words of the tinker of Bedford, I
dreamed a dream.

There was a consciousness of being jolted about abominably in a
ramshackle vehicle. The surroundings were vague, as they always are in
dreams. 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. "What brought you to this strange
corner of the world?"

"Believe me," the spluttering voice replied, "I am not here of my own
will. You can bet your tintype on that, Mr. Washington Arch, or Mr.
Hoffman House Bar, or Mr. Flatiron Building."

"Your mode of address is somewhat obsolete," I ventured. "Changes have
taken place."

"Yes, I know. You want to be strictly up-to-date, like all the rest of
the New Yorkers. As you say, changes have taken place. That is our
unfortunate story. We were discarded, tossed aside, just as soon as they
found that they could replace us by those evil-smelling, noise-making,
elongated, double-decked children of the devil. Without a word, without
a regret, they packed us off. Some of us were sent to the end of Long
Island, some to Florida to haul crackers and northern tourists, some,
like myself, to the uttermost ends of the earth. But the worst fate was
that of those who stayed. They were sold to a department store, and kept
to run between its door and a Third Avenue El. station, to be packed to
bursting with fat women and squalling children from the Bronx. Think of
their degradation! Think of their feelings when they reflect upon the
days of past glory!

"It was hard," the confidences continued, "but I do not complain. We
were growing old, no doubt of that. We were of yesterday, and you know
the old saying of the ring that youth must be served. Even John L.
learned that, and before him, Joe Coburn and Paddy Ryan. Then Jim
Corbett learned it too, and freckled 'Bob' Fitzsimmons, and now there
is a young fellow named Jim Jeffries w