t there was when the sun's lower rim was already below the
horizon! We stood on our knees and looked through the little window at
the back of the phaeton. With what suspicion we regarded my grandfather's
driving! Or if Dolly lagged, did it not raise a thought that she, too, was
in the plot against us? The sun sets. We cry out the victor.

The sky flames with color. Then deadens in the east. The dusk is falling.
The roads grow dark. Where run the roads of night? While there is light,
you can see the course they keep across the country--the dust of horses'
feet--a bridge--a vagrant winding on a hill beyond. All day long they are
busy with the feet of men and women and children shouting. Then twilight
comes, and the roads lead home to supper and the curling smoke above the
roof. But at night where run the roads? It's dark beyond the candle's
flare--where run the roads of night.

My brother and I have become sleepy. We lop over against my grandfather--

We awake with a start. There is a gayly lighted horse-car jingling beside
us. The street lights show us into harbor. We are home at last.

The Man Of Grub Street Comes From His Garret

I have come to live this winter in New York City and by good fortune I
have found rooms on a pleasant park. This park, which is but one block in
extent, is so set off from the thoroughfares that it bears chiefly the
traffic that is proper to the place itself. Grocery carts jog around and
throw out their wares. Laundry wagons are astir. A little fat tailor on an
occasion carries in an armful of newly pressed clothing with suspenders
hanging. Dogs are taken out to walk but are held in leash, lest a taste of
liberty spoil them for an indoor life. The center of the park is laid out
with grass and trees and pebbled paths, and about it is a high iron fence.
Each house has a key to the enclosure. Such social infection, therefore, as
gets inside the gates is of our own breeding. In the sunny hours nurses and
children air themselves in this grass plot. Here a gayly painted wooden
velocipede is in fashion. At this minute there are several pairs of fat
legs a-straddle this contrivance. It is a velocipede as it was first made,
without pedals. Beau Brummel--for the velocipede dates back to him--may
have walked forth to take the waters at Tunbridge Wells on a vehicle not
far different, but built to his greater stature. There is also a trickle
of drays and wagons across the park--a mere leakage fro