is a good one, it lingers in the ear,--therefore, once more,
--paradoxical as it may seem, it is nevertheless true that those
who go about all day in machines do not like to be disturbed by
machines at night.

We soon learned to keep away from the cities at night. It is so
much more delightful to stop in smaller towns and villages; your
host is glad to see you; you are quite the guest of honor, perhaps
the only guest; there is a place in the adjoining stable for the
machine; the men are interested, and only too glad to care for it
and help in the morning; the best the house affords is offered; as
a rule the rooms are quite good, the beds clean, and nowadays many
of these small hotels have rooms with baths; the table is plain;
but while automobiling one soon comes to prefer plain country
living.

In the larger cities it costs a fortune in tips before the machine
and oneself are well housed; to enter Albany, Boston, or New York
at night, find your hotel, find the automobile station, find your
luggage, and find yourself, is a bore.

No one who has ever ridden day after day in the country cares
anything about riding in cities; it is as artificial and
monotonous as riding a hunter over pavements. If one could just
approach a city at night, steal into it, enjoy its lights and
shadows, its confusion and strange sounds, all in passing, and
slip through without stopping long enough to feel the thrust of
the reality, it would be delightful. But the charm disappears, the
dream is brought to earth, the vision becomes tinsel when you draw
up in front of a big caravansary and a platoon of uniformed