ted
against the life of the slum. I resented the familiarity of my vulgar
neighbors. I felt myself defiled by the indecencies I was compelled to
witness. Then it was I took to running away from home. I went out in
the twilight and walked for hours, my blind feet leading me. I did
not care where I went. If I lost my way, so much the better; I never
wanted to see Dover Street again.

But behold, as I left the crowds behind, and the broader avenues were
spanned by the open sky, my grievances melted away, and I fell to
dreaming of things that neither hurt nor pleased. A fringe of trees
against the sunset became suddenly the symbol of the whole world, and
I stood and gazed and asked questions of it. The sunset faded; the
trees withdrew. The wind went by, but dropped no hint in my ear. The
evening star leaped out between the clouds, and sealed the secret with
a seal of splendor.

A favorite resort of mine, after dark, was the South Boston Bridge,
across South Bay and the Old Colony Railroad. This was so near home
that I could go there at any time when the confusion in the house
drove me out, or I felt the need of fresh air. I liked to stand
leaning on the bridge railing, and look down on the dim tangle of
railroad tracks below. I could barely see them branching out,
elbowing, winding, and sliding out into the night in pairs. I was
fascinated by the dotted lights, the significant red and green of
signal lamps. These simple things stood for a complexity that it made
me dizzy to think of. Then the blackness below me was split by the
fiery eye of a monster engine, his breath enveloped me in blinding
clouds, his long body shot by, rattling a hundred claws of steel; and
he was gone, with an imperative shriek that shook me where I stood.

So would I be, swift on my rightful business, picking out my proper
track from the million that cross it, pausing for no obstacles, sure
of my goal.

[Illustration: I LIKED TO STAND AND LOOK DOWN ON THE DIM TANGLE
OF RAILROAD TRACKS BELOW]

After my watches on the bridge I often stayed up to write or study. It
is late before Dover Street begins to go to bed. It is past midnight
before I feel that I am alone. Seated in my stiff little chair before
my narrow table, I gather in the night sounds through the open window,
curious to assort and define them. As, little by little, the city
settles down to sleep, the volume of sound diminishes, and the
qualities of particular sounds stand out. T