ight."

And it was! Three hundred and fifty yards is a very long shot. It is
over four city blocks-New York size. But if you talk often enough and
glibly enough of "four and five hundred yards," it does not sound like
much, does it?

The same class of writer always gets all the thrills. He speaks of
"blanched cheeks," of the "thrilling suspense," and so on down the gamut
of the shilling shocker. His stuff makes good reading; there is no
doubt of that. The spellbound public likes it, and to that extent it has
fulfilled its mission. Also, the reader believes it to the letter-why
should he not? Only there is this curious result: he carries away in
his mind the impression of unreality, of a country impossible to
be understood and gauged and savoured by the ordinary human mental
equipment. It is interesting, just as are historical novels, or the
copper-riveted heroes of modern fiction, but it has no real relation
with human life. In the last analysis the inherent untruth of the
thing forces itself on him. He believes, but he does not apprehend; he
acknowledges the fact, but he cannot grasp its human quality. The affair
is interesting, but it is more or less concocted of pasteboard for his
amusement. Thus essential truth asserts its right.

All this, you must understand, is probably not a deliberate attempt
to deceive. It is merely the recrudescence under the stimulus of a
brand-new environment of the boyish desire to be a hero. When a man
jumps back into the Pleistocene he digs up some of his ancestors'
cave-qualities. Among these is the desire for personal adornment. His
modern development of taste precludes skewers in the ears and polished
wire around the neck; so he adorns himself in qualities instead. It is
quite an engaging and diverting trait of character. The attitude of mind
it both presupposes and helps to bring about is too complicated for my
brief analysis. In itself it is no more blameworthy than the small boy's
pretence at Indians in the back yard; and no more praiseworthy than
infantile decoration with feathers.

In its results, however, we are more concerned. Probably each of us has
his mental picture that passes as a symbol rather than an idea of the
different continents. This is usually a single picture-a deep river,
with forest, hanging snaky vines, anacondas and monkeys for the east
coast of South America, for example. It is built up in youth by chance
reading and chance pictures, and does as well as a