board
has prescribed entire silence. But midway down the block is a very jolly
little private school, to which very genteel children may be seen
approaching early in the morning. The little girls come with a bustle of
starch, on foot, accompanied by governesses; the small boys arrive in
limousines. They are small boys dressed very much in the English manner,
with heavy woollen stockings ending just below the knee. They probably
do not realize that their tailor has carefully planned them to look like
dear little English boys. Then there is a very mysterious small theatre
near by. If it were a movie theatre, what a boon it would be! But no, it
is devoted to a strange cult called the Religion of Business, which
meets there on Sundays. Before that, there was a Korean congress there.
There is a lovely green room in this theatre, but not much long green in
the box office. Philadelphia prefers Al Jolson to Hank Ibsen.

We have our tincture of vie de Boheme, though, in our little French
table d'hote, a thoroughly atmospheric place. Delightful Madame B., with
her racy philosophy of life, what delicious soups and salads she serves!
Happy indeed are those who have learned the way to her little tables,
and heard her cheerful cry "A la cuisine!" when one of her small dogs
prowls into the dining room. Equally unique is the old curiosity shop
near by, one of the few genuine "notion" shops left in the city (though
there is a delightful one on Market Street near Seventeenth, to enter
which is to step into a country village). This is just the kind of shop
bought by the old gentleman in one of Frank Stockton's agreeable tales,
"Mr. Tolman," in the volume called "The Magic Egg". The proprietress,
charming and conversable lady, will sell you anything in the "notions"
line, from a paper of pins to garter elastic. Then there is the laundry,
whose patrons carry on a jovial game known as "Looking for Your Own."
Every week, by some cheery habit of confusion, the lists are lost, and
one hunts through shelves of neatly piled and crisply laundered garments
to pick out one's own collars, pyjamas, or whatever it may be. The
amusing humour of this pastime must be experienced to be understood.

The little cigar and magazine shop on the corner is the political and
social focus of the neighbourhood. I shall never forget the pallid and
ghastly countenance of the newsdealer when the rumour first went the
rounds that "Hampy" was elected. Every evening a li