The Plough of Progress.

Dear reader, history is steeped in steam. Steam has always been man's bountiful benefactor. Even before Master George Stephenson's time steam was recognised as a perfect prophylactic for pork and a consolation for corns, but with the expansion of the high-pressure hypothesis the railway engine has proved itself to be the mighty plough of progress, breaking up the virgin lands of the back o’ beyond, and weaving in its wake a pattern of prosperity and prestige. The railway engine, dear reader, has proved a money-spider weaving its web athwart our lusty lands. But hark you: where would you be to-day, thankful reader, but for the staunchness of steam? The hinterlands would be nought but a rooting arena for the wild pig, and you and I and our like would cling precariously to the shores like shellfish. Your eightcylinder “flitmobile” would be as useful to you as a pair of running pants in an aeroplane, for there would be no roads to rack with roasted rubber; you would be all fussed up and no place to go. It is no idle boast to affirm that all roads run from the railroad. The bounties conferred by steam cannot be computed in cash alone, any more than contentment can be capitalised.