There are many people to whom the monotony of an interminable tract of perfectly smooth asphalt pavement would soon become irritating, and would so grip their nerves that they would positively long for the bumps and jolts and jars, the hills and hollows and even the mud holes of a rough country road.

There are many more people with music in their souls who do not understand grand opera than those who do, and many more who appreciate a happy thought or quaint conceit told in brief verse, terse and to the point, yet who fail utterly to comprehend that intangible translucent fret-work of moonlightand perfume and good, grey matter gone wrong, called Poetry, though willingly admitting its beauty, grandeur and loftiness, also its faultless rhythm, that seems to flow on and on forever, yet never reaching any perceptible point.

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