Something I recognized as Cantabrigian, but he did not, in Toby’s expression made him add propitiatingly, “Of course I’d expect to do the same for you. What’s _your_ line,--postcards?” When what remained of him had thawed out sufficiently to fade away I ventured to look at his cards. They read, “Portable Plumbing and Bath Fixings.” “According to your theory,” I consoled Toby, “in presenting a convincing and consistent appearance as a lady drummer for postcards and plumbing, you are well dressed. Therefore the poor man was only paying you a compliment----” “He was fresh,” said Toby. “Just fresh.” Only as we were leaving Dakota did we see a touch of homeliness,--in Fargo, a green, cozy place, full of neat, comfortable homes. As we crossed the state line here into Minnesota, instantly a change appeared. The air became moist and unirritating. Meadows and leafy forests, such as we have in New England, dozens of black, quiet lakes and little, sparkling streams, long wheat fields shaded by boundary rows of oaks, with six-horse teams harvesting grain flashed by us. Flock upon flock of red-winged and jet black blackbirds and wild ducks flashed from the reedy pools, whirring into the woods. We would have liked leisure to camp on the shores of some secluded pond until the spirit moved us on. We saw something more in Minnesota than her blackbirds and lakes and pretty woods and fields, her macadam roads and beautiful twin cities, frowning at each other from the high banks of the Mississippi. We saw the West fade, and give place to the East. The easy-going, slap-dash, restless, generous, tolerant, gossipy, plastic, helpful, jealous West was departing, not to reappear even sporadically. In its place we began to encounter caution, neatness, method, the feeling for property and the fear of strangers, that we were brought up with. We were clicking back into the groove of precedent and established order, no stronger, if as strong, on the Eastern seaboard than here. We could almost put our finger on the very town along the Red Trail where we noticed the transition. It was not Miles City nor Glendive,--Montana is still entirely western; it was not Bismarck nor the bleak little town of Casselton, west of Fargo. Probably it was Fargo that we should have marked for the pivotal town. At least the slight struggle a few villages beyond made to suggest the old, beloved West was soon quenched by the encroaching East. Some call the West Seattle, others Syracuse, N. Y., but I believe that Fargo very nearly marks the division. Grazing, sheep and cattle-raising increasingly lost place to the industries, city-building and manufactures, from this point eastward until they disappeared altogether.