of those tall cliffs of lower Broadway,
nobly terraced into the soft, translucent sky. In that exquisite
clarity and sharpness of New York's evening light are a loveliness
and a gallantry hardly to be endured. At seven o'clock of a May
evening it is poetry unspeakable. O magnificent city (one says),
there will come a day when others will worship and celebrate your
mystery; and when not one of them will know or care how much I loved
you. But these words, obscure and perishable, I leave you as a
testimony that I also understood.

She cannot be merely the cruel Babel they like to describe her: the
sunset light would not gild her so tenderly.

* * * * *

It was a great relief to us yesterday evening to see a man reading a
book in the subway. We have undergone so many embarrassments trying
to make out the titles of the books the ladies read, without running
afoul of the Traveller's Aid Society, that we heaved a sigh of
relief and proceeded to stalk our quarry with a light heart. Let us
explain that on a crowded train it is not such an easy task. You see
your victim at the other end of the car. First you have to buffet
your way until you get next to him. Then, just as you think you are
in a position to do a little careful snooping, he innocently shifts
the book to the other hand. This means you have got to navigate,
somehow, toward the hang-handle on the other side of him. Very well.
By the time the train gets to Bowling Green we have seen that it is
a fattish book, bound in green cloth, and the author's name begins
with FRAN. That doesn't help much. As the train roars under the
river you manage, by leanings and twistings, to see the publisher's
name--in this case, Longmans. At Borough Hall a number of passengers
get out, and the hunted reader sits down. Ten to one he will hold
the book in such a way that you cannot see the title. At Nevins
Street you get a seat beside him. At Atlantic Avenue, as he is
getting off, you propose your head over his shoulder in the jam on
the stairs and see what you are after. "Lychgate Hall," by M.E.
Francis. And in this case, success left us none the wiser.

Atlantic Avenue, by the way, always seems to us an ideal place for
the beginning of a detective story. (Speaking of that, a very jolly
article in this month's _Bookman_, called "How Old Is Sherlock
Holmes?" has revived our old ambition to own a complete set of all
the Sherlock Holmes tales, and we are go