well
remember the first time I was alluded to in my presence as a native. I
was very indignant. I knew what natives looked like from the cuts I
had pored over. They were a fine, spirited race, very picturesquely
attired, mostly in bows and arrows, and as creatures of romance I
admired them greatly. Persons such as I and my parents were generally
depicted in this connection as fleeing from them. And it did strike me
as an ignoramus kind of thing that I should be called a native. When I
was reasoned with to the effect that I was a native of Indiana, my
resentment but grew. There were no natives in Indiana.

Speaking of efficiency reminds me of the real estate business. I have
recently come somewhat into contact with this business and I have
observed certain outstanding facts about it which I have not seen
commented upon before. To set up in the real estate business one thing
above all else is necessary, that is uncommon familiarity with the word
"imagination." If you are thinking of buying a lot you will meet a
tall, fair man, or a short, dark man (as the case may be), but in any
case as unimaginative-looking a man as you could readily imagine. From
this person you will learn that the thing at the bottom of every great
fortune was imagination. If the location of the lot which you view
strikes you as rather a desolate and barren-looking part of the world
the trouble is not with the location but with you. Forty-second Street
looked worse than that at one time. Thus, I imagine, if you have
sufficient imagination you buy the lot.

It is a remarkable thing that the most startling spectacle in New York
has never struck any one but myself. Forty-second Street puts me in
mind of this. If you were a native of the Sandwich Islands and had
never before been in town and were standing at the South-East corner of
Broadway and Fulton Street at nine o'clock in the morning and were
facing West, you would cry out aghast at this sight: You would see the
quiet, old world grave-yard of St. Paul's Chapel, the funereal stone
urn upon its stone post marking the corner and the leaning headstones
beyond. There is no trumpet sound. But from a mouth at the
grave-yard's side the earth belches forth a host which springs quick
into the new day. It is a remarkable spectacle to contemplate, fraught
with portent and symbol, though the mouth is a subway kiosk, my
Sandwich friend.

Now, there are men who walk about London just as some