water on the pavement. In the winter murk there is a
look of Thackeray about the place as though the Sedleys or the Osbornes
might be his neighbors. If there were a crest above his bell-pull he might
even expect Becky Sharp in for tea.

Now that Spring is here

When the sun set last night it was still winter. The persons who passed
northward in the dusk from the city's tumult thrust their hands deep into
their pockets and walked to a sharp measure. But a change came in the
night. The north wind fell off and a breeze blew up from the south. Such
stars as were abroad at dawn left off their shrill winter piping--if it be
true that stars really sing in their courses--and pitched their voices to
April tunes. One star in particular that hung low in the west until the day
was up, knew surely that the Spring had come and sang in concert with the
earliest birds. There is a dull belief that these early birds shake off
their sleep to get the worm. Rather, they come forth at this hour to cock
their ears upon the general heavens for such new tunes as the unfaded
stars still sing. If an ear is turned down to the rummage of worms in the
earth--for to the superficial, so does the attitude attest--it is only that
the other ear may be turned upward to catch the celestial harmonies; for
birds know that if there is an untried melody in heaven it will sound first
across the clear pastures of the dawn. All the chirping and whistling
from the fields and trees are then but the practice of the hour. When the
meadowlark sings on a fence-rail she but cons her lesson from the stars.

It is on such a bright Spring morning that the housewife, duster in hand,
throws open her parlor window and looks upon the street. A pleasant park is
below, of the size of a city square, and already it stirs with the day's
activity. The housewife beats her cloth upon the sill and as the dust flies
off, she hears the cries and noises of the place. In a clear tenor she
is admonished that there is an expert hereabouts to grind her knives. A
swarthy baritone on a wagon lifts up his voice in praise of radishes and
carrots. His eye roves along the windows. The crook of a hungry finger will
bring him to a stand. Or a junkman is below upon his business. Yesterday
the bells upon his cart would have sounded sour, but this morning they
rattle agreeably, as though a brisker cow than common, springtime in her
hoofs, were jangling to her pasture. At the sound--if you are o