CopyrigMH? /f^.J. COEflRIGHT DEPOSIT. ON THE SIDEWALK By ROLAND CORTHELL THE CORNHILL PUBLISHING COMPANY BOSTON, MASS. Mi 0* Copyright 1921 by THE CORNHILL PUBLISHING CO. £)CU654219 DEC 17 1921 THE PILGRIM PRESS BOSTON AA °l CONTENTS PAGE The Unconquerable Soul 3 A Gracious Salutation 5 A Serpent in the Garden 7 The Happy Pals 9 Unexpected Treasure 11 Needless Noise 13 Heels 16 The Giant 18 Dignity on Four Feet 20 The Waster 24 A Deserted City 26 The Man with a Grouch 29 The Man with the Ecstatic Face 32 Comrades 33 A Thrifty American 35 Hats 38 Accepted at Last 41 Now or Never . 43 3X1 = 9 45 "Hello" 48 The Man with the Broken Heart .... 50 Honest Boys 52 The Traffic Cop 54 Pure Gold 53 Mr. Micawber 58 One Peony 60 ON THE SIDEWALK To MY WIFE PREFACE These little stories are mainly the simple record of people and incidents I have seen in my morning walks across the business section of one of our great cities. He who traverses the city streets with eyes on the pavement below or the sky above or anywhere else but on the people he meets, misses many a sight worth seeing, and fails to get acquainted with many a rare character. He is walking through an art gallery, crowded with living pictures. If he will only look at them he will see rare and splendid canvasses. R. C. THE UNCONQUERABLE SOUL Speaking of the strangers we meet in the street and who stand out from the crowd, there is a woman I pass very often whom I have named "The Uncon- querable Soul" — big and meaningful words — but none too good for her if I read her character aright. She is a little woman — a poor woman — a working woman — a foreigner I think, fifty-five or sixty years of age. She has suffered and struggled against a hard fate, I know — and the future is evidently a future of toil, and yet there shines from her face the light of a spirit within, whose flame is unquenchable. The strong winds of evil fortune only fan it into a brighter radiance. The thin lips — the straight mouth — the bright eye — the alert step — all tell their story of an uncon- querable soul. Disaster — sickness — poverty, even, may come, but I can't imagine that little face otherwise than calm and brave. How inspiring such a personality ! How it rebukes our discouragements and weaknesses ! How it says, "Be strong — strong to bear — strong to do — strong to resist." 3 On the Sidewalk When I look at this poor little woman, I think of the great words of Tennyson's Ulysses: "Though much is taken, much abides ; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved heaven and earth ; that which we are, we are, One equal temper of heroic hearts Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive — to seek — to find and not to yield." A GRACIOUS SALUTATION The other afternoon I saw coming toward me a pleasant-faced lady leading by the hand the finest little chap you ever saw. He couldn't have been more than a year and a half old, had on a jaunty little cap and clothes to match, had a sweet, round, serious, little face, with great, beautiful brown eyes. He was indeed a little fellow to admire and love. He was prettier than any picture and I looked him full in the face as he passed, my heart full of happy thoughts at the sight of such a charming little man. He looked straight back at me and with the same serious look in his great eyes, gracefully saluted me with two or three gentle up-and-down motions of his little hand. I repaid him with a loving and appreci- ative smile, and was repaid with an answering smile from the proud and happy mother. Dear little fellow ! I have thought of him a score of times since, and shall again and again recall his recognition of one whom he happened to meet as he was commencing his journey through the great world where I most earnestly hope a thousand beautiful things and splen- did experiences await him. Could anything, after all, be more touching than a wave of the hand from a baby, just beginning his 5 On the Sidewalk voyage across life's sea to an older voyager whose shallop has sailed many a league? The little chil- dren ! Unchanged by all the turmoil and pain and perplexity and catastrophes of the world, as inno- cent and hopeful and confident today as they were in the ancient days when the world was new with its record of sin and sorrow unwritten. They are indeed the salt that preserves the race from becoming stale and hopeless. They are the stars that illumine the dark night of human life, the flowers that delight the eye, the treasures which enrich a hundred million homes and keep alive hope and sanity and courage in countless hearts. The little children are indeed the hope of the race. To them the old and weary world will pass the torch of endeavor and the problems of life and the burdens of labor and thought, and their brave young spirits will laugh at the responsibilities thus forced upon them and "carry on" till they in turn pass the burden to other fresh, young enthusiasts. A SERPENT IN THE GARDEN The great war is over, but is the world at peace? By no means. They say there are twenty-two little wars in Europe now, and new ones soon to burst their shells. I don't mean fire shells which will burst, but come out of their shells the way chickens do. And have you not noticed the universal unrest and abnormal discontent throughout our own country? Our morale is deteriorating. There is no mistake about it. A certain irritability, a quarrelsomeness, an ungovernable and unreasonable cynicism, seem to have seized on the hearts of the people as I write. Most of us go around with a chip on our shoulders. In a word, we are ready for a "scrap." What has "come over us?" Is it the aftermath of the war? I doubt it. After people have fought four years they ought to be unusually docile. No ! The explanation is nearer home than that. The cause of this "letting down" in our dispositions is found in ten thousand places in our towns and cities, and always where people "most do congregate." The cause, the sole cause, is the penny-in-the-slot machine. To illustrate, only yesterday a good-looking, pleasant-faced, mild-mannered, well-dressed man of forty or forty-five approached one of the omnipresent 7 On the Sidewalk receptacles of chocolate, chewing gum, etc., dropped a penny into the slot, pushed the plunger, felt for the dainty package, didn't find it, pushed again, and in an instant that quiet, unassuming gentleman was transformed into a raging Bolshevist. Charged with righteous indignation and uncontrollable disgust, he fairly shouted, "That's gone to ." And then he began a shaking of the exasperating machine which would have meant its complete destruction had it not been built like a sky-scraper, doubtless to withstand just such anticipated onslaughts. As I walked away from him slowly for fifty or sixty feet he was still rattling the dry bones of the heartless contrivance, vainly, I fear, seeking to get his money back. Did I blame him? Not in the least. I really felt like helping him. I knew exactly how he felt. Who doesn't? Somebody ought to bring a suit for dam- ages against the soulless corporation that owns these demoniacal contrivances, placing the damages at $1000, made up as follows: Pecuniary loss $ 0.01 Mental distress 499.99 Irreparable injury to disposition 500.00 Total $1000.00*^ If I were the judge, he would win the case. THE HAPPY PALS On my morning walks across the city it is a great experience to meet the Happy Pals. They are so full of vitality — so congenial — so