he St. Agnes branch of the Public
Library. See the taxi drivers, sitting in their cars alongside the Verdi
grass plot (a rural breath of new-mown turf sweetening the warm, crisp
air) and smoking pipes. Every one of them is to us as fascinating as a
detective story. What a hand they have had in ten thousand romances. At
this very moment, what quaint and many-stranded destinies may hail them
and drive off? But there they sit, placid enough, with a pipe and the
afternoon paper. The light, fluttering dresses of enigmatic fair ones
pass gayly on the pavement. Traffic flows, divides, and flows on, a
sparkling river. Here is that mystery, a human being, buying a cigar.
Here is another mystery asking for a glass of frosted chocolate. Why is
it that we cannot accost that tempting riddle and ask him to give us an
accurate precis of his life to date? And that red-haired burly sage, he
who used to bake the bran muffins in the little lunchroom near by, and
who lent us his Robby Burns one night--what has become of him?

So she teases us, so she allures. Sometimes, on the L, as one passes
along that winding channel where the walls and windows come so close,
there is a felicitous sense of being immersed, surrounded, drowned in a
great, generous ocean of humanity. It is a fine feeling. All life
presses around one, the throb and the problem are close, are close. Who
could be weary, who could be at odds with life, in such an embrace of
destiny? The great tall sides of buildings fly open, the human hive is
there, beautiful and arduous beyond belief. Here is our worship and here
our lasting joy, here is our immortality of encouragement. Yes, perhaps
O. Henry did say the secret after all: "He saw no longer a rabble, but
his brothers seeking the ideal."

VESEY STREET

[Illustration]

The first duty of the conscientious explorer is to study his own
neighbourhood, so we set off to familiarize ourself with Vesey Street.
This amiable byway (perhaps on account of the proximity of Washington
Market) bases its culture on a solid appreciation of the virtue of good
food, an admirable trait in any street. Upon this firm foundation it
erects a seemly interest in letters. The wanderer who passes up the
short channel of our street, from the docks to St. Paul's churchyard,
must not be misled by the character of the books the bibliothecaries
display in their windows. Outwardly they lure the public by Bob
Ingersoll's lectures, Napoleon's Dream Bo