Music Welcome to Snew's Cast, the podcast designed to help you fall asleep. Find us at snoozecast.com and if you enjoy our show, please share us with a friend. This episode is brought to you by an elaborate and beautiful itinerary. Tonight we'll read the opening two Westward Hobos written by Winifred Hawkridge Dixon and published in 1921. In this travel memoir, 1920s Boston Girls set out to tour the West all by themselves, equipped with a sturdy car, a camping outfit, courage, and a sense of humor. A hobo is an old-fashioned term for a migrant worker in the United States. Hobos, tramps, and bombs are generally regarded as related but distinct. A hobo travels and is willing to work. A tramp travels, but avoids work if possible. A bum neither travels nor works.

Following these definitions it seems that the protagonist should have been referred to as tramps instead of hobos as they were only traveling and not working. Let's get cozy.

Close your eyes. Relax your body into the softness of your bed. Now, take a few deep breaths. Chapter 1 Westward Ho. Toby's real name is Catherine. Her grandmother was a poet. Her father is a scientist, and she is an artist. She is called Toby for Uncle Jonas's dog, who had the habit on being kicked out of the door of running down the steps with a cheerful bark and a wagging tail, as if he had left entirely of his own accord. There is no fact, however circumstantially incriminating, which this young doctornair cannot turn into the most potent justification for what she has done or wishes to do. And when she gets to the tail wagging stage, regardless of how recently the bang of the front door has echoed in our ears, she wags with the charm of the artist, the logical precision of the scientist, and the order of the poet. Even when she ran the car into the creek. At the outset, we did not plan to make the journey by automobile. Our destination was uncertain. We planned to drift, to sketch and ride, when the spirit moved. But drifting by railroad in the west implies timetables, crowded trains, food war-capped matrons, crying babies, and the smell of bananas, long waits and anxiety over reservations. Traveling by auto seemed luxurious in comparison and would save railroad fares, annoyance and time. We pictured ourselves bowling smoothly along in the open air. In contrast with the stifling train, we provision no delays, no breakdowns.

We saw New Mexico and Arizona a motorists' heaven paved with asphalt and running streams of gasoline. An optimist is always like that, and two are twenty times so. I was half-owner of a Cadillac Eight with with a rakeish hood and a matronly tunnel. Its front was intimidating, its rear reassuring. The owner of the other half was safely in France. At the time, which half belonged to which had not been discussed. It is now a burning question. I figure that the springs, the dustpan, the paint, mudguards, and tires constituted her share. With a few bushings and nuts thrown in for good measure, but having acquired a mercenary disposition in France,

she differs from me. What I knew of the bowels of a car had been gained, not from systematic research, but bitter experience with mutinous parts. 10 years progress through 2, 4, 6, and finally 8 cylinder motors of widely varying temperaments. I had taken no course in mechanics and had and still have a way of confusing the differential with the transmission, but I loved to tinker. In the old two cylinder days, when the carburetor flooded, I would weigh it down with a few pebbles and a hairpin. And when the feed became too scanty, I would take the hairpin out and leave the pebbles in. I had a smattering knowledge of all the devil tree defective batteries, leaky radiators, frozen steering wheels, cranky generators, wrongly hung springs, stripped gears, and slipping clutches can penetrate. But those parts which commonly behaved themselves I left severely alone. Toby could not drive, but a few simple lessons made her an apt pupil. She paid her money to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts for a license. And one sparkling evening in early February, we started for Springfield. We were to cover 13,000 miles before we saw Boston again, 11,000 by motor, and the rest by steamship and horseback. As I threw in the clutch, we heard a woman's voice calling after us. It was Toby's mother, and what she said was, don't drive at night. In New York, we made the acquaintance of a map, which later was to become thumbed, torn, and soiled. A delightful map it was furnished by the Triple A, with an index specially prepared for us of every Indian reservation, natural marvel, scenic and historical spot along the ridge pole of the Rockies from Mexico to Canada.

Who could read the intriguing list of names? Needles, Flagstaff, Moab, Skull Valley, Fort Apache, Tombstone,

rodeo, lost cabin,

Hachida, Rosebud, roundup, Buckeye, Ten sleep, Bowie and Bluff. Win a mucca and stop at home in Boston. We were bent on discovering whether they lived up to their names. Whether Skull Valley was a scattered outpost of the desert with mysterious night riders, stampeding steer, gold seekers, cattle thieves and painted ladies,

or had achieved virtue in a Rexall drugstore, a Harvey Luntrum, a Jazz Parlor, a Chamber of Commerce, an Elk's Hall, and a three-story granite post office donated by a grateful administration. Which glory is now skulled valleys we do not know yet, but depend on it. It is either one or the other. The old movie life of the frontier is not obsolete, only obsolescent, provided one knows where to look. With the day after it vanishes, a thriving city has arrived at adolescence and provided the ladies' parlor upstairs with three kinds of rouge. It was love at first sight, our map and us. Pima and Maricopia Indians, Zuni and Laguna Pueblos. The rainbow bridge all back into us and hinted their mysteries. Our itinerary widened until it included vaguely everything there was to see.

