of the past and all the wonderful things that have happened in a place, as well as the mere beauty of the present. But then, without imagination one must just expect to have one's poor little soul go bare, and to live on all the "cold pieces" of life, never to taste the nectar and ambrosia of the gods; never to know the thrill of sympathy, or any other thrill that isn't purely physical.
I'm intoxicated with all I have seen and am seeing—which must excuse the harangue. And I'm intoxicated with the joy of driving the car. Lately I have been rivalling the Lightning Conductor, for my wrist is quite well again. The microbe of automobilism has entered into my blood. Yes, I'm speaking literally; I'm sure there's such a microbe, and that he's a brave beast. I should like to see him in your big microscope. Perhaps I'll bring him home for the purpose.
It has become the greatest joy I have ever known to get all I possibly can out of noble Balzac; to urge Balzac uphill as fast as I can; to drive Balzac downhill as fast as I dare; to manœuvre Balzac in and out of traffic with all my skill and nerve. But you mustn't be a bit uneasy about me. Brown is always at my elbow to "warn, to comfort, to command," and I know that he won't let me do anything I oughtn't or let any harm come of it if I did.
The worst of driving an automobile yourself, when you've really got that microbe in your blood, is that you don't see quite as much of the country as you would otherwise, and that you hate to stop, even when there are wonderful things to see. But then it
