The Birmingham age-herald., 1905-10-02

ly appears a black globule and there is universal shout of "car comingr' and un- iversal fiuttering of flags and blowing through trumpets
 The globule hesitates at the peak, and seems to stand still. A voice sings out Number Fivei' or Number Sevenl" and before the last syllable is uttered, the wedge of road seems to have curled up behind the globule and risen into the sky. The globule swiftly becomes a brown orb with a glittering front; it becomes gigantic mechanical insect and finally it makes a leap forward, and, dragging be- hind 1t an eddy of brown dust and swirl ing papers, rushes insensately past.
 The front gleams with brass and copper tubes; and as the sun catches these tubes dazzling rays are flashed into the watch CTS eyes; and for a second the ugly tri- umph of mans ingenuity is transfigured and its goggled driver seems not mortal trembling on a perilous invention, but Phoebus Apollo guiding the chariot of the sun.
 But its splendor fades as swiftly as 1t has dawned; it recedes ingloriously up lane framed in human faces, 1t hesitates is again a globule on the road apex, and topples over into invisability, swept off, it seems not by human agency but by some uncontrolled, inexplicable force. into a desolate land from which 1t will never return.
 As the shouts subside another globule rises, expands, flashes in majesty past and drops into the abyss beyond the road peak; and this gray pageant continues until the eye is tired of its monotony and sameness.
 For nothing Is more monotonous than a motor race. From peak to peak of brown road the path is always the same While the sun is low the track Is streaked with faint serrated shadows cast by roadside watchers, and as each car is swept along it obliterates in swift succession the ser rated shadows, and behind it the shadows blink out tediously again. And for three tiresome hours this dead monotony lasts; and the only difference between the race at and the race at 8 Is that at eight the shadows are shorter. and the carr merely scraping their tips, obliterates only the long shadows of the telegraph poles and of the three venturesomo boys perched on the cross-trees.
 And the human factor In the contest is no less monotonous. I search the faces of the drivers closely as they start and dimly they thunder past and seek In each of them traces of ardor, or resolu- tion, or perhaps a little fear. But not even when the victor passes the black tape for the last time in a tempest of waving yellow flags, do I see any emo ton in the passionless face which seems to tI, 4I.1 4~;,, ,l,i. feuy. The spectators dotting one another on the roadside are no more emotional.
 It Is too early in the morning. Many, it is plain. have been up all night, and many have slept uneasily on lumpy straw mat tresses and washed themselves in tea. cups; and they look unkempt and melan- choly. And those who have slept comfort ably in hotel rooms engaged month in advance do not belong to the class of mortas who lose their heads over races.
 Looking into a hundred faces, I sea i'll half only an insincere attempt to look in- terested. and the other half a sincere de- sire to go and take a bath.
 So, despite the apocalyptc vision of the first rushing car a motor race seems to me flat and unproitable; and l have felt more genuine excitement in watching tha attempt of two Normandy peasant girls to goad into racing a pair of insubordi- nate snails. The hooting and jostling of monsters in the early morning chaos is much the most impressive part; and begin to understand the Chinaman wbd when asked what part of 'Lohengrin'' pleased him most, answered:
 "The tuning of the instruments before it began"