to be called the "Business Men's Lunch" now has a tendency
to name itself "Luncheonette" or "Milk Bar." But the old decorations
remain. In this one you will see the electric fixtures wrapped in
heavy lead foil, the kind of sheeting that is used in packages of
tea. At the corner of Grand Street is the Sapphire Cafe, and what
could be a more appealing name than that? "Delicious Chocolate with
Whipped Cream," says a sign outside the Sapphire. And some way
farther down (at the corner of White Street) is a jolly old tavern
which looked so antique and inviting that we went inside. Little
tables piled high with hunks of bread betokened the approaching
lunch hour. A shimmering black cat winked a drowsy topaz eye from
her lounge in the corner. We asked for cider. There was none, but
our gaze fell upon a bottle marked "Irish Moss." We asked for some,
and the barkeep pushed the bottle forward with a tiny glass. Irish
Moss, it seems, is the kind of drink which the customer pours out
for himself, so we decanted a generous slug. It proved to be a kind
of essence of horehound, of notable tartness and pungency, very like
a powerful cough syrup. We wrote it off on our ledger as experience.
Beside us stood a sturdy citizen with a freight hook round his neck,
deducing a foaming crock of the legitimate percentage.

The chief landmark of that stretch of West Broadway is the tall
spire of St. Alphonsus' Church, near Canal Street. Up the steps and
through plain brown doors we went into the church, which was cool,
quiet, and empty, save for a busy charwoman with humorous Irish
face. Under the altar canopy wavered a small candle spark, and high
overhead, in the dimness, were orange and scarlet gleams from a
stained window. A crystal chandelier hanging in the aisle caught
pale yellow tinctures of light. No Catholic church, wherever you
find it, is long empty; a man and a girl entered just as we went
out. At each side of the front steps the words _Copiosa apud eum
redemtio_ are carved in the stone. The mason must have forgotten the
_p_ in the last word. A silver plate on the brick house next door
says _Redemptorist Fathers_.

York Street, running off to the west, gives a glimpse of the old
Hudson River Railroad freight depot. St. John's Lane, running across
York Street, skirts the ruins of old St. John's Church, demolished
when the Seventh Avenue subway was built. On the old brown house at
the corner some urchin has chalked the word CRAZY. Per