You have perhaps read motorcycle advertisements. In each one there is usually a picture of a well dressed young man spinning lightly along the country roads. You imagine yourself in his place. You hear the lowing of the kine, the gurgling of the brooks, catch the fragrant odor of the new mown hay, or if it be in the spring time, of the blossoming trees, as you flit by the farm houses, from town to town, from county to county, from state to state, from-distance is limited only by the fervency of the ad-writer and your own imagination. If you are of a sporting turn of mind, you throw into the picture a race or two with limited trains, in which you tauntingly wave your hand in the engineer's face, put on full speed and leave him to lumber along alone.