expanse of which is unbroken by a sign of man; a wood, the depths
of which baffle the eye and tangle the foot; let your automobile
stop for so long as sixty seconds, and the populace begin to
gather, with the small boy in the van; like birds of prey they
perch upon all parts of the machine, choosing by quick intuition
those parts most susceptible to injury from weight and contact,
until you scarcely can move and do the things you have to do.

The curiosity of the small boy is the forerunner of knowledge, and
must be satisfied. It is quite idle to tell him to "Keep away!" it
is worse than useless to lose your temper and order him to "Clear
out!" it is a physical impossibility for him to do either; the law
of his being requires him to remain where he is and to
indefatigably get in the way. If he did not pry into everything
and ask a thousand questions, the thoughtful observer would be
fearful lest he were an idiot. The American small boy is not
idiotic; tested by his curiosity concerning automobiles, he is the
fruition of the centuries, the genius the world is awaiting, the
coming ruler of men and empires, or--who knows?--the coming master
of the automobile.

Happily, curiosity is not confined to the small boy; it is but
partially suppressed in his elders,--and that is lucky, for his
elders, and their horses, can often help.

The young chauffeur is panicky if he comes to a stop on a lonely
road, where no human habitation is visible; he fears he may never
get away, that no help will come; that he must abandon his machine
and walk miles for assistance. The old chauffeur knows better. It
matters not to him how lonely the road, how remote the spot, one