"Yes, gentlemen!" he said to us. " You must think deeply about this placard if you want to understand the American soul."

On the placard was written:

Automobile service. Here you will always be met with a friendly laugh.

That is right. American laughter, generally good, loud, and lively laughter, occasionally does irritate.

Let us suppose that two Americans meet.

FIRST AMERICAN (smiling): ...

SECOND AMERICAN (showing part of his teeth): .. .

FIRST AMERICAN : How are you? (Laughs.)

SECOND AMERICAN : Very well, thank you!(Shows all of his thirty-two teeth, among which are three gold ones.) And how are you?

FIRST AMERICAN : Very well! Fine! (Laughs loudly.) How is business ?

SECOND AMERICAN : Good! (Laughs uproariously.) And yours ?

FIRST AMERICAN: Excellent! (Laughs wildly.) Well, good-bye, regards to your wife!

SECOND AMERICAN: Thank you! Ha, ha, ha! Regards to yours! (Emitting an entire waterfall of laughter, he slaps FIRST AMERICAN on the shoulder with all his might.) Good-bye!

FIRST AMERICAN (shaking with laughter slaps SECOND AMERICAN on the shoulder): Good-bye! (Each goes to his automobile, and they part, driving off in different directions at a terrific speed.)

There is a possible variant to that conversation, which, as a matter of fact, scarcely alters the case:

FIRST AMERICAN (smiling): How's business?

SECOND AMERICAN (laughing): Very bad, very bad. How's yours?

FIRST AMERICAN (laughing uproariously): Disgusting! I lost my job yesterday.

SECOND AMERICAN (bursting with laughter): How's your wife? FIRST AMERICAN: She's quite dangerously ill. (He tries to make a serious face, but vigorous, joyous laughter breaks out again.)

Yesterday we called ... ha, ha, ha ... Yesterday ... oh, I can't bear it. . . yesterday, we called the doctor.

SECOND AMERICAN : Really? Is that so? Oh, what a pity! I'm sorry for you, my friend. (And laughing uproariously, slaps FIRST AMERICAN on the back.)

Americans laugh and never stop showing their teeth, not because some-thing humorous has happened to them, but because laughter is their style. America is a land that loves explicitness in all its affairs and ideas.

It is better to be rich than to be poor. So, instead of wasting time on thinking of the causes of poverty and eliminating them, the American tries in every possible way to acquire a million dollars.

A billion is better than a million. So, instead of retiring from business and enjoying the million of his fondest dreams, he sits in his office in his shirt sleeves and sweats at making a billion.

Sport is better for health than reading books. So, he devotes all his free time to sport.

It is necessary at times to be entertained, to rest from work. So he goes to the cinema or to the burlesque, where he is not compelled to think about the slightest problems of life, because that would prevent him from resting completely.

It is better to laugh than to weep. So, he laughs. No doubt, in the past he forced himself to laugh, just as he forced himself to sleep with windows open, to indulge in gymnastics, and to brush his teeth. Subsequently these things became daily habits. And now laughter rattles in his throat, irrespective of his circumstances or his wishes. If you see a laughing American, it does not mean that something strikes him as comical. He laughs only because an American must laugh. Let the Mexicans, Slavs, Jews, and Negroes whine and grieve.

We drove out to an excellent four-lane road, a highway between Los Angeles and San Francisco, and again found ourselves in the automobile whirl from which we had been unaccustomed in the desert. The highway, divided by white lines, was black, the colour of pitch, shining greasily from the constant drip of oil. Advancing upon us, their windshields gleaming, automobiles whisked by in the opposite direction.' From the distance they seemed very high, for the road reflected their wheels. Buicks, Fords, Chryslers, Packards, raced ahead. Countless machines roared and snorted like tomcats. There is constant movement on American highways.

California is notorious for its automobile accidents. More and more frequently along the road we came across bill-boards pleading with chauffeurs to drive more carefully. They were beautifully executed, laconic and horrifying. A huge policeman holding the corpse of a little girl in his left arm, pointed his right hand at us. Under it was the inscription : " Stop these murders!" On another bill-board was portrayed a distraught man who had lost his reason, a child's corpse in his arms, and the inscription read: "What have I done!"

"No, Becky, I don't want anyone to greet us with friendly laughter," said Mr. Adams. "Do you want our mutilated car greeted with friendly laughter? Becky, you must keep to forty miles!"

Mrs. Adams made an attempt to argue, but the bill-boards made such a strong impression on us that we seconded Mr. Adams, and our adventurous driver submitted.

"Becky!" exclaimed Mr. Adams. "Do you really want to hold my heavy corpse in your arms and shout for all of California to hear, 'What have I done!'"

Then Mr. Adams buried his nose in a map and, concentrating on his grumbling, began to draw over it straight and crooked lines.

Finally he said, "We must drive into Sequoia Park. It is not far from here. At the town of Delano we shall have to turn to the right. It's a bit out of our way—about sixty miles, no more. We'll drive over for five minutes, return to the highway and then drive straight to San Francisco. No, don't say anything to me. It would simply be foolish not to drive into Sequoia Park. We should be real travellers!"

Now we are very grateful to Mr. Adams for insisting upon our going to Sequoia Park. But then we were too fatigued by the journey through the desert, too full of impressions, and too eager to reach San Francisco to agree at once to taking this step.

We held a quick council, at which Mr. Adams, always most circumspect, behaved like Suvorov.

It was decided to drive over to Sequoia Park for five minutes.

By the time we reached Delano two hours had passed. On the right appeared mountains. We turned toward them. These were the Sierra Nevadas, a mountain chain which stretches for five hundred miles between the Colorado Plateau and the California Valley.

Again before us were stern mountain vistas, again Mrs. Adams, raising her arms in exaltation, would put her head out of the window and cry "Look, look!" and we pleaded with her to put her hands back on the steering wheel and keep her eyes on the road, swearing to her that at dinner-time we would describe all the beauties to her in the most artistic manner. But it was too long to wait until dinner-time.

The rise on the scenic highway began among small cliffs, streams, and a thick coniferous growth which gleamed in the sun. What joy it was with every turn to rise higher and higher into the blue sky, to the point where on a height beyond our reach we could see the snow-clad peaks. Below, on almost sheer green inclines could be seen narrow strips of the roads we had passed an hour before, while the streams were no longer visible. Soon even the sun appeared below us.

"Where are the sequoias?" we kept asking monotonously.

"Don't talk to me about sequoias!" Mr. Adams replied quite distractedly. "The sequoias will soon be here."

"But it's already dinner-time," remarked Mrs. Adams, looking at her watch and at the same time making a dizzying turn.

"Now, Becky, you must not talk that way; it is already dinner-time! It hurts me to hear you talk like that!"

We thought that we would drive in for five minutes, but here four hours had already elapsed.