nly envelop those who pass through
them, but will penetrate the houses that line them, visiting alike the
sick and the well, increasing the danger of disease to the former, and
diminishing the health and strength of the latter. In proportion as a
city increases in size, large open spaces should be reserved. Parks are
the lungs of the city. They are more than this: they are reservoirs of
oxygen and fresh air. They produce atmospheric currents, which sweep
through and purify the streets. Parks not only offer oxygen to all who
visit them, but distribute a large amount of this prime necessity of
life everywhere in their neighborhood. Without open spaces appropriately
placed, it is impossible, in a large city, to have well ventilated
streets, and to keep the air of the houses sweet and clean. Let us
remember, moreover, that bad ventilation means poisoned air, and that
poisoned air is sure to be followed by a ghastly train of diseases, with
an occasional pestilence to remind the inhabitants what a terrible thing
it is to disregard sanitary laws.

Improved ventilation is by no means the only sanitary good that parks
yield to a city wise enough to possess them. A fraction, and only a
small fraction, of our population, are able to leave the city during the
hot months of the year, for the country. When these favored ones reach
Nahant, Swampscott, or Newport, or some modest farmhouse, or comfortable
dwelling by the side of the many railroads that lead from the foulness
of the city to the purity of the country, or of the mountains, how
gladly and enthusiastically they speak of their escape from heat,
discomfort, and disease, to coolness, comfort, and health! But the mass
of the community,--the artisans and work-people, whose necessities
compel them to remain within the limits of the city,--their families,
children, sick ones and all, have at present no such escape from close
and impure air.

The carrying of little children who are pinched by cholera-infantum, or
spotted by scarlet-fever, or of those who are paralyzed by diphtheria,
or distorted by scrofula, or emaciated by consumption, for a few hours a
day into the pure air and bright sunlight of an open square, has saved
many a life. Many a needless death has occurred, because the city
afforded no such opportunity for escape. A few hours' exposure of a
child on a mother's lap, or in a basket or carriage, to the freshness of
a park, will produce a sleep that never follows opium,