If you ever wondered why I transcribe articles? This is what appears online for this one! Fuzzy, small, eye-wearying text.
Enjoy!
OMEWHERE in the make-up of every healthy son of Adam, Nature has installed a sort of wireless receiving system over which she periodically sends out her call.
It comes to some of us through the open window of a tall office building, deep in the canyons of a roaring city. To others it steals through puzzled thoughts of finance and business with an insistent buzz that brightens the eye and cheers the tired brain.
To still others it tinkles on the receiving instrument, clearly and plaintively above the din of factory and busy whirr of wheels. But the summons is there just the same and we answer it in different ways, according to our temperament, our circumstances, and alas! sometimes, according to the state of our pocketbook.
In the winter of 1915 my summons came to me in one clear call. I was born and bred within a hundred yards of old mother Ocean and had paddled in her briny waters before my infant legs could more than toddle. The roar of beating waves was music to my ears, and although I had long since divorced myself from such associations and had become a city toiler, Dame Nature had never ceased from time to time to summon me back to the joys of all outdoors.
As I have said, it was mid-winter. The city streets were deep with snow, the chill winds of March were bitingly keen, but I began to think of fishing rods, guns and boats; I could smell the salt tang of the ocean, and longed for a fair wind and a whitecapped sea and the swish of foaming waves. But my purse was slim and it looked as though my answer to the summons would be a limited fifty cent excursion ticket on some warm Sunday to the beach and back home by night.
Nature didn't want that, and I was willing to do more. First, I thought sad thoughts of a cabin cruiser with fishing tackle and sleeping quarters, and a shellback’s galley and the smell of tar and rope and paint and warm engine grease, and the things that go with it all. I of course needs must compromise with old Dame Nature. and thought of a canoe with a pal to help paddle.
Nature didn't want that, and I was willing to do more. First, I thought sad thoughts of a cabin cruiser with fishing tackle and sleeping quarters, and a shellback’s galley and the smell of tar and rope and paint and warm engine grease, and the things that go with it all. I of course needs must compromise with old Dame Nature. and thought of a canoe with a pal to help paddle.
And then, oh joy! I saw an “Alluring Ad.”
Like the old Greek alchemist who was commanded by his emperor to figure out whether a crown of gold was pure or alloy, I came near to shouting "Eureka." There would be no canoe to buy, no pals to be lured into sharing the joys and sorrows of a vacation on the water; no paddle for rusty muscles to pull, no wind or weather conditions to vex my soul and disappoint my purposes, and I felt that the world was mine. Immediately I got busy collecting information and addresses and the next mail took my application to a half dozen makers of portable motors for catalogues, prices and descriptive literature. They all responded with more or less alacrity and that is where my troubles began.
The “Broncho Buster" people said their portable motor was the best in the world, because they did not make anything else; they had been making portable motors ever since Davy Jones was a small boy; that they knew everything that could be known about a portable motor and that all the fates awaited me if I did not buy their make. It was an awful temptation. I thought of sending them one of Uncle Sam's pale blue money orders on the spot, but there was a bunch of catalogues and circular-letters and printed matter and gaily colored folders and other tempting pictures of motors before me.
So I turned thoughtfully to the story of the “Jolly Pirate" people, who had forty million dollars of capital, seventeen city blocks of factories, thirteen hundred service stations, and political influence enough to regulate the price of gasoline with a free supply of Rockefeller’s celebrated lubricating oil given as a premium with each purchase. I wondered whether it would be best for me to string along with the “Jolly Pirate" crowd, but just then I caught sight of a folder issued by the “Wild Rover” factory, which showed me a boat spinning through the water at a speed that would have put to shame the builders of “Miss Minneapolis" and the prices reminded me of a department store mill-end bargain sale.
After going through all the catalogues and. all the attractive offers made under various guises and the various viewpoints of those who had something to sell, I decided that before taking my plunge it would be best for me to study what I wanted, rather than what I was asked to buy, and I came to three conclusions: First, I wanted a motor that I could take with me by train or trolley and that would not necessitate the hiring of a sea-going hack to tote it. Something that I could adapt to any old craft that would carry me in safety over the bosom of the waters I loved so well. Secondly, I wanted a dependable motor; one that would take me and my hired craft where I wanted to go and bring me back with reasonable certainty. And thirdly, as assurance that it would last me several seasons, I wanted a motor with a reputation back of it.
