eyeing the human scene, living in a gentle simmer of the faculties like
a boiling kettle when the gas is turned low.

Fall fever, one supposes, is our inheritance from the cave man, who
(like the bear and the--well, some other animal, whatever it is) went
into hibernation about the first of November. Autumn with its soft
inertia lulled him to sleep. He ate a hearty meal, raked together some
dry leaves, curled up and slid off until the alarm clock of April.

This agreeable disease does not last very long with the modern man. He
fights bravely against it; then the frost comes along, or the coal bill,
and stings him into activity. But for a few days its genial torpor may
be seen (by the observant) even in our bustling modern career. When we
read yesterday that Judge Audenried's court clerks had fallen asleep
during ballot-counting proceedings we knew that the microbe was among us
again. Keats, in his lovely Ode, describes the figure of Autumn as
stretched out "on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep." Unhappily the
conventions forbid city dwellers from curling up on the pavements for a
cheerful nap. If one were brave enough to do so, unquestionably many
would follow his example. But the urbanite has taught himself to doze
upright. You may see many of us, standing dreamily before Chestnut
Street show windows in the lunch hour, to all intents and purposes in a
state of slumber. Yesterday, in that lucid shimmer of warmth and light,
a group stood in front of a doughnut window near Ninth Street: not one
of them was more than half awake. Similarly a gathering watched the
three small birds who have become a traditional window ornament on
Chestnut Street (they have recently moved from an oculist to a
correspondence course office) and a faint whisper of snoring arose on
the sultry air. The customs of city life permit a man to stand still as
long as he likes if he will only pretend to be watching something. We
saw a substantial burgher pivoted by the window of Mr. Albert, the
violin maker, on Ninth Street. Apparently he was studying the fine
autographed photo of Patti there displayed; but when we sidled near we
saw that his eyes were closed; this admirable person, who seemed to be
what is known as a "busy executive," and whose desk undoubtedly carries
a plate-glass sheet with the orisons of Swett Marden under it, was in a
blissful doze.

Modern life (as we say) struggles against this sweet enchantment of
autumn, but Nature is too st