We made only one reservation. We would not visit California. California was the west dehorneed. It possessed climate, boulevard and conveniences, but it also possessed sandflays and native suns.

It was a little thing which caused us to make this decision, but, epical. What we planned to do was harder unless usual. We would follow the old trails, immigrant trails, cattle trails, Tritors roots, mountain roads which a long procession of cliff dwellers, Spanish friars, gold seekers, Apache marauders, prospectors, Mormons and scouts had trought in five centuries and and as they found them. Mirror Footprints in the Dust The Southwest has been explored afoot and on horse by prairie scooners, burrow and locomotive. The modern pioneer rattles his weather-beaten fliver on business between Gallup and Santa

Feh. and locomotive. The modern pioneer rattles his weather-beaten fliver on business between Gallup and Santa Fe, Tucson and El Paso, and thinks nothing of it. But the country is still new to the motoring tourist, because a car must have the attributes of a herdler and a tightrope walker, the amphibious and full proof, have a beagle's nose for half obliterated tracks, thrill to the tug of sand and mud, and own a constitution strong enough to withstand all experiments of provincial garagemen. Few merciful car owners will put it through the supreme agony. Had not the roads looked so smooth on the map, we wouldn't have tried them ourselves. And then in New York, we met another optimist, and two and one make three. It was not until long afterward when we met the roads he described as passable, that we discovered he was an optimist. He had motored through every section of the West and paid us the compliment of believing we could do the same. When he presented us with our elaborate and beautiful itinerary, he asked no questions about our skill and courage. He told us to buy an axe and a shovel and carry a rope. Attent, he advised as well, and such babes in the woods were we. The idea had not occurred to us. And carry a pistol as Toby eagerly. Never. He'll be as safe or safer than you are in New York City.

Toby was disappointed, but I heard him with relief. Toby held out for an ammonia pistol. We did debate this for a while, but in the excitement of buying our tent, we forgot the pistol entirely. Our optimist directed us to a nearby sports good shop, recommending us to the care of a certain Reggie, who he guaranteed would not try to sell us the entire store. Confidently, we sought the place, a paradise where elk-skin boots, fleecy mufflers, sleeping bags, leather coats, pink hunting habits, and folding stoves lure the very pocket books out of one's hands. We asked for Mr. Reggie, who did not look as Italian as his name. He proved a sympathetic guide, steering us to the camping department. He restrained himself from selling the most expensive outfits he had, at the price of a fascinating morning and fifty odd dollars, we parted from him, owners of a silk tent, mosquito and snake proof, which folded into an infinitesimal canvas bag. A tin lantern which folded flat. A tin biscuit baker which collapsed into nothing. A nest of cooking and eating utensils which folded and fitted into one two gallon pale. A can opener. A knife, doomed to be our most cherished treasure, a flashlight, six giant safety pins, and a folding stove. The charm of an article which collapses and becomes something else, then it seems I cannot analyze nor resist. Others feel it too. I know a man who once stopped a South American revolution by stepping into the plaza and opening and shutting his opera hat. Only one incident marred our satisfaction with the morning's work. We discovered, on saying farewell to Reggie, that we had been calling him by his first name. Chapter two, from New York to Antoine's. There were, we found, three ways to transport an automobile from New York to Texas, to drive it ourselves, and become mired in southern Gumbo, to ship it by rail, and become bankrupt while waiting weeks for delivery. Or, cheaper and altogether more satisfactory to send it by freight steamer to Galveston. By this means we avoided the need of creating our lumbering vehicle. We also could calculate definitely its state of arrival. And by taking a passenger boat to New Orleans, and going dense by rail, be at the port to meet it. Our baggage we stowed in a peculiarly shaped autotrunk containing five peculiarly shaped suitcases, trapezoids, all, made to fit an earlier car. In its day, it had been the laughing stock of all the portors in Europe. Too bulky to be strapped outside, it was to become a mysterious occupant of the Tano. Exciting much speculation and comment. It was to be the means of our being taken for salvation lassies with a parlor organ, bootleggers, spiritualists with omnipresent cabinet, show show girls or lady shirt waist drummers,

according to the imagination of the beholder, but it never was ought but a nuisance.