My search for these three qualifications is an other story. Sufficient to record, a few preliminary investigations forced on me by a limited purse and a still more limited vacation, and a tender regard for “safety first," led me to discard most of the high-fallutin’ promises of some of the manufacturers.
Like the old Greek alchemist who was commanded by his emperor to figure out whether a crown of gold was pure or alloy, I came near to shouting "Eureka." There would be no canoe to buy, no pals to be lured into sharing the joys and sorrows of a vacation on the water; no paddle for rusty muscles to pull, no wind or weather conditions to vex my soul and disappoint my purposes, and I felt that the world was mine. Immediately I got busy collecting information and addresses and the next mail took my application to a half dozen makers of portable motors for catalogues, prices and descriptive literature. They all responded with more or less alacrity and that is where my troubles began.
The “Broncho Buster" people said their portable motor was the best in the world, because they did not make anything else; they had been making portable motors ever since Davy Jones was a small boy; that they knew everything that could be known about a portable motor and that all the fates awaited me if I did not buy their make. It was an awful temptation. I thought of sending them one of Uncle Sam's pale blue money orders on the spot, but there was a bunch of catalogues and circular-letters and printed matter and gaily colored folders and other tempting pictures of motors before me.
So I turned thoughtfully to the story of the “Jolly Pirate" people, who had forty million dollars of capital, seventeen city blocks of factories, thirteen hundred service stations, and political influence enough to regulate the price of gasoline with a free supply of Rockefeller’s celebrated lubricating oil given as a premium with each purchase. I wondered whether it would be best for me to string along with the “Jolly Pirate" crowd, but just then I caught sight of a folder issued by the “Wild Rover” factory, which showed me a boat spinning through the water at a speed that would have put to shame the builders of “Miss Minneapolis" and the prices reminded me of a department store mill-end bargain sale.
“ASK THE MAN WHO OWNS ONE"
After going through all the catalogues and. all the attractive offers made under various guises and the various viewpoints of those who had something to sell, I decided that before taking my plunge it would be best for me to study what I wanted, rather than what I was asked to buy, and I came to three conclusions: First, I wanted a motor that I could take with me by train or trolley and that would not necessitate the hiring of a sea-going hack to tote it. Something that I could adapt to any old craft that would carry me in safety over the bosom of the waters I loved so well. Secondly, I wanted a dependable motor; one that would take me and my hired craft where I wanted to go and bring me back with reasonable certainty. And thirdly, as assurance that it would last me several seasons, I wanted a motor with a reputation back of it.
My search for these three qualifications is an other story. Sufficient to record, a few preliminary investigations forced on me by a limited purse and a still more limited vacation, and a tender regard for “safety first," led me to discard most of the high-fallutin’ promises of some of the manufacturers.
Eventually I appealed to an “old salt," relegated to the amateur ranks of nature-lovers, who told me more facts about portable motors than I ever dreamed existed. He traced their short history from the first model that had ever been exhibited in our country, through all the stages of development, down to the latest double-action, electrical kick-backer that had Thomas A. Edison faded off the map. The substance of his advice was exactly what I had conceded to be my requirements.
The old shellback cautioned me that price should be my last consideration, because my requirements were positive and clear, and that all prices were based on quality and not figured out in the competitive imaginations of those who had something to sell. I compared notes with those who had paid for their experience in various ways, and the consensus of opinion left no room for doubt that many believable opportunities to get more than one pays for are either doomed to disappointment or are at least beset with retributive drawbacks. In the final result I bought my motor, answered my summons from the wild, and the keen enjoyment I received or that came to me as a refreshing draught to the thirsty traveler, would form still another story.
The old shellback cautioned me that price should be my last consideration, because my requirements were positive and clear, and that all prices were based on quality and not figured out in the competitive imaginations of those who had something to sell. I compared notes with those who had paid for their experience in various ways, and the consensus of opinion left no room for doubt that many believable opportunities to get more than one pays for are either doomed to disappointment or are at least beset with retributive drawbacks. In the final result I bought my motor, answered my summons from the wild, and the keen enjoyment I received or that came to me as a refreshing draught to the thirsty traveler, would form still another story.
Not to go outside of the space limits at my disposal—I learned more about portable motors in the summer of 1916 than would fill a sizable volume.
For one thing. I learned that the conclusions I had formed on a first judgment were both wise and correct—that a portable motor to be a source of joy and satisfaction, must be light enough to be carried from one place to another, that it must be dependable both in operation and in mechanical construction and that it must be built and sold by people with a reputation to uphold.
