we have a fancy that the development of the race has only just begun, and that the future will show us in perfection a kind of man new to the world.  Out somewhere on the Santa Fe route, where the desert of one day was like the desert of the day before, and the Pullman car rolls and swings over the wide waste beneath the blue sky day after day, under its black flag of smoke, in the early gray of morning, when the men were waiting their turns at the ablution bowls, a slip of a boy, perhaps aged seven, stood balancing himself on his little legs, clad in knicker-bockers, biding his time, with all the nonchalance of an old campaigner.  “How did you sleep, cap?” asked a well-meaning elderly gentleman.  “Well, thank you,” was the dignified response; “as I always do on a sleeping-car.”  Always does?  Great horrors!  Hardly out of his swaddling-clothes, and yet he always sleeps well in a sleeper!  Was he born on the wheels? was he cradled in a Pullman?  He has always been in motion, probably; he was started at thirty miles an hour, no doubt, this marvelous boy of our new era.  He was not born in a house at rest, but the locomotive snatched him along with a shriek and a roar before his eyes were fairly open, and he was rocked in a “section,” and his first sensation of life was that of moving rapidly over vast arid spaces, through cattle ranges and along canons.  The effect of quick and easy locomotion on character may have been noted before, but it seems that here is the production of a new sort of man, the direct product of our railway era.  It is not simply that this boy is mature, but he must be a different and a nobler sort of boy than one born, say, at home or on a canal-boat; for, whether he was born on the rail or not, he belongs to the railway system of civilization.  Before he gets into trousers he is old in experience, and he has discounted many of the novelties that usually break gradually on the pilgrim in this world.  He belongs to the new expansive race that must live in motion, whose proper home is the Pullman (which will probably be improved in time into a dustless, sweet-smelling, well-aired bedroom), and whose domestic life will be on the wing, so to speak.  The Inter-State Commerce Bill will pass him along without friction from end to end of the Union, and perhaps a uniform divorce law will enable him to change his marital relations at any place where he happens to dine.  This promising lad is only a faint intimation of what we are all coming to when we fully acquire the freedom of the continent, and come into that expansiveness of feeling and of language which characterizes the Great West.  It is a burst of joyous exuberance that comes from the sense of an illimitable horizon.  It shows itself in the tender words of a local newspaper at Bowie, Arizona, on the death of a beloved citizen:  “‘Death loves a shining mark,’ and she hit a dandy when she turned loose on Jim.”  And also in the closing words of a New Mexico obituary, which the Kansas Magazine quotes:  “Her tired