sociable — so running over with the fine joy of whole- some comradeship, that one glance at them sets one's nerves tingling with new courage and adven- ture. They never cross the city alone, I judge, and I have never seen either with anyone but the other. They are inseparable. I wonder how long this rare friendship has been going on. Neither appear to be less than thirty years of age. He is a fine-looking fellow, always smooth-shaven, with a pleasant eye, a mouth that speaks of strength as well as tenderness, a man to tie to. She is an attractive woman, not because of her beauty, but because of her tingling vitality, expressing itself in every step, every movement of head or hand, in the keen eye and the vivacious speech. She does the bulk of the talking. He is an ideal listener. I have never passed them but once when they were not talking. It was so strange, almost abnormal, that they were both silent that I felt a distinct shock of alarm. But I am sure that before many seconds 9 On the Sidewalk had passed, she had ended the unaccustomed break in their morning chat. What is the relationship back of this charming comradeship? Are they man and wife — brother and sister — lovers — or just pals? Are they united by any bonds save those of a whole-hearted, natural, beautiful friendship? Is not such a friendship possible? If I never see them again, I shall never forget them. I can see them as I write coming toward me — shoul- der touching shoulder — walking with firm, quick steps — every movement telling its story of abundant mental and physical life — each satisfied with the other — both cheerful — hopeful — energetic — content. They have preached to me a sermon on the blessings of pure friendship. What is there finer or more worth while in the whole world? 10 UNEXPECTED TREASURE I took a little walk after lunch the other noon and, as usual, kept both eyes open for interesting people and incidents. I was walking through a poor, obscure street, where one naturally expects to see the grays and drabs of life, when two girls thirteen or fourteen years old turned the corner of a street yet more ob- scure. They were dressed in white, with wide red turn- over collars, and looked very natty, indeed. Glancing at their faces, imagine my surprise and delight to see before me a face which instantly recalled that famous picture of Queen Louise of Prussia, idolized by her people, not only for her marvelous beauty, but for her gentleness, her nobility and her kindness. Usu- ally reproduced as a portrait only, the original pic- ture depicts her descending a palace stairway. This young girl had the same lovely contour of features, the same wonderful eyes, the same sweet strong mouth, the same irresistible oharm, the same com- pelling beauty. I have been startled before to see girls tastefully dressed, with intelligent, attractive faces, emerge from homes where one would not expect such denizens. I am not sure that in a beauty contest the slums might not equal, if not outdo, the aristocratic quarter. 11 On the Sidewalk The exit of these stylishly dressed girls from obscure and poor homes is only another case of the dreary cocoon and the gorgeous moth, the forbid- ding ooze of the stagnant pool and the exquisite pond lily that floats upon its surface. It's not wise to decide too hastily what's behind the forlorn doors of those humble homes. They may shelter unex- pected treasure. 12 NEEDLESS NOISE The unavoidable noises of civilization are multi- tudinous and nerve-racking. There are streets in Boston where the din of passing traffic is tremendous. How business is transacted in the stores of such streets is a mystery. Conversation would seem to be impossible. How a customer makes known his wants, I can't for the life of me, see. What a din there is ! Rattling, bumping, thump- ing street cars, carts, trucks, drays and autos all contributing their share of commotion to the agi- tated air. Shrieks, toots, hoots, groans, growls, barks, howls, whistles, squawks, honks, screeches, cackles, squeals, grunts and yells of auto horns, not to mention many lesser noises, all combine to make a pandemonium of sound fitted to send the average man for rest to the primeval forest or a lofty hilltop. But there is one thing worse than this necessary racket of modern life, and that is the needless noises for which there is no excuse. They aggravate the sensitive soul as nothing else can, first, because they are ear-splitting and, second, because there is no excuse for them. They would seem to be the work of some malicious demon, who is seeking to ruin the race. The other day, I sat for fifteen minutes in the 13 On the Sidewalk waiting-room of a suburban car line. Hundreds of people enter and leave it every day. A screen door kept out some of the flies. This door had a spring of tremendous power. Each time the door was used that demoniacal spring slammed it with a crash which made me jump from my seat. It was terrible. And yet from morning till night, day in and day out, Sundays and holidays included, all summer long that infernal slamming will doubtless continue. Now, for the modest sum of ten or fifteen cents a nice little rubber device can be purchased, which any boy could put in place in three minutes, which would make the shutting of that door a pleasant thing to contem- plate. The rubber receives the full shock quietly and then permits the door to find its place noiselessly. But there is something worse even than this and that is the costly and efficient door-check working by compressed air, which is not properly adjusted. Steam railroad stations seem to be the worse offend- ers. I have been in a station where the great doors shut with a deafening crash, simply because the little adjusting screw needed a turn to right or left. Awhile ago I was in a station where there was such an exasperating condition. Nobody was in sight. I stealthily made my way to the seat almost under the check, mounted the seat, gave the little screw a twist, opened the door and let it go back. Marvelous change ! It moved quickly until nearly closed, then hesitated and slowly and gently completed its jour- 14 Needless Noise ney, with a pleasant little click as the latch found its resting-place. Thus easily and quickly had that station been transformed from purgatory to para- dise. A month later I happened in the same station and that lovely check was still shutting the door as gently as though fearing to disturb a sleeping child. 