Low hills and sandy waste and sparse shrubs.

Where was it, the "Great Desert," or some stretch in South America or in Mexico?
In my dream I was dozing, trying to forget the painful bumping and twisting.

A familiar voice brought me to with a sudden start.
"Say! Listen! Hey you! Wake up, can't you ?" Far off as the voice seemed at first, there was a delicious, home-sickness-provoking, nasal twang to the accents.
"Who are you ?" I asked sleepily.
"Who am I?
Now that is a question.

Don't you recognize me?
Why I am one of the old Fifth Avenue buses that used to run from Washington Square up to Fifty-ninth Street.

That's who I am." "But why are you here ?" I stammered.