valleys and hills, towering mountain peaks and rushing rivers. She
typewrote "literature" telling how there was a chance for every man
out there, how the big, exhaustless land was eager to yield of its
store to all who would come and seek. Day after day she wrote those
things telling how the sick were made well and the poor were made
rich, how it was a land of indescribable wonders which the feeble
pen could not hope to portray.

And the girl with whom almost everything in life had gone wrong came
to think of Out There as the place where everything was right. It
was the far country where there was no weariness nor loneliness, the
land where one did not grow tired, where one never woke up in the
morning too tired to get up, where no one went to bed at night too
tired to go to sleep. The street-cars did not ring their gongs so
loud Out There, the newsboys had pleasant voices, and there were no
elevated trains. It was a pure, high land which knew no smoke nor
dirt, a land where great silences drew one to the heart of peace,
where the people in the next room did not come in and bang things
around late at night. Out There was a wide land where buildings were
far apart and streets were not crowded. Even the horses did not grow
tired Out There. Oh, it was a land where dreams came true--a
beautiful land where no one ate prunes, where the gravy was never
greasy and the potatoes never burned. It was a land of flowers and
birds and lovely people--a land of wealth and health and many
smiles.

Her imagination made use of it all. She knew how men were reclaiming
the desert of Idaho, of the tremendous undeveloped wealth of what
had been an almost undiscovered State. She thrilled to the poetry of
irrigation. Often when hot and tired and dusty her fancy would follow