Whatever we needed always reposed in the bottom most suitcase, and rather than dig down,

we did without. Next time I shall note better. A three-piece khaki suit composed of breeches, short skirt split front and back, and many pocketed Norfolk coat. Worn with knee-high elk boots, does for daily wear in camping, riding or driving. It sheds rain, heat and cold, does not wrinkle when slept in, and only mellows with successive accumulations of dirt. For dress occasions, a dark jersey coat and skirt wool stockings and low oxfords is magnificence itself a heavy and a light sweater two flannel and a half dozen cotton or linen shirts and sufficient plain underwear suffice for a year's knocking about. Add to this a simple afternoon froc of non-wrinkling material, preferably black and no event finds you unprepared. Our trunk made us trouble from the start. The administration had given us to understand we might ship it with the car, but at the last moment this was prevented by a constitutional amendment. Accordingly, an hour before our boat left, we took the trunk to the line on which we worked to travel and shipped it as personal baggage. It was only the first of many experiences which persuaded us to adopt the Frontiersman's motto, Pack Light. Every true yarn of adventure should begin with a sea voyage. The warves, with their heaped cargos tying together the four ends of the world, the hoisting of the Gangplank, the steamer for lotations, the daily soundings, the eternal schools of purposes. The menus with their ensuing disillusionments, and above all,

the funny, funny passengers, each a drullery to all the others. All these common places of voyage are invested by the mighty sea with its own importance and mystery.

On board, besides ourselves, were some very funny people, and some merely funny. A swarthy family of Spaniards next to us passed through all the successive shades of yellow and green, but throughout they were gay, eating oranges and chanting pretty little Castilian folk songs. At table, sat a man wearing a black and white striped shirt of the variety known as Boiled, a black and white striped collar of a different pattern, and a bright blue necktie thickly studded with daisies and asterisks. He looked otherwise like a burglar without his Jimmy, especially when we saw him by moonlight, glowering through a porthole. He turned out to be only a playwright and journalist with a specialty for handing out misinformation on a different subject each meal. The stout lady, the flirtatious person, why is he of all classes of men the most amorous? The bounder, the bride and groom, the flappers of both sexes, the drummer, the motherly stewardess, and the sardonic steward were all present? And why does the sight of digestive anguish bring out the maternal in the female and only profanity in the male? Our plump English stewardess cood over us, helpless in upper and lower births. Our steward always rocked with silent mirth and muttered, my God. Our own stout lady was particularly rare. She appeared coquettishly the first calm day off Florida in a pink gingham dress, a large black rosary draped prominently upon her, which did not much height in her resemblance to a mother superior, owing to her wearing an embroidered Chinese camuna, and a monkey coat over it, and flirting so galey with the boys. On the Galveston train later, we heard her say helplessly, poor her, my trunk is following me to Galveston, how shall I stop it? She could have stopped and expressed van merely by standing in front of it, but we did not suggest this remedy. The picture of a docile Saratoga lumbering doggedly at her rear was too much for words. As to the perser, we left him severely alone. We did not feel we could flirt with him in the style to which he had been accustomed. The last night of the voyage, when the clear, bright green of the Gulf of Mexico gave place to the turbulent coffee color of the Mississippi, our steward is knocked. On account of the river mists, we don't bathe tonight. It was a small tragedy for us.

The river which deprived us of our baths presented at five next morning a bleak and sluggish appearance. Most picturesque, busy, low-lying river it was. Nevertheless, banked with shipyards, newly built warves,

coalings, river it was. Nevertheless, banked with shipyards, newly built warves, cooling stations, elevators, steamship docks, evidences to a provincial northerner that the south, wakened perhaps by the Great War, has waited for none, but has forged a head bent on her own development, achieving her independence, this time an economic independence. To the insular of Manhattanite, who thinks of New York as the eastern gates of this country and San Francisco as the Western, the self-sufficiency, the bustle and the cosmopolitanism of the Mississippi's Delta land, even seen through a 6 a.m. drizzle, gives a surprising jolt. 6 months later, we were to cross the Mississippi near the headwaters, not many miles from Canada. More lovely, there at the north, its broad, clear, placid waters, shadowed by green forests and high bluffs, it invites for a voyage of discovery. On both banks of the river, whose forgotten raft and steamboat life, Mark Twain made famous, are now being built, concrete boulevards, designed to bisect the country from Canada to the Gulf. Huck Fins of the near future will be able to explore this great artery through what is now perhaps the least known and least accessible region of the country. New Orleans, those who knew it 20 or 40 years ago will tell you has lost some of its atmosphere, drive through the newer and more pretentious outskirts, and you will believe all you are told. You will see the usual southwestern broad boulevard pointed with staccato palmetos, but otherwise arid a ferdger, bordered with large mansions which completely overpower an occasional gem of low verandid loveliness, relic of happier days. For such grandeur, the driver of our chutney, yet we passed one quite charming dwelling, a low rambling cottage covered with fines, proudly made of glittering silvery tin. In the old French or Creole quarters, you find all the story charm of the city intact, a bit of Italy, a bold Spain, of the milder and sunnier parts of France, jumbled together with the romance of the West Indies. In the cobbled narrow pavements, down which mule teams still clatter more often than motors, The mellow old houses with iron balconies beautifully wrought, broad verandas, pink, green, or orange plastered walls, peeling to show the red brick underneath.

Shady courtyard,

high walled with fountains and stone cupids,

...