in times gone by; but we found to our distress that this also,
like many more of our familiar landmarks, is a prey to the
house-wrecker, and is on its way to become an office building. On our
way back up Broadway it occurred to us to revisit what we have long
considered one of the most impressive temples in our acquaintance, the
lobby of the Telephone and Telegraph Building, on Dey Street. Here,
passing by the enticing little terrace with brocaded chairs and soft
lights where two gracious ladies sit to interview aspiring telephone
debutantes, one stands in a dim golden glow, among great fluted pillars
and bowls of softly burning radiance swung (like censers) by long
chains. Occasionally there is an airy flutter, a bell clangs, bronze
doors slide apart, and an elevator appears, in charge of a chastely
uniformed priestess. Lights flash up over this dark little cave which
stands invitingly open: UP, they say, LOCAL 1-13. The door-sill of the
cave shines with a row of golden beads (small lights, to guide the
foot)--it is irresistible. There is an upward impulse about the whole
place: the light blossoms upward from the hanging translucent shells:
people step gently in, the doors close, they are not seen again. It is
the temple of the great American religion, _Going Up_. The shining gold
stars in the ceiling draw the eye aloft. The temptation is too great. We
step into the little bronze crypt, say "Thirteen" at a venture, and are
borne softly and fluently up. Then, of course, we have to come down
again, past the wagons of spring onions on Fulton Street, and back to
the office.

GRAND AVENUE, BROOKLYN

We have always been a strong partisan of Brooklyn, and when we found
ourself, in company with Titania, set down in the middle of a golden
afternoon with the vista of Grand Avenue before us, we felt highly
elated. Just how these two wayfarers chanced to be deposited in that
quiet serenity, so far from their customary concerns, is not part of the
narrative.

There are regions of Brooklyn, we have always felt, that are too good to
be real. Placid stretches of streets, with baby carriages simmering in
the sun, solid and comfortable brownstone houses exhaling a prosperous
condition of life, tranquil old-fashioned apothecaries' shops without
soda fountains, where one peers in and sees only a solitary customer
turning over the pages of a telephone book. It is all rather like a
chapter from a story, and reminds us of a passag