The family distrust of me, as a vagabond, dates from a camping trip last August to celebrate Billie’s twelfth birthday.  It lasted only one night, so “trip” is a large word to apply to it, but I will say that for one night it had all the time there could be squeezed into it.  We selected a site on the beach almost within hallooing distance of the Smiling Hill-Top, borrowed a tent and made camp.  I loved the fire and frying the bacon and the beat of the waves, but I did not like the smell of the tent.  It was stuffy.  I had been generously given that shelter for my own, while the male members of the party slept by a log (not like one, J——­ confessed to me) under a tarpaulin—­I mean “tarp”—­with stars above them except when obscured by fog.  My cot was short and low and I am not, so that I spent the night tucking in the blankets.  The puppies enjoyed it all thoroughly.  Though they must have been surprised by the sudden democratic intimacy of the situation, they are opportunists and curled themselves in, on, and about my softer portions, so that I had to push them out every time I wanted to turn over, which was frequently.  I urged them to join the rest of the party under the “tarp,” but they were firm, as they weren’t minding the hardness of the cot, and they don’t care especially about ventilation.  I greeted the dawn with heartfelt thanksgiving, and yet I’m as keen about my vacation idea as ever.  I have simply learned what to do and what not to do, and it won’t matter to me in the least whether my ways are those of a tenderfoot or not.  Why not be comfortable physically as well as spiritually?  Think of the independence of it!  To be able to sit at the feet of any view that you fancy till you are ready to move on!  Doesn’t that amount to “free will”?  Yes, I am resolved to try it out and Billie says if I make up my mind to something I generally get my way (being descended from Grandmother probably accounts for it), so if you should see a rather fat, lazy green van with “Why not?” painted over the back door, you may know that two grown vagabonds, two young vagabonds, and two vagabond pups, are on the trail following the gypsy patteran.

[Illustration]

WHERE THE TRADE WIND BLOWS

Mr. Jones meets his friend, Mr. Brown: 

“Surprised to see that your house is for sale, Brown.”

“Oh—­er—­yes” replies Brown; “that is, I don’t know.  I keep that sign up on the lawn.”  Then with a burst of confidence:  “Mrs. Brown meets so many nice people that way, don’t you know!”

So it is that we have a reputation for being willing to sell anything in California, even our souls.  Of course, it isn’t at all necessary to have a sign displaying “For Sale” to have constant inquiries as to the price of your place.  After the days of “The Sabine Farm” were only a lovely memory, we bought a bungalow in Pasadena, or, rather, we are buying it on the instalment plan.