Your True Commuter Enjoys the Routine

1907

He Must Be by Nature a Man Who Takes to Routine

Your true commuter must be by nature a man who takes to routine. There are some who have commuted for a quarter century or more and yet have not acquired the trick and never will. They are the ones who write letters to the newspapers, airing their grievances against the heartless railroad corporations. They are not born commuters. They have had commutation thrust upon them.

But many really enjoy the life of the commuter. They like the clocklike regularity. They like the pleasant social aspect of the early morning trip to town, the neighborly interest in one another's affairs, the ample time for reading the newspapers, which numerous city residents miss by not being obliged to get an early start. They look forward to the pleasant relaxation of the whist game on the way home, with head on one side to keep the smoke out of their eyes. Some of them even say that they enjoy being awakened early in the morning.

In time all who work in New York will come to it. Meanwhile, for the man with a family it appears to be in many ways a happy solution of a difficult problem. Undoubtedly it is a more wholesome existence physically, but mentally and spiritually it has the defects of its virtues when pursued all the year round. The commuter devotes the best part of the day to one narrow corner of the city. The rest of his time not consumed on the train is in still more narrowing atmosphere of the suburbs. He neither gets all the way into the life of the city nor clean out into the country. So his view of things has neither the perspective of robust rurality nor the sophistication of a man in the city and of it. His return to nature is only halfway. His urbanity is suburbanity. Much of our literature, art and especially criticisms show the taint of the commuter's point of view. — Jesse Lynch Williams in Century.

Animals' Memory — Remembering Places They've Been, Things Done

1899

Animals' Memory

Monsieur Henri de Parville, a French writer, has collected instances of animal intelligence, many of which are of a character to indicate that animals always remember things which have become habitual with them. In many cases they remember a single kindness or a single unkindness, and treat the author of it accordingly; but the habitual thing may be said to be always remembered, and the unaccustomed thing only occasionally.

Monsieur De Parville gives an amusing account of the performances of six coach horses which were regularly driven on the diligence between Berne and Gurnigel, Switzerland. They reached Gurnigel each day after a long and hard journey, and at the inn were detached from the vehicle and allowed to find their own way to the stable. Before going to the stable they invariably set out on a little tour through the hotel grounds, where the guests were in the habit of giving them lumps of sugar. Marching from one guest to another, the horses gently demanded their sugar. This was an established custom at the place, and although newly arrived guests sometimes objected to it, they soon fell into the way of liking it, and frequented the grounds for the sake of meeting the horses.

The diligence plied only four months of the year, and the horses were employed elsewhere during the other eight months; but on the resumption of the trips in summer, these horses, who were used from year to year in the diligence, eagerly resumed their tour through the hotel gardens, showing, on the very first trip the greatest haste to go the familiar round of the year before in quest of sugar.

Monsieur De Parville also tells of a cavalry horse named Ménélas, belonging to the Tenth Regiment of Chasseurs, who, after being ridden in the cavalry manoeuvres in the ring at the barracks, became so fond of the evolutions that he would manage to escape from his stall at night, betake himself to the ring, and go through the required movements alone.

His nocturnal performance became known, and the officers and men frequently went to watch it. Ménélas would be left unhitched in his stall, and when all became quiet, would go out, find his way to the ring, and solemnly but briskly go through the whole drill, apparently remembering every detail of it in the proper order.

The writer of this witnessed a curious demonstration of the excellence of a dog's memory. He possessed a collie, who, at the age of about one year, had an attack of distemper, and was sent from Boston to a farm in Vermont, where he remained several months. While there he spent a good deal of time in digging out woodchucks and barking at their burrows, all over the large farm. He was sent back to Boston.

Some five years afterward he was taken by his master on a visit to the same farm in Vermont and he had no sooner arrived than he started out on a tour of the old familiar woodchuck holes. The farmer, who had been very familiar with his ways, said that he did not omit a single spot where woodchucks' burrows had existed during his previous sojourn, and went straight to them without any search.

The dog also fell instantly into all the old routine of the farm, and kept the dish out of which he ate in the spot where he had formerly kept it. He showed that he had forgotten no detail of his habits on the place five years before. — Youth's Companion.