dear, peaceful little
village in one of nature's fairest hollows--was most enticing as
we passed slowly through, stopping once or twice to make sure of
our very uncertain way.

The slowest automobile is too fast for so delightful a spot as
Lenox. One should amble through on a palfrey, or walk, or, better
still, pass not through at all, but tarry and dream the days away
until the last leaves are off the trees. But the habit of the
automobile is infectious, one goes on and on in spite of all
attractions, the appeals of nature, the protests of friends.
Ulysses should have whizzed by the Sirens in an auto. The
Wandering Jew, if still on his rounds, should buy a machine; it
will fit his case to a nicety; his punishment will become a habit;
he will join an automobile club, go on an endurance contest, and,
in the brief moments allowed him for rest and oiling up, will swap
stories with the boys.

With a sigh of relief, one finishes a long day's run, thinking it
will suffice for many a day to come; the evening is scarce over
before elfin suggestions of possible rides for the morrow are
floating about in the air, and when morning comes the automobile
is taken out,--very much as the toper who has sworn off the night
before takes his morning dram,--it just can't be helped.

Our way lay over October Mountain by a road not much frequented.
In the morning's ride we did not meet a trap of any kind or a
rider,--something quite unusual in that country of riders and
drivers. The road seemed to cling to the highest hills, and we
climbed up and up for hours. Only once was the grade so steep that
we were obliged to dismount. We passed through no village until we
reached the other side, but every now and then we would come to a
little clearing with two or three houses, possibly a forlorn store
and a silent blacksmith shop; these spots seemed even more lonely
and deserted than the woods themselves. Man is so essentially a
gregarious animal that to come upon a lone house in a wilderness
is more depressing than the forests. Nature is never alone; it
knows no solitude; it is a mighty whole, each part of which is in
constant communication with every other part. Nature needs no
telephone; from time immemorial it has used wireless telegraphy in
a condition of perfection unknown to man. Every morning Mount
Blanc sends a message to Pike's Peak, and it sends it on over the
waters to Fujisan. The bosom of the earth thrills with nervous
energy; the