y chins.... Hullo! here is a sign, "Headquarters of the Save
New York Committee." Hum! Save from what? There was a time when the
great charm of New York lay in the fact that it didn't want to be saved.
Who is it that the lions in front of the Public Library remind us of? We
have so often pondered. Let's see: the long slanting brow, the head
thrown back, the haughty and yet genial abstraction--to be sure, it's
Vachel Lindsay!

We defy the most resolute philosopher to pass along the giddy, enticing,
brilliant vanity of that superb promenade and not be just a little moved
by worldly temptation.

SUNDAY MORNING

It was a soft, calm morning of sunshine and placid air. Clear and cool,
it was "a Herbert Spencer of a day," as H. G. Wells once remarked. The
vista of West Ninety-eighth Street, that engaging alcove in the city's
enormous life, was all freshness and kempt tranquillity, from the gray
roof of the old training ship at the river side up to the tall red spire
near Columbus Avenue. This pinnacle, which ripens to a fine claret
colour when suffused with sunset, we had presumed to be a church tower,
but were surprised, on exploration, to find it a standpipe of some sort
connected with the Croton water system.

Sunday morning in this neighbourhood has its own distinct character.
There is a certain air of luxurious ease in the picture. One has a
feeling that in those tall apartment houses there are a great many
ladies taking breakfast in negligee. They are wearing (if one may trust
the shop windows along Broadway) boudoir caps and mules. Mules, like
their namesakes in the animal world, are hybrid things, the offspring of
a dancing pump and a bedroom slipper. They are distinctly futile, but no
matter, no matter. Wearing mules, however, is not a mere vanity; it is
a form of physical culture, for these skimpish little things are always
disappearing under the bed, and crawling after them keeps one slender.
Again we say, no matter. This is no concern of ours.

[Illustration]

Near Broadway a prosperous and opulently tailored costume emerges from
an apartment house: cutaway coat, striped trousers, very long pointed
patent leather shoes with lilac cloth tops. Within this gear, we
presently see, is a human being, in the highest spirits. "All set!" he
says, joining a group of similars waiting by a shining limousine. Among
these, one lady of magnificently millinered aspect, and a smallish man
in very new and shiny riding