15 HEELS As a rule, I mean to live up to Edward Everett Hale's great motto: "Look up, and not down, Look forward and not back, Look out and not in, and Lend a hand." But yesterday morning, in my walk across the city, I looked down and not up. I read of a man who found one day a silver dollar on the sidewalk and the rest of his life looked down, hoping to find another, but I wasn't imitating him. No ! I was looking at heels. I've looked at heads every morning for a year, and thought, for a change, I'd go to the other extreme, and well was I repaid for my enter- prise. But bear in mind, I wasn't looking at men's heels. They are all alike, — low, broad, substantial, comfortable. There are no exceptions. But ladies' heels are in a different category. A contest is running in a daily paper as I write in which the participants answer the question, "Is woman inferior to man?" I have read a dozen of these really able and often brilliant little essays, but 16 Heels marvel that nobody has seized upon an everyday exhibition of woman's superiority, physically, men- tally and morally, as proved by the heels of her boots and shoes. When I was a nimble boy I used to walk on stilts. I found it even then a most precarious mode of loco- motion. But I saw women walking yesterday morn- ing on fully as delicate and treacherous supports, viz. : those amazing French heels, shaped like an hour- glass, but with the base shrunk to the size of a dime. Now to be able to walk at all on heels like these requires three things — courage, brains and skill. Does man possess them in sufficient degree for this supreme test? Hardly. You might crowd the shoe store windows of Boston with men's boots with French heels and never sell a pair. No mere man has the physical courage to attempt perambulation thus handicapped. And had he the courage, he hasn't the skill to perform the feat gracefully and safely, nor the brains to tell him how to do it. No ! Thrice no ! The French heel. proves man's inferiority to the weaker (?) sex in the whole realm of existence. 17 THE GIANT There's no use denying it — bigness is impressive. The Himalayas — the ocean — the starry heavens owe much of their sublimity to their Titanic bigness. A big man — other things being equal — has a distinct advantage over a little one. I suppose every little man who ever lived wished he was tall and large. I doubt if any six-footer ever wished he had been five feet or even five feet and eleven inches. Why, even the mighty Napoleon, it is said, never was reconciled to the fact that he was diminutive and doubtless envied every big man he met. And I'll wager you that the doughty Lloyd George even, with his sublime self-reliance and self-confidence, often wishes he were a few inches taller. As to small women I am not quite so confident. It is well known that the petite style of feminine beauty is attractive to many men — even large men — on the principle, I suppose, that small packages are often the most valuable, and yet I doubt if you can find any diminutive beauty — no matter how bewitch- ingly beautiful — who does not envy her tall and stately sisters who sweep through the world like queens. By the way, can you think of a queen as little? I can't. 18 The Giant I'm led to these reflections by the fact that nearly every morning I meet in my walk to my office a man so tall and large that I have named him "The Giant." He must be six feet two or three inches — with weight in proportion. Not an ounce too much or too little — erect, energetic — a great, handsome, imposing giant of a man. It is worth a long walk to meet him. He is always with some friend, always chatting and smiling, always swinging along with an ease and energy that marks the gait of the man who is "fit." I think he is a busi- ness man. I can't think of him as a lawyer — or banker, even. I am sure he handles some big business and handles it, I'll warrant you, with the ease, the celerity, the accuracy, the sound judgment with which any of us perform our simple daily tasks. He looks like a man that would be not only fair with his employees, but considerate and even generous. I don't believe he will have any strikes to bother him. He is big — physically, mentally, and, shall I say, socially. To him a man's a man, be he the jani- tor or a bank president. A big body, a big mind, a big soul — there's a combination that is irresistible. I like to meet my giant. I hope I'll see him this morning. 19 DIGNITY ON FOUR FEET In my diurnal journeys across the city my thoughts are mainly absorbed by study of the faces, physiques, dress and gait of the human beings I meet — several thousand each morning, I imagine. Some morning I'm going to count them and settle this question of numbers. But my mind is never too occu- pied to observe a certain four-footed lady who resides in a cigar store I pass, provided she is tak- ing her morning survey of the world in front of the open doorway of the tobacco emporium above mentioned. The fact is, I love cats. I'm not ashamed to declare it ; for, so doing, I find myself enrolled in a shining company of the great, whose affection has been lavished on favored specimens of the genus Felis — family Felidae. In the impressive category of cat- lovers I find such names as Mohammed, Petrarch, Chateaubriand, Wolsey, Montaigne, Victor Hugo, Cowper, Sir Walter Scott and Dr. Johnson. I need mention only one of the living admirers of pussy, viz., Agnes Repplier, the famous essay- ist, whose charming book, "The Fireside Sphinx," should make every cat in Christendom her loyal friend. 20 Dignity on Four Feet Worshipped the Cat Had I lived in the great days of Ancient Egypt, I'm sure I should have worshipped the cat as did all the rest of that mighty empire. Had my span of life been allotted me in the twilight years of the dark ages, I'm sure I would not have hated and persecuted the cat as the chosen emissary of the devil as did the common run of superstitious humanity in that long and dismal epoch. But born under the bright skies of a noble civilization, in the company of the humane, the tender-hearted, the discerning, I am proud to be not only the friend but the ardent admirer of the modern pussy. The cigar dealer's cat is a beauty — a pure Maltese, not even wearing a white j abot or white-toed slippers. Last summer I fell in love with her the first morning my eyes lighted upon her, sitting quietly just back from the inner edge of the sidewalk, looking not with curiosity, but with a certain dainty aloofness at the passing procession of two-legged creatures. I stopped, stooped and introduced myself with a gentle pat on her head. She shrank with a certain offended dignity from this unasked familiarity, and then resumed her stately posture of calm observation. As the days passed I found myself wondering each morn- ing if she would be in her accustomed place, and nearly every morning, to my renewed pleasure. I found her there — always dainty in appearance, digni- fied in bearing and reserved in manner. 21 On the Sidewalk A hundred times through the hot summer and the golden autumn she received my morning salutation, but always with that slight but expressive shrinking. She seemed to say, "Really, sir, your continued unsought familiarity is somewhat, though not unbear- ably, offensive to me, and if it gives you any appre- ciable pleasure, I shall endure it with the calm resignation which a proper sympathy for the strange customs of your species naturally engenders. As to reciprocating the affection which your action, words and tones express, that is out of the question. I may respect you, but anything beyond that is impossible." In Her Old Place As the cold days of the late fall came, followed by those of winter, I missed this self-centred lady from her usual place, but once or twice caught glimpses of her pretty form and beautiful robe of fur as she sat still calmly and quietly on the marble floor of her master's store. But yesterday morning, to my great joy, my eyes were greeted as I walked toward her home with the charming picture of the dainty Mal- tese pussy sitting in her old place by the sidewalk. I was impelled to lift her from the tessellated floor and give her an affectionate caress, but her quiet aloofness restrained me as effectually as would the hand of a majestic policeman. I only gave expres- sion to my admiration and affection with a very, very gentle pat ! But, alas ! there was neither answering 22 Dignity on Four Feet smile nor appreciative movement of her dainty body. Nevertheless, my adoration is unabated and I look forward this very morning as I write these lines to my brief morning salutation an hour hence. 