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Updated: July 15, 2025
A large, fairly level area hundreds of acres at least through which runs the clear and pellucid waters of the Rubicon River on their way to join those of the American, and dotted all over with giant cedars, pines, firs and live oaks, with tiny secluded meadows, lush with richest grasses, it is a place to lure the city-dweller for a long and profitable vacation.
Theirs was not the mistake of the average city-dweller who flees in ultra-modern innocence to the soil. They did not essay too much. Neither did they have a mortgage to clear, nor did they desire wealth. They wanted little in the way of food, and they had no rent to pay.
Many a city-dweller to-day cannot tell in what county he is living unless he has happened to make a transfer of real estate. State lines themselves are fading away. The federal idea has triumphed. Doubtless the majority of the fellow citizens of John Randolph of Roanoke were all the more proud of him because the poet could say of him, in writing an admiring and mournful epitaph:
The city-dweller of to-day lives in a subdued and mechanically controlled region whose every clank and rattle speaks of routine and order. The myth-making faculty of the street-urchin has little to feed upon all is so obvious and open to inspection.
The simple beauty of these umbrageous places is unimaginable to the American city-dweller, who never sees anything but clothes-lines in blossom from his back windows; but they exist nearly everywhere in London, and a more spacious privacy can always be secured where two houses throw their gardens together, as sometimes happens.
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