raucous "honk" jolts you out of your daydream and causes you to jump for
your life. In a swirl of dust the monster engulfs you, leaving you the
dust and the stench of gasoline as souvenirs, but followed by your
anathemas! This doubtless is where the man in the car thinks he has
scored. Perhaps he has. When the dust on the road has settled and you
have rubbed it out of your eyes, once more you forget his existence.

But the very speed with which he travels is the reason why the man in
the car misses nearly all the charm of the country through which he is
passing. On this tramp I took forty-odd photographs, all more or less of
historical interest. Riding in an automobile, many of the subjects I
would not have noticed or, if I had, I would not have been able to bring
my camera into play. On several occasions I retraced my steps a good
quarter of a mile, feeling I had lost a landscape, or street scene I
might never again have the opportunity to behold.

What is of far greater consequence, the man on the road comes into touch
not only with Nature, but the Children of Nature! In these days,
automobiles are as thick as summer flies; you cannot escape them even in
the Sierra foot-hills. No attention is paid them by the country people,
unless they are in trouble or have caused trouble, which is mostly the
case. But the man who "hikes" for pleasure is a source of perennial
interest not unmixed with admiration, especially when walking with the
thermometer indicating three figures in the shade. To him the small boy
opens his heart; the "hobo" passes the time of day with a merry jest
thrown in; the good housewife brings a glass of cold water or milk,
adding womanlike, a little motherly advice; the passing teamster, or
even stage-driver - that autocrat of the "ribbons" - shouts a cheery
"How many miles today, Captain?" or, "Where did yon start from this
morning, Colonel?" - these titles perhaps due to the battered old coat