23 THE WASTER If there is any one thing today worse than profit- eering, than extravagance, than chronic discontent, than any other of the harpies that prey upon our peace and prosperity, that thing is waste. As one has said: "With more feet than shoes, more heads than hats, more backs than coats, more people than houses, more mouths than food," that anybody should deliberately waste anything is shocking, and shows a temper so thoughtless, a sympathy so petri- fied, a civic spirit so utterly dead, a mind so unfitted for life and its duties as to discourage the most ardent optimist. I saw an exhibition of this shameless spirit of waste the other day that recurs to my mind again and again. A man was putting upon the sidewalk ash cans to be removed by the city. He was employed by a great and widely known corporation. I passed these cans and looked into them. What I saw shocked me. I saw a few ashes, but more unburned coal, great, glistening "black diamonds," utterly unscorched even, as big as a large teacup, not even half-buried in the few ashes around them. If the conditions on the surface continued to the bottom each can con- tained many hodfuls of coal worth fifteen dollars a ton. 24 The Waster I called the man's attention to this criminal waste, and he replied that three men were looking after the fires, and that he had nothing to do but wheel out what they prepared for him. They were evidently too dainty or too lazy or too utterly indifferent even to pick out the costly unburned fuel, or do the rules of the union forbid a fireman thus to soil his hands? At any rate, if all the ashes that come from the stoves and heaters of this great business enterprise are accompanied by a similar proportion of costly unburned fuel the ag^re^ate daily waste must be startling in its magnitude. There are laws against most everything nowadays. Is there one against waste ? 25 A DESERTED CITY The difference between the business section of the city Saturday morning and Sunday morning is that between purgatory and paradise — pandemonium and peace. Such a walk any week-day morning is a journey through "confusion worse confounded" ; rattling elec- trics, rumbling drays, shrieking autos, hurrying throngs, combine to startle the ear, shock the eye and lacerate the spirit. How different Sunday morning, when "all the air a solemn stillness holds." The streets, broader apparently than usual, are deserted. In the distance a lone pedestrian may perhaps be seen moving slowly as though in deep meditation. The massive buildings, so quiet in their Sabbath repose, calm the spirit of the wanderer at their feet. The transformation in twenty-four hours is tremendous. One can hardly believe it. I felt a strange and inde- scribable peace as if all the world were tranquilly moving toward its final destiny like a planet in its orbit. There was no jar, no strife, no eager haste, no wars and rumors of wars. There was instead, a soul-satisfying peace. In a walk as set forth above, I met an occasional man, quietly making his way to his destination, as 26 A Deserted City was I. I saw not a single woman or child. One man was leisurely studying the contents of a store win- dow ; five sleepy shoe polishers lounged in their place of business, while the sixth of their number gently rubbed the shoes of a patron who nodded in the com- fortable armchair provided for customers ; two repre- sentatives of the P. W. D. slowly, almost reverently, filled a hole in F street, two United States mail autos wound their way to the railroad stations ; two Armstrong Express trucks slowly moved along, piled high with travellers' trunks ; two or three empty taxis, out too early for even the proverbially doomed early worm, pursued their profitless way; a little flock of not over-hungry or over-hurrying doves mechanically picked up a few stray oats left over from Saturday's banquet; three English sparrows, too sleepy to quarrel, hopped listlessly in the gutter. Animal life was almost entirely absent. Not a horse- drawn vehicle met my eye, not a dog was seen or heard. I saw one solitary electric car with four or five people huddled in one corner as though seeking human companionship in the almost oppressive silence. One lone pussy, locked for thirty-six hours in her home, a fish market, explored the great empty window enclosure and expressed her desire for human companionship by rubbing, with arched back, against the great plate-glass window as I knocked upon it to gain her attention. Such a walk on such a morning is a delight. The 27 On the Sidewalk deserted streets, the locked doors, the drawn shades, the great silent business blocks, the quiet so welcome after a week of turmoil, the brooding peace, albeit tinged with the suggestion of sadness, conspire tq uplift and bless the spirit like a gracious benediction. 28 THE MAN WITH A GROUCH Among the myriad mysteries that crowd the uni- verse, there are three that rank with the greatest. They are: The human intellect, The human soul, The human face; and the last is by no means the least. This mystery of the human face is twofold: First — Given one brow, two eyes, one nose, two cheeks, one mouth and one chin — the stupendous con- tract is to produce, with variations of the above, say fifteen hundred million faces, no two of which shall be alike; in fact, they must be so unlike that a man may, as a rule, instantly recognize a friend whom he hasn't seen for years, and may gaze into a crowd of thousands and know that he has never seen one of them before; and Second, and more marvelous yet, each face must be capable of expressing by a slight mobility of the features named, every emotion of which the human soul is susceptible — anger, fear, love, hate, determi- nation, curiosity, indecision, reluctance, disappoint- 29 On the Sidewalk ment, joy, sorrow, despair, indifference; in fact, the Whole range of variation, up and down the gamut of human emotion. And this bewildering desideratum the Great Master Workman easily accomplishes. The above reflections were aroused in my mind the other morning when I passed a man on the sidewalk whose thoughts were as plainly written on his face as the wares of a sandwich man upon his back. He bad a grouch, and he had it bad. His thoughts were really blasphemous. I must soften them down a good deal before the great censor, public taste, will tolerate them on the printed page. In polite language, he was saying to himself : "This world is one condemned failure. I return no thanks to any power that I was ever born. The whole thing is a fiasco. I could make a better world myself. 'People!' Bah! I've no use for them. I hate the sight of a man, woman or child. Confound them! What's going to become of the world, anyhow? If it isn't going to the dogs heels over head, I'm a bigger fool than I think I am. If a primary school couldn't run things better than they are being run, I'd throw the whole lot off the wharf in one big bag." And so he goes on his way, a man forty years old, fairly well-dressed, fairly well-nourished, fairly good- looking, but going through life chewing eternally a miserable, bitter grouch, seeing neither the birds, nor the flowers, nor little children, except to curse them, 30 The Man with a Grouch nor the floating clouds, nor the gorgeous sun, nor the shining stars, nor anything else sweet, or beauti- ful, or sublime. Verily, were we all like him the world would be a failure. 