bells, of
frowsy women, of men who dart around corners with pitchers, their coat
collars turned up to hide the absence of linen. One day Fanny found
herself at Fifty-first street, and there before her lay Washington Park,
with its gracious meadow, its Italian garden, its rose walk, its lagoon,
and drooping willows. But then, that was Chicago. All contrast. The
Illinois Central railroad puffed contemptuous cinders into the great
blue lake. And almost in the shadow of the City Hall nestled Bath-House
John's groggery.

Michigan Avenue fascinated her most. Here was a street developing before
one's eyes. To walk on it was like being present at a birth. It is one
of the few streets in the world. New York has two, Paris a hundred,
London none, Vienna one. Berlin, before the war, knew that no one walked
Unter den Linden but American tourists and German shopkeepers from the
provinces, with their fat wives. But this Michigan Boulevard, unfinished
as Chicago itself, shifting and changing daily, still manages to take on
a certain form and rugged beauty. It has about it a gracious breadth. As
you turn into it from the crash and thunder of Wabash there comes to you
a sense of peace. That's the sweep of it, and the lake just beyond, for
Michigan avenue is a one-side street. It's west side is a sheer mountain
wall of office buildings, clubs, and hotels, whose ground floors are
fascinating with specialty shops. A milliner tantalizes the passer-by
with a single hat stuck knowingly on a carved stick. An art store shows
two etchings, and a vase. A jeweler's window holds square blobs of
emeralds, on velvet, and perhaps a gold mesh bag, sprawling limp and
invertebrate, or a diamond and platinum la valliere, chastely barbaric.
Past these windows, from Randolph to Twelfth surges the crowd: matinee
girls, all white fox, and giggles and orchids; wise-eyed saleswomen from
the smart specialty shops, dressed in next week's mode; art students,
hugging their precious flat packages under their arms; immigrants,
in corduroys and shawls, just landed at the Twelfth street station;
sightseeing families, dazed and weary, from Kansas; tailored and sabled
Lake Shore Drive dwellers; convention delegates spilling out of the
Auditorium hotel, red-faced, hoarse, with satin badges pinned on their
coats, and their hats (the wrong kind) stuck far back on their heads;
music students to whom Michigan Avenue means the Fine Arts Building.
There you have the west side.