When my visitor had finished whatever arrangement he was making with his car, he turned partly around and I saw he had in his hand a small spool of copper wire, two strands from which connected with the car. Next he performed some slight manipulation with his coil of wire, the nature of which I could not make out, but which produced the surprising result, that the car slowly rose from the track continuing upward till stopped by the wire, then my visitor drew it gently to one side and pushing a stout iron pin into the ground, he attached the spool and coil to it and left it there, picketed out, precisely as a cow-boy pickets his mule, except that the car floated in the air gently pulling on its tether. I had for some moments been casting about in my mind for some appropriate manner in which to address my singular visitor. The more I observed his actions, the higher my opinion rose of his character, abilities and position in the scale of existence. Royal and aristocratic titles, such as Your Majesty, My Lord etc., are very awkward in the mouth of an American and seemed by no means sure to be appropriate in this case. Then I thought of our American titles, General, Colonel, Major, Judge, Squire, Governor, none of which of course would do. But the surprise and curiosity excited by this performance of picketing the car in the air would in another minute have overcome the tension of diffidence and doubt and I should have addressed him as _something_, even if no better title than plain _Mister_ occurred to me. But he saved me this necessity, by opening the conversation himself. He seemed to know what I had been thinking of. “A title of address,” said he, “should be significant of facts. It is ridiculous to call a man Honorable, because you have sent him to the legislature, or to congress, or another person ‘Majesty’ whose understanding is below mediocrity. You may call me, ‘Sir,’ which title as you know means simply an older person and I will call you by some title, that means young—if it means _quite_ young, it will still be very appropriate, eh?” This was accompanied, by a queer, but decidedly jolly and good natured expression of the eyes and a gentle poke with his right middle hand described above. “Then,” said I, “you think you are the older. The fact is, I am so well preserved, that almost everyone rates me ten or fifteen years younger than I am, and perhaps you do.” “I am nineteen,” he said. “Why,” I exclaimed, “I am more than three times that old.” “Nevertheless, I am very much older than you,” he replied. “You talk in riddles,” said I, “I don’t understand you.” “Well, I will explain. You understand, that every race is made by its environment and the same is true of each individual of the race.” “Certainly, that is my pet theory.”