31 THE MAN WITH THE ECSTATIC FACE I have met a man twice lately — so marked in his personality that he certainly deserves a place in my picture gallery of unforgettable people. Is there such a thing as noiseless laughter? If so, that term describes the radiant happiness that beams from this man's face. I doubted the accuracy of my own vision when I looked at him. I have never seen such a face. If a hundred trooping memories — and aspirations — and expectations — each with its airy burden of joy were all together thronging his brain, he could not have looked happier — no ! happier doesn't express my thought — hilarious comes nearer my meaning. Possibly jubilant or ecstatic comes nearer yet. Such a face is an inspiration, except that such a riot of delight seems so unattainable, that one looks on in wonder as he might at some glorified denizen of some other world than this. I would sacrifice much to know this man's thoughts as he passed me this morning. How near I was to him ; and yet what unbridged and unbridgeable spaces separated us. To feel as happy as this man looks seems an impos- sible experience. I don't expect it. If I could only know this ecstatic gentleman's past, present and future, I should be satisfied. 32 COMRADES Did it ever occur to you that it isn't so much individuals as the relation between them that makes the world so interesting? Adam alone in Eden is a gentleman who excites, to some extent, our curiosity and study, but Adam and Eve, living together in Paradise, studying, lov- ing, helping, entertaining each other, are not simply doubly, but a hundred times more interesting. So men and women and children to-day, observed as single entities, appeal to us more or less, but when they come into the intimate relationship of parent and child, man and maid, husband and wife, brother and sister, teacher and scholar, physician and patient, friend and friend, even lawyer and client and mer- chant and customer, then life takes on the richer and deeper meaning. These thoughts came to me the other morning as I was meandering across the city. I met a man and a boy, neither of whom, had I met separately, would have claimed hardly a glance from me. But together, they gave me a pleasure which I love to recall. I felt in an instant, as they passed me, that they were father and son. He was, per- haps, thirty-five years old and the son about thirteen. Neatly dressed and with a satchel, I'm sure they were 33 On the Sidewalk going somewhere in particular and were going to have an "awful" good time. In fact, they were having it already. But it was their beautiful comradeship that captured me. The boy's smile of love, trust and respect was matched by the father's look of affection, sympathy and confidence. They were just as much chums as any two boys could be. That boy would rather be at home evenings with that father than to go to the movies; or perhaps his highest joy is to go to the movies with him. What a sermon such a father preaches to the parent who hasn't time to get acquainted with his son. How secure the future of such a favored youngster! 31 A THRIFTY AMERICAN This morning a well-dressed, good-looking gentle- man, fifty or fifty-five years old, evidently a native New Englander, was walking directly in front of me. He suddenly stopped, picked from the sidewalk a piece of ordinary twine five or six feet long, carefully untied a knot in it, wound it up neatly and put it in his satchel. I felt like taking off my hat to him and saying, "That act on your part gives me pleasure. It is refreshing to see a man who is not ashamed to stoop in order to save, — a man to whom waste is evi- dently an abomination and who can't endure to see anything of any value whatever go unused." We Americans have the undesirable reputation of being the most wasteful people on earth. Waste is shameful. Were I worth a score of millions I should be ashamed to deliberately waste a cent. Waste somehow means the fruitage of a base ingratitude. God, in his goodness, gives us priceless blessings, often in abundance. To fail to make the most of these treasures seems to indicate a want of appreciation not only of the gift but of the giver. How better can a giver judge of the character of the recipient of his gift and especially of the quality 35 On the Sidewalk of his friendship than by noticing how he treats his gift. Indeed, a gift, a real one, is in a sense an outgo of the personality of the giver ; is a part of his best self, and if appreciated, will be treated with a love, a gratitude and a consideration such as the best men accord their friends. Speaking of twine, I shall never forget the exhibi- tion of wastefulness I years ago saw in one of our great department stores. At one counter a young fellow tied up a bundle for me. I watched him as he encircled the package with the beautiful, strong, expensive twine, and noticed that through a careless miscalculation he had left two long ends after the knot was tied. These useless ends he nonchalantly snipped off with his scissors and they fell to the floor. Glancing down, I was shocked to see this careless, unfaithful youth literally wading about in a heap of similar superfluous ends which had accumulated that morning in a few short hours. Perhaps if it had been his twine he would have used a little common sense and avoided the senseless waste. I have no doubt he would. But, no ! It was the company's twine. It cost him nothing, and so he cared no more to save it than though it had been pebbles from the street. It was disgraceful. I have always regretted that I had not preached to him a short sermon on wastefulness and on fidelity and loyalty which he would have remembered to his dying day, or at least that I did not report him to his superior, who, if he 36 A Thrifty American felt as I did, would have discharged him on the spot. Any man or woman, or boy or girl, who will deliber- ately throw away that which has value deserves some day to beg for bread. 37 HATS Man's head is the house in which lives that most mysterious and most majestic of all entities, the human mind. The study of that mind and the revela- tion of it as depicted on the human face has fasci- nated all peoples in all ages, but the face is only the facade of the head, the temple of the spirit. The head's the thing. It's only a short step from the head to the hat which covers and protects it. I've studied heads until I'm tired and have turned to hats for a refreshing change. There are two kinds of hats, men's hats and women's hats. The subdivisions of the former are three, viz. : Derbys, soft felts and stiff straws, these three and no more. There used to be a fourth, the imposing, glossy "stove-pipe," but that can be found now only in museums. Three kinds of hats to meet the individual idiosyncrasies of 20,000,000 or 30,- 000,000 men doesn't seem excessive. It is certainly monotonous. This very morning walking across the city, I met 999 men with straw hats upon as many heads. Of these one was a Panama, two were soft straws and 996 were stiff straws, rigid as a German helmet, and each was like all the rest. Fat men and lean men, 38 Hats black men and white men, tall men and short men, old men and young men — all could, had they worn the same size, have exchanged head coverings and nobody been the wiser or