ttle gathering of
local sages meets in the shop; on tilted chairs, in a haze of tobacco,
they while the hours away. In tobacco the host adheres to the standard
blends, but in literature he is enterprising. Until recently this was
the only place I know in Philadelphia where one could get the
_Illustrated London News_ every week.

There are twinges of modernity going on along our street. Some of the
old houses have been remodeled into apartments. There is an "electric
shoe repairer" just round the corner. But the antique dealers and
plumbers for which the street is famous still hold sway; the fine old
brick pavement still collects rain water in its numerous dimpled
hollows, and the yellowish marble horse-blocks adorn the curb. The nice
shabby stables in the little side streets have not yet been turned into
studios by artists, and the neighbourhood's youngest urchins set sail
for Rittenhouse Square every morning on their fleet of "kiddie-cars."
Their small stout legs, twinkling along the pavements in white gaiters
on a wintry day, are a pleasant sight. Even our urchins are notably
genteel. Surrounded on all sides by the medical profession, they are
reared on registered milk and educator crackers. If Philadelphia ever
betrays its soul, it does so on this delightful, bland, and genteel
highway.

PERSHING IN PHILADELPHIA

[Illustration]

The pavement in front of Independence Hall was a gorgeous jumble of
colours. The great silken flags of the Allies, carried by vividly
costumed ladies, burned and flapped in the wind. On a pedestal stood the
Goddess of Liberty, in rich white draperies that seemed fortunately of
sufficient texture to afford some warmth, for the air was cool. She
graciously turned round for Walter Crail, the photographer of our
contemporary, the _Evening Public Ledger_, to take a shot at her.

Down Chestnut Street came a rising tide of cheers. A squadron of mounted
police galloped by. Then the First City Troop, with shining swords.
Fred Eckersburg, the State House engineer, was fidgeting excitedly
inside the hall, in a new uniform. This was Fred's greatest day, but we
saw that he was worried about Martha Washington, the Independence Hall
cat. He was apprehensive lest the excitement should give her a fit or a
palsy. Independence Hall is no longer the quiet old place Martha used to
enjoy before the war.

The Police Band struck up "Hail to the Chief." Yells and cheers burst
upward from the ground li