Wanderlustre.

If he dislikes the manner in which Chicago parts its heirs and wears its crepe-de-machine, he can slip it into Biffin Bay to cool its All-Caphoneyism and Big Billiousness. He can put Cape Cod on the Hook of Holland, and can make Venice as dry as a gondolier's nightmare, or the Sahara as wet as a camel's imagination. He can grow bismuth at Bisrah, put the yak in Yonkers, the dried herring in Salt Lake City, and the vulgar boat song in Billingsgate. He can wander at will through the impenetrable jingles of London's money belt without being stung by the deadly misquoter, otherwise known as the confidence tick. He can wade through India in rubbers, climb the steppes of Siberia on the fleet-footed ogpu; see Uruguay, Paraguay, Carraway, and such spots where the seed of revolution sprouts, without dying for some one else's country; “do” Scotland if it can be “done,” take a bight in the Bay of Biscuits, practice life-saving in the Dead Sea, and see the world before it sees him first. All of which obviates disappointment, for the globe-trotter who actually trots out real cash to see Ozzwozz-on-the-Wrinkle often finds it a little ante-climatical to discern that it differs little from Muddle-in-the-Mud, his home base, except for a trace of new odours and a brace of old pagodas.