handsomer. But ladies' hats are a different proposition. I met 1437 women this morning and there were not two hats that resembled each other in the remotest degree. Every hat seemed to have grown from the head of its owner and had a personality as real as that of the lady under it. I marvel at the resources of the human kind that can produce 20,000,000 or 30,- 000,000 hats and no two alike. There's something uncanny and superhuman about it. Compare the lot of the designer of men's hats with that of him or her who creates the multitudinous differences in women's headgear. The former has simply to decide to have the brim or crown an eighth of an inch narrower or wider, higher or lower, than last year and he can immedi- ately go on a vacation. But the latter! My brain reels as I contemplate the contract assumed. What mortal mind is equal to it? From what boundless reservoir of ideas is this limitless variety of shapes in straw secured? What objects in earth, or air, or ocean depths suggest these strange, artistic contriv- ances which rest so jauntily and becomingly upon the heads of these myriads of attractive girls and ladies ? But to my mind the most amazing thing of all is 39 On the Sidewalk that any woman can make up her mind which one of these unnumbered shapes and styles to choose. A mar- vellous instinct or superhuman reasoning power enables her to waste no time in making the fateful choice. She sees the right hat at once, buys it, wears it, likes it, looks pretty in it and possibly thanks Providence she isn't compelled, like men, to wear a hat like 30,000,000 other people. 40 ACCEPTED AT LAST Under the title "Dignity on Four Feet" I told the story of my love for a beautiful Maltese Pussy, whose home is a certain well known cigar store. I related my vain attempts, renewed morning after morning and month after month, to win her affection. Only a quiet, persistent and unvarying aloofness rewarded my advances. A gentle movement of the head away from me as I softly patted it, always discouraged more decisive exhibitions of my passion. Yet she was so pretty and dainty and withal so lovable that I could not refrain from the exhibition of an affection which I felt to be hopeless so far as any response in kind was concerned. Imagine my joy then the other morning when softly stroking her pretty robe of fur, she gently but perceptibly moved her head toward me. No lover in real life ever felt a keener and more delightful thrill of happiness when, for the first time, he sees some fleeting but convincing evidence that he is loved, than did I as this pretty four-footed lady expressed a certain pleasure in my advances and a certain reciprocation of my affection. I can see her now, as I write, sitting so gracefully on the tessel- lated floor by the sidewalk, with an endless succession of human beings passing so near to her and yet over- 41 On the Sidewalk looked entirely in her quiet beauty by ninety-nine in a hundred of them, as she watches with subdued interest these towering monsters of a superior (?) race, who are not even aware of her existence, much less of her beautiful home-loving spirit, her dainti- ness, her affection, her gentle manners and tranquil daily life. 42 NOW OR NEVER On the morning of one of the last days of the liquor traffic in our country, I saw a man on E street, at 7 : 30 o'clock, who arrested not only my attention but that of other passers-by. He sat on a low stone step before a door not yet open for busi- ness, sound asleep. Poorly dressed, his face hidden by his hand as his elbow rested on his knee, with bowed head and limp body and befuddled mind, at the hour when he should have been at work, alone and shameless, he told the onlooker the story of his weak- ness and unmanliness. Where had he spent the night? Where was his home? Were wife and children anxiously waiting the return of the husband and father? How would he spend the day when awake and facing the realities of existence? A tremendous temptation must have assailed the drunkard in those last, fleeting, fateful days of June, the temptation to make the most of what seemed like the last chance to gratify the appe- tite for alcohol ! It was a case of now or never. The man who with that appetite as he saw the stern fea- tures of Prohibition coming nearer and nearer could hold himself to his regular allowance of liquor, must have had will enough to tread the appetite under his 43 On the Sidewalk feet if he wished it. It may be that our friend on the stone step, with locked saloon doors just ahead, had yielded to this last temptation and since Tuesday, July 1, forced to be a sober man, is resolutely walking the path of sobriety and will yet become a useful citizen. It has come to my mind that in those expiring days of the liquor business, it was the rich man who deserved the deepest sympathy of us all, the rich man accustomed to the habitual use of intoxicating liquor. To him must have come the powerful temptation to make provision for the approaching years of dryness, to take time by the forelock and put in his cellar a supply of bottled or barrelled "goods" sufficient for many, many years. In those last days the poor man had a distinct advantage over the rich man. The former could indulge a dangerous appetite for only a day, the latter could pander to it for a lifetime. His riches might thus become his undoing. If ever "Blessed be nothing" was sound philosophy, it was in those "rare" days in June. 44 3X1 = 9 An up-to-date automobile is a thing to admire. Its solidity, its graceful lines, its shining surface, its roominess, its evident comfort, its hidden and mys- terious power, its marvelous swiftness of motion — all combine to awaken wonder and admiration. But there is another force, not so swift and not so strong, but possessing qualities which the self-pro- pelled vehicle can never possess — a thing of greater beauty and infinitely finer workmanship, a thing throbbing with life, a thing of intelligence and even affection, and just as responsive to man's bidding, which no machine of man's construction, marvelous as it may be, can ever supplant. You know what I am thinking of — the horse. Man made the automo- bile. God made the horse. Is there a finer sight on our city streets than a great, handsome, well- groomed, clean-limbed, well-nourished horse, faith- fully, steadily and cheerfully pulling its great load, responsive to the slightest wish of its master, the driver? What the picture is to the landscape itself, what the cold statue is to the living man, what the written word is to the thrilling tones of the spoken utterance, what the body is to the spirit — so is the 45 On the Sidewalk machine of inanimate wood and iron to the quivering, breathing, living animal. One beautiful horse is worth the attention of any man or woman. What shall we say of the well- matched pair of horses, harmonious in size and shape, color and action, side by side straining their great muscles in moving a heavy load over the pavement! I think I have discovered a great law — the law of the force of numbers — in equine matters, upon the nor- mal human beholder. If one horse excites a given amount of interest and pleasure, how great will be the effect upon the mind of teams of two or more horses? You will find that this is the law! The effect upon the human mind of varying teams of draught horses is as the square of the number of ani- mals. That is, a span of horses is not simply twice as