" [Footnote: "Friendship
Village," p. vii, author's note.] And this is but one of thousands of
"home towns" in that great basin, towns with Daphne streets and Queen Anne
houses, and gloomy court-houses and austere churches and miniature
libraries, towns that taper off into suburban shanties, towns that have
in these new bottles, of varied and pretentious shapes, the best wine of
that western world.
The author of "Friendship Village" has vision of the more beautiful towns
into which these towns will some day grow, as yours have grown more
beautiful with age. "All the way," she writes, seeing the sunset from that
same river of the portage as Marquette saw it, "I had been watching
against the gold the jogging homeward of empty carts.... Such a procession
I want to see painted upon a sovereign sky. I want to have painted a giant
carpenter of the village as I once saw him, his great bare arms upholding
a huge white pillar, while blue figures hung above and set the acanthus
capital.... Some day we shall see these things in their own surprising
values and fresco our village libraries with them.
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