thousand miles on a stretch in a well-heated—­too much heated—­car, without change of car, without revision of tickets, without encountering a customhouse, without the necessity of stepping outdoors either for food or drink, for a library, for a bath—­for any item, in short, that goes to the comfort of a civilized being?  And yet we are always prating of the superior civilization of Europe.  Nay, more, the traveler steps into a car—­which is as comfortable as a house—­in Boston, and alights from it only in the City of Mexico.  In what other part of the world can that achievement in comfort and convenience be approached?

But this is not all as to climate and comfort.  We have climates of all sorts within easy reach, and in quantity, both good and bad, enough to export more in fact than we need of all sorts.  If heat is all we want, there are only three or four days between the zero of Maine and the 80 deg. of Florida.  If New England is inhospitable and New York freezing, it is only a matter of four days to the sun and the exhilarating air of New Mexico and Arizona, and only five to the oranges and roses of that semi-tropical kingdom by the sea, Southern California.  And if this does not content us, a day or two more lands us, without sea-sickness, in the land of the Aztecs, where we can live in the temperate or the tropic zone, eat strange fruits, and be reminded of Egypt and Spain and Italy, and see all the colors that the ingenuity of man has been able to give his skin.  Fruits and flowers and sun in the winter-time, a climate to lounge and be happy in—­all this is within easy reach, with the minimum of disturbance to our daily habits.  We started out, when we turned our backs on the Old World, with the declaration that all men are free, and entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of an agreeable climate.  We have yet to learn, it seems, that we can indulge in that pursuit best on our own continent.  There is no winter climate elsewhere to compare with that found in our extreme Southwest or in Mexico, and the sooner we put this fact into poetry and literature, and begin to make a tradition of it, the better will it be for our peace of mind and for our children.  And if the continent does not satisfy us, there lie the West Indies within a few hours’ sail, with all the luxuriance and geniality of the tropics.  We are only half emancipated yet.  We are still apt to see the world through the imagination of England, whose literature we adopted, or of Germany.  To these bleak lands Italy was a paradise, and was so sung by poets who had no conception of a winter without frost.  We have a winter climate of another sort from any in Europe; we have easy and comfortable access to it.  The only thing we need to do now is to correct our imagination, which has been led astray.  Our poets can at least do this for us by the help of a quasi-international copyright.

THE NEW FEMININE RESERVE