beautiful and inspiring as one horse, but four times as much so (the square of two being four). When you harness three horses side by side, you will receive exactly nine times as much pleasure as when you gaze upon a single specimen of the genus Equus. If you should combine in one team before some tre- mendous load ten great animals, well matched in shape and size, and of the same or contrasting colors, according to the law stated, you would receive exactly one hundred times the pleasure that one such horse would give you. If you doubt it, try it and see. I saw a team the other morning I can see yet and shall for a long time, — three great, beautiful ani- 46 3X1 = 9 mals harnessed abreast to the handsome wagon of a well-known business house. The two outer horses were light gray, almost white, and one between them pure black. Finely harnessed, plump, smooth and strong, they were pulling their heavy load easily and willingly. Really, the autos were not "in it." The beauty, the life, the straining muscles, the intelli- gent, liquid eyes, the arching necks, the firmly planted feet, the shapely legs, the flowing manes and tails, made a picture which belittle any machine man ever got together. I predict that in the year 3,000 you will see, if you are here, horses, lots of them, on the city streets. 47 "HELLO" I remember once hearing Prof. Southwick, the famous elocutionist, tell a love story by simply repeating again and again the letters of the alphabet. He thus depicted the first meeting of the hero and heroine, the love at first sight of the former, the indifference of the latter gradually overcome by his wooing until an elopement was planned and executed, the overtaking of the unruly pair by the irate father, the stormy interview and happy reconciliation. All this was as plain as a spoken drama or a movie pic- ture and all done by the marvelous expressiveness of the human voice. I recall this because it illustrates my experience yesterday as I walked up S street and met a man whose dress proclaimed him a member of some Catholic brotherhood. He was clean-shaven and his face was kind, intelligent and intellectual. Just after he passed me I heard him utter a clear, clean-cut "Hello." Did you ever stop to think how many and how different emotions that word "Hello" is made to express? You have heard the "Hello" of indifference, the "Hello" of surprise, the "Hello" of cordiality, the "Hello" perhaps of contempt or even hate, or better the "Hello" of kindness or even love. Every feeling of the human soul toward another 48 "Hello" is hidden in those five letters and can be made as plain as day itself. The "Hello" I heard yesterday expressed surprise, cheerfulness, kindness, pleasure and love. It had in it the music of the soul itself. I turned as it was uttered, expecting to see a man, a friend of the speaker. To my surprise and instant joy I saw instead two little children, a boy of three or four and a girl of six, perhaps, on a doorstep across the street. The little fellow had some long leaves of some plant in each hand, and waved them joyfully to his kind friend. The man stopped and spoke some words I could not hear and went cheerily on his way, leaving two happy children and one happy man behind him. I somehow felt that this kind-hearted man had not a loving "Hello" for these two children merely, but for a score of others whom he might know. A "Hello" like his is as much and as clearly the index of the soul of the speaker as a radiant smile tells the story of a loving heart. In fact, one is the audible, the other the visible expression of the immor- tal spirit which we can never otherwise know. 49 THE MAN WITH THE BROKEN HEART There's a man whom I meet nearly every morning who appeals to my sympathy more than any other I have ever seen. He is perhaps thirty years old — of good physique — neatly dressed — in good flesh — and yet, as far as the expression of his face goes, his heart is broken. Do you remember how a little child looks who is on the very verge of bursting into tears? Its brows elevated — its forehead wrinkled — its mouth down at the corners? That is the way he looks. There is in his face no trace of hope or joy or comfort. All — all is lost. Driven by some cruel fate, he goes to his daily toil, wrapped in a shroud of grief. To him there are only leaden skies. No warm sunshine reaches his shivering spirit. Is he thinking of the past — the present or the future, or are these three a trinity of scourges who give his aching heart no surcease of pain ? If I was an artist I could put on canvas every line and feature of this unforgettable face. I see him coming toward me not only in the morn- ing, but often at other times as my thought reverts to him. Sometimes I see him indistinctly approach- ing me as I cross the city and resolve that I will not look at him as he passes. But the impulse to do so 50 The Man with the Broken Heart is irresistible. I simply cannot refrain from looking to see if some ray of hope has not lighted up his sad face, but it is always the same. Has he always looked so or has perhaps some tremendous disaster molded his features permanently into their present con- formation? I would willingly forego many a pleasure to see a smile on the face of this man with the broken heart. But the cheering thought has come to me, that perhaps after all, the real character and life of this man may utterly contradict the impression made by the lines of his physiognomy ; that is, may not nature, in one of her unaccountable freaks — have given him a cast of countenance — a combination of eyes and mouth and features generally — which at rest and irrespective of his mental state, tell the story of a grief which never existed? In other words, is it not possible for a man to look sad and feel jolly? Who knows but in his home our friend is the life of the household — laughing at the small and perhaps the larger trials of daily life — ready to make and enjoy a joke — radiating courage and good cheer even when apparently ready to weep ? Let us hope so. 51 HONEST BOYS I believe most boys are honest. I saw two severely tested the other day and the outcome in each case gave me a renewed confidence in human nature and a satisfaction which still lingers in my memory — and will for many a day. A fruit man was getting his wares in shape for the day's business. Accidentally his pile of oranges yielded to gravitation and half a dozen rolled upon the sidewalk. These he plainly saw. One, however, more adventurous, carried its explorations into the middle of the street. This one he didn't see. A boy just passing did see it and picked it up. It was a beauty. I watched him to see what would happen. He could easily have slipped it into his pocket and gone on his way and later served himself a luscious feast, and the fruiterer been none the wiser and only a little poorer. But the boy never hesitated a second. He hurried with the precious sphere to its owner who received it without, so far as I could see or hear, any expression of thanks except a slight nod of the head. But the boy went on his way with the consciousness — worth more than a box of oranges — that he had acted like a man. But, probably he thought not even 52 Honest Boys this much of his fine action, which he performed as naturally as he breathed. The other test came at night, when at the rush hour in front of the station I bought of a newsboy a copy of my favorite journal. I had no change and handed him a one-dollar bill. He felt in his pockets in vain for the necessary ninety-eight cents, and say- ing, "I'll get it changed," darted into the crowd, a big and solid mass of people, and was lost to view in an instant. The thought came to me, "What a fine chance to make some money easily ! That boy has only to put that bill in his pocket, keep a hundred feet away a few minutes and be just ninety-eight cents 'in'." I waited with great curiosity to see what he would do. I didn't have to wait long. In three minutes he came rushing back like a cyclone and handed me my change. I left him with a strengthened faith in humanity in general and in the integrity of the average boy in particular. 