plainly his workshop The walls were COW
cred with nnumerable autograph letters
newspaper scraps, clippings from maga.
Zines, and prints of the faces of his friends
and correspondents.
Besides these there were relics of his for
mer life in the woods, and mountains A
saddle hung in the corner, bear skins and
wolf skins covered the chairs and laid as
rugs upon the floor. It was like camn-
the camp of a man of letters
We were soon In the thick Of talk. He re-
fused, however, to allow me to talk Miller
he wanted to talk Of other things He
would not allow me to bring I'D questions
concerning his books, though he talked
freely of his little ranch and his plans for
fruit growing. Little by little, however.
he opened his deeper beliefs to me- He said
he believed in more of individual freedom
in living. He thought most families lived
too close together, therefore, in place Of one
large house he had built four small ones
In one his mother lived and kept house.
There they all ate. In another he him
self, slept and wrote; the third was his
brothers. and the fourth was for his
guests. He believes in the open air. His
doors are never shut. and he lives prac-
tically without fire the year round-a
thing quite possible on the protected slope.