So were a bride and bridegroom on the box seat--nothing less than the best of everything for an American honeymoon--and so was a solitary man with a short cut bristly beard, a slouch hat, a pink cotton shirt, and a celluloid collar.

But there was an indescribable something about all the rest that plainly showed they had never voted for a president or celebrated a Fourth of July.

I was still revolving it in my mind when the fat gentleman, who had been thinking of the same thing, said to his neighbour on the other side, a person of serious appearance in a black silk hat, apropos of the line he had crossed by, "I may be wrong, but I shouldn't have put you down to be an American." "Oh, I guess I am," replied the serious man, "but not the United States kind." "British North," suggested the fat gentleman, with a smile that acknowledged Her Majesty.

"First cousin once removed," and momma and I looked at one another intelligently.

We had nothing against Canadians, except that they generally talk as if they had the whole of the St.
Lawrence river and Niagara Falls in a perpetual lease from Providence--and we had never seen so many of them together before.