In the course of my experience I ran across motors that were too big and too heavy to be portable, motors that must have been sired by the original prize balky mule, motors that were built to sell and were dear at any price—and a few motors that would stand the acid test of inspection and service.
All honor to those who make them. Fortunately, there is no monopoly in the field of portable, dependable, reputable motors. But the uninitiated amateur longshoreman cannot pick them out in the dark, nor should he swallow the alluring offers of every Tom, Dick and Harry without investigating. If some reader of these little personal experiences should contemplate buying a portable motor, let him first decide just what he wants and then search the motor boating annals.
An honest product, honestly advertised and squarely presented on its merits, beats all the flim-flam arguments of an expert copywriter. A reputation for square dealing beats a multimillionaire corporation four ways from the jack, and a motor that is flexible, dependable and adaptable is a thing of beauty and a joy forever.
Yes, I know you want me to tell you which is the motor to buy. I cannot do it because the editor will censor anything I would like to say. Furthermore there are several—and this is only a landsman's yarn, not an advertising “puff.”
When you have settled in your mind just what your time off for boating is going to be, stretch of water to be covered and the manner in which you are going to cover it, the three qualifications I have referred to may be amplified or contracted according to your own particular circumstances. You may purchase a very dependable portable motor suitable for a little fishing smack that will answer your purposes, in waters that are not crowded, in close proximity to a boat livery and an electrical supply shop, for any sum you wish to pay from $50 to $60. It will be a motor with battery ignition system and will undoubtedly fill your needs.
But if‘ you contemplate using your motor in crowded fishing grounds or at a pleasure resort, where boats are plentiful and navigation not as free as all-get-out, you need a motor that is more flexible than the type I have just referred to. There are motors on the market equipped with reversible propeller, controlled by simple mechanism, that makes your boat as responsive as a motor car. There are other motors with water-proof magneto ignition, doing away entirely with the vexing question of new batteries, short-circuiting wires and troublesome spark coils. These motors are higher in price and are well worth the money. You may pay from $80 to $90 for this type and be richly rewarded for your larger investment. Finally, there are motors equipped with starting devices which obviate the need of cranking, with the possibility of bruised knuckles and other inconveniences. This type may cost you all of $90, and represents in my opinion the best investment. Take my tip and investigate. Compare notes with those who have gone through the mill, and when you find a make of motor that has stood the test in the hands of actual users, and that is really backed by its makers, you won't go very far astray.
Possession of a portable motor gives a spirit of independence that knows no reasonable limit. Whether your recreation ground is in Maine or California or Texas or Florida, the joy of motor boating is at your disposal and when your summons comes in by wireless, with the first breath of spring, you have very little to figure on beyond the first investment in the motor itself. With the proper selection of the right motor to suit your own particular needs, you’re fixed.
Now let me sum it up:
Possession of a portable motor gives a spirit of independence that knows no reasonable limit. Whether your recreation ground is in Maine or California or Texas or Florida, the joy of motor boating is at your disposal and when your summons comes in by wireless, with the first breath of spring, you have very little to figure on beyond the first investment in the motor itself. With the proper selection of the right motor to suit your own particular needs, you’re fixed.
Now let me sum it up:
- First, boating with the donkey work cut out is joy unconfined, and in addition it takes you somewhere, and from dust and burly-burly.
- Secondly, a regular motor boat costs a lot of money, requires considerable care, and is expensive of upkeep. You have quite a sum tied up in a craft which you must leave to the tender mercies of all and sundry when you are away at work. After every storm you must show up and maybe bail out a barrel or so of water and put in half a day getting the engine sweet tempered again.
- But with your own portable motor you can use any old boat, anywhere. That is to say, any boat just so it is built right. I know you can clamp onto just about any kind at all, but you soon acquire an aversion to any kind except that with a broad, flat-bottomed, square-ended stern.
If you own your boat, it pays to have one of the special design made for the purpose; a good, stout craft that you can leave behind you secure in the knowledge that its side will not be stove in when next you come around.
Get it right and the portable-motor equipped rowboat will deliver more downright satisfaction for every dollar you invest and hour you spend in it, than any other craft that floats—if you have a portable motor income and the good sense to realize it.
It’s a regular afternoon miracle, is the rowboat “p.m."
Mine is, anyhow—a $90 miracle!
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