They do so regard us, though; and, with true British setness, I suppose they always will.  Even so I think that, though they may dislike us as a nation, they like us as individuals; and it is certainly true that they seem to value us more highly than they value Colonials, as they call them—­particularly Canadian Colonials.  It would appear that your true Briton can never excuse another British subject for the shockingly poor taste he displayed in being born away from home.  And, though in time he may forgive us for refusing to be licked by him, he can never forgive the Colonials for saving him from being licked in South Africa.

When I started in to write this chapter, I meant to conclude it with an apology for my audacity in undertaking—­in any wise—­to sum up the local characteristics of a country where I had tarried for so short a time, but I have changed my mind about that.  I have merely borrowed a page from the book of rules of the British essayists and novelists who come over here to write us up.  Why, bless your soul, I gave nearly eight weeks of time to the task of seeing Europe thoroughly, and, of those eight weeks, I spent upward of three weeks in and about London—­indeed, a most unreasonably long time when measured by the standards of the Englishman of letters who does a book about us.

He has his itinerary all mapped out in advance.  He will squander a whole week on us.  We are scarcely worth it, but, such as we are, we shall have a week of his company!  Landing on Monday morning, he will spend Monday in New York, Tuesday in San Francisco, and Wednesday in New Orleans.  Thursday he will divide between Boston and Chicago, devoting the forenoon to one and the afternoon to the other.  Friday morning he will range through the Rocky Mountains, and after luncheon, if he is not too fatigued, he will take a carriage and pop in on Yosemite Valley for an hour or so.

But Saturday—­all of it—­will be given over to the Far Southland.  He is going ’way down South—­to sunny South Dakota, in fact, to see the genuine native American darkies, the real Yankee blackamoors.  Most interesting beings, the blackamoors!  They live exclusively on poultry—­fowls, you know—­and all their women folk are named Honey Gal.

He will observe them in their hours of leisure, when, attired in their national costume, consisting of white duck breeches, banjos, and striped shirts with high collars, they gather beneath the rays of the silvery Southern moon to sing their tribal melodies on the melon-lined shores of the old Oswego; and by day he will study them at their customary employment as they climb from limb to limb of the cottonwood trees, picking cotton.  On Sunday he will arrange and revise his notes, and on Monday morning he will sail for home.