night of the long, weary week, all the currents
and counter-currents of the worker's world were suddenly released. At
the stroke of bell, at the clang of deep-mouthed gong, at the scream of
siren whistle, the sluice-gates were lifted from the great human
reservoirs of factory and shop and office, and their myriad toilers
burst forth with the cumulative violence of six days' restraint.

It was a shabby carnival of nations that jostled one another at this
windy corner--Italian, Spanish, German, Slav, Jew, Greek, with a
preponderance of Irish and "free-born" Americans. The general air was
one of unwonted happiness and freedom. The atmosphere of holiday liberty
was vibrant with the expectation of Saturday-night abandon to fun and
frolic or wild carousal.

For "the ghost had walked" through the workaday world that day, and
everybody had his "envelop" in his pocket. It is a pleasant sensation to
feel the stiff-cornered envelop tucked safely away in your vest pocket,
or in the depths of your stocking, where Henrietta had hidden hers safe
out of the reach of the wily pickpocket, who, she told me, was lurking
at every corner and sneaking through every crowd on that Saturday
evening, which was also Easter Eve.

Easter Eve! I had almost forgotten the fact which accounted for this
more than usual activity on the part of the hurrying crowds, and for the
unmistakable holiday air which Bleecker Street displayed. As far as we
could see, lined up on both sides of the curb were the pushcart
peddlers, and at every step a sidewalk fakir, all crying their Easter
wares.

Henrietta lingered first about one pushcart, then about another, opening
her gaudy side-bag, then shutting it resolutely and marching on,
determined not to succumb to the temptation to squander her hard-earned
pennies. She succeeded admirably until we came upon a picturesque
Italian and his wife who were doing a flourishing business from a
pushcart piled high with sacred images. Henrietta showed a lively
interest in the cut prices at which they were going: ten cents for St.
Peter in a scarlet robe and golden sandals; fifteen cents for St. John
in purple; and only twenty-five for the Blessed Virgin in flowing blue
clasping the Holy Babe.

They were "dirt-cheap," Henrietta declared, as we watched the plaster
casts pass over the heads of the crowd, out of which by and by emerged
our shopmate, little Angela, clasping a Madonna under her arm and
counting her change.

The