At different times during the past few years I have meditated writing an essay on America--including the United States and Canada--as "The Land of Upper Berths." No matter how far ahead I planned my trips and tried to make reservations I could never get a lower berth in a sleeping-car. But there were always uppers to be had and night after night I clambered aloft. Always trying to make the best of everything I finally got so that I rather liked them on account of the better ventilation, roomier quarters, etc. From time to time my nose for news sniffed at the prevailing conditions and I wondered vaguely at the type of passengers who were always so fortunate as to have lower berths. Instead of being "The beautiful, pampered women of the wealthy bourgeoisie," they were usually brisk young business men. Not only did they get the lower berths, but having greater facilities for getting out of bed in the morning they were always first at the washbowls and took an unconscionable time at their morning ablutions; shaving expertly while the train speeded around curves and grooming themselves like bridegrooms, while we poor upper-berthers sat around, yawning sleepily and admiring the backs of their silk undershirts and the nice warm suspenders that cost as much as an ordinary man used to pay for a suit of clothes. They primped and preened and left the rest of us only time to wash sketchily before reaching our destination. Then they stepped from the train in flawless form and ready to do business. Having had this experience over and over again from Toronto to Vancouver and from Vancouver to New York, I should have guessed something, but I was dense. That sleeping-car feeling dulled my perceptions. Out in Calgary I was given an explanation of the phenomenon that put me on the wrong track and lulled my sense of outrage. I had protested to the porter of one of the palatial hotels because he failed to get me a lower berth to Lethbridge. "Too late," he said cheerfully. "All the lower berths going both ways are reserved two weeks ahead." "What's the reason?" "Everybody is travelling. If I wasn't a married man and tied down I would be travelling myself." Certainly everybody did seem to be travelling, for the hotels were crowded to the limit and one had to telegraph a week ahead to get reservations. Many times even that precaution failed. Often I have slept on a cot in a corridor, and on several occasions when the corridors were full I got a berth on a cot in the manager's office.