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.
Our last experience with what for lack of a neater phrase I have called western chivalry, occurred at a charming little town named St. Cloud, near Minneapolis. Our fourteenth and last puncture was changed and mended for us at an up-to-the-second garage. When we inquired what we owed we received a smile and the answer, “No charge for ladies.”
“But you worked half an hour.”
“Glad to do it. Come again when you have a puncture, and we’ll charge you the same.”
From this point till we reached home, we met with respectful treatment, but no suggestion that we belonged to a sex to whom special privileges must be accorded. That is what old-fashioned people used to say would happen when women had the vote. Yet we were leaving the pioneer suffrage states, and entering the anti’s last stand.
Wisconsin surely is not the West, though we found it a fruitful, welcoming state anyone would be glad to live in. We got an impression of rolling fields, in brilliant patchwork of varying grains, like a glorified bedquilt spread under the sun; elms and summer haze, and a tangle of shade by the road; lazy, prosperous farmsteads, fat Dutch cattle, silver-green tobacco crops. The predominant impression was of gold and blue,—stacked wheat against the sky. Madison, into which we rolled one Sunday morning, presents an unhurried and stately best to the tourist, who sees it unprejudiced by miles of slatternly outskirts. He comes quickly to the Capitol, which is as it should be, the logical center of the town. Flanked by dignified University buildings set in green gardens, the State House stands in grounds planned to set off its perfect proportions. Without making it an object, we had seen many state Capitols,—Arizona’s, New Mexico’s, Utah’s, Montana’s, North Dakota’s, Minnesota’s—and some were imposing and some merely distressing. All, whatever their shortcomings, had a dome, as if it were a requirement of the Federal Constitution that whether it has honesty, dignity, grace or proportion, a state building must have a dome. In poor Boston, the dome has nearly disappeared under an attack of elephantiasis affecting the main body, as if someone had given the State House an overdose of yeast and set it in a warm place after forgetting to put any “risings” in the dome. Santa Fé’s is modest and pretty enough. Salt Lake’s is impressive and cold and very fine, but leaves one with no more of a taste for Capitols than before seeing it. Helena’s is atrocious,—a bombastic dome overtopping a puny body, and Arizona’s is so like all the others I cannot recall it in any respect. But Wisconsin’s has charm and beauty, dignity and proportion,—all that an architect strives and usually fails to get in one building. Most capitols leave one unimpressed, but this is so satisfying and inspiring one wonders how its corridors can send forth such unpromising statesmen.