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 intervals, when I felt unusually discouraged or sad. As a rule, I wasn't either, and then couldn't be bothered—spinning all day through the prettiest country imaginable, with my honest old Olaff on the seat beside me, and my tireless little engine going chi-chi-chi-chi under its hood. How soothing and sweet that sound is to anyone who has the ear for it—the unfailing explosion, the consciousness of perfect mixture, the humming of the coils, and the rhythm of a beautifully balanced reciprocity! Chi-chi-chi-chi, till you are lulled into dreams, and the wind against your cheek seems to fan away all the little cares, and heart-aches of a dreary world. You see, I invariably strained my gasoline through chamois leather, and thus eliminated carburetor troubles entirely. If people would always take the trouble to do this religiously, and keep their terminals tight, and not grudge a few dollars for a voltometer, they'd eliminate most of the troubles connected with a chug-cart.