The Lincoln Highway
There's a small stretch of the once mighty Lincoln Highway that I drive each day through the Chicago Southland; usually very early - when the only souls about appear suddenly illuminated in headlights - monochromatic, menacing jaywalkers aimlessly stepping off curbs and zig-zagging across the lanes
I pressed the spring and the automaton bowed to me and I could not refrain from smiling on it as on my own son. But when the arm, a few seconds before numb and lifeless, began to move and trace my signature in a firm handwriting, tears started to my eyes.
Memoirs Of Robert-Houdin, 1859