53 THE TRAFFIC COP I have seen many interesting sights in city streets, but none more fascinating than that at the junction of W and H streets, at 8 o'clock on the morning of July 18, the second day of the great strike. The streets were packed with flivvers, autos, trucks and teams going in four different directions. The sidewalks were packed with pedestrians going north, south, east and west. Without some intelligent, resourceful, trained supervision, in two minutes a blockade would have resulted, complicated, inextri- cable and exasperating. Did it? Not at all. All was as orderly as the wide streets of a country vil- lage. Why ? One man, with only two hands and arms to aid him, standing in the very vortex of the possible mael- strom, quietly, without excitement or nervousness or hesitation or delay, directed these opposing currents of traffic and turned impending chaos into ordinary on-going; two motions of those ever-moving hands and the vehicles in H street, moving both north and south, instantly halted, while proper signals to the W street traffic sent it on its way. Mean- while the pedestrians were not forgotten. At proper 54 The Traffic Cop intervals traffic was stopped while they went safely on their way. It was a great sight ! That man, like his brother policemen, in similar centres of traffic, was a master. Those quick, correct decisions, with never an error, fascinated me. Nobody was forgotten. Each received attention at the proper time. Not a second was wasted in hesitation. No motion of those tire- less arms lacked decision. Quick to see, quick to think, quick to act, he won my profound admiration. 55 PURE GOLD My morning walk across the city is, each day, a new adventure. I not only wonder if I shall meet one or more of my old friends, but I wonder how they will look. Will the happy pals be as joyous, the giant as debonair, the man with the broken heart as sad as usual? Will the dainty four-footed lady be in her accustomed place on the tessellated floor? And then there is the quest for new friends. It's like the gold-diggers' search for shining nug- gets. There is a plenty of pyrites, but each morning there is the certainty that I may light upon a yellow nugget of pure gold. And so I keep both eyes wide open as I make my way along the crowded sidewalk, and every now and then am rewarded by seeing a new face so rare and so interesting as to instantly record itself permanently upon my memory. Did you ever think what a marvelous thing a smile is? A little raising of the corners of the mouth, a little wrinkling under the eyes, a little elevation of the cheeks, an intangible, indescribable coming of a new radiance into the eyes themselves, and a stern, or sad, or stupid face is instantly transformed into a thing of beauty sending out a message of light, hope and joy. 56 Pure Gold Who has not seen a smile change even a repellent face, quicker than thought, into something so beauti- ful as to win the heart in a single second ? The other morning I saw a smile which I have recalled a score of times. I wish I could describe it. As I looked down the street I saw a man throwing small pieces of boards from the elevator out upon the sidewalk where a little woman and two little boys were eagerly assisting him and collecting the pieces into a little heap. The mother and the children were poorly but neatly dressed and were working excitedly as they gathered the precious fuel together. Their backs were toward me, but just as I passed them the mother turned and facing me gave to the little fellows a smile so beautiful that I shall never forget it. It was a smile of happiness, of sympathy, of gratitude, of hope, that made her face a radiant thing and swept my own heart with a wave of unexpected pleasure. It spoke so plainly of patient endurance of a hard lot, of deathless hope in the face of obstacles, of a keen sense of genuine gratitude for kindly help, of a great joy in unexpected treasure, of a passionate love for her little boys, of happiness in a humble home. 57 MR. MICAWBER There are some characters in fiction — great fiction — who seem to be immortal. They are so human, they touch the average man at so many points or so closely at one point, that, though they first existed only in the brain of the novelist, yet to our amaze- ment we run into them — living, breathing men — in our journeyings in the world. These observations are truer, perhaps, of Dickens's Mr. Micawber and Mr. Pickwick than of any others that come to mind. Who has not met these simple souls more than once and who has not been happier for the meeting. I'm led to these reflections from the fact that I have twice lately seen Mr. Micawber, face to face, in my morn- ing-journeys across the city. Dead long ago, if indeed, he ever lived at all — yet there he was to my amazement and joy coming toward me. It was dear, simple-minded, true-hearted Micawber himself (no "double" business), to all intents and purposes the original Micawber, just as we think of him in Dickens's favorite child of his brain — the matchless novel — David Copperfield. In the prime of life — complexion like a baby, cheeks like a Baldwin apple, coat too short and too small, a little hat two sizes too small, a great spreading 58 Mr. Micawber necktie, eyes bright as new dimes, bubbling over with optimism (he had just paid his last debt with a nice, fresh I. O. U., no doubt), a broad smile shining on his beaming face, a smile that took in all the world — he was sweeping jauntily along exactly as he did in his happy days in the immortal story. I wish I could meet him every morning. He left me feeling twenty years younger. I experienced a tingle of courage, hope and good cheer in every nerve. The sun somehow shone brighter than usual and everybody seemed like an old friend. Dear old Micawber, how often have we smiled at your childish optimism ! How often smiled even when for a moment despair unutterable overwhelmed your broken spirit ! How often rejoiced with you over returning hope. May the time never come when some simple, but loyal, soul somewhere shall not recall to men the story- teller's immortal Mr. Micawber. 59 ONE PEONY For many weeks I have been closely observing and studying the faces of the hundreds of people I meet each morning on my walk across the city. I have never noticed anybody studying mine, and concluded that students of humanity are scarce, or that I was a member of the colorless fraternity to which so many whom I meet belong. But this morning I was really embarrassed by the attention I excited. I caught scores of people look- ing at me with surprise and even admiration. And what do you suppose caused this unexpected change in the attitude of the public toward me? I will tell you. In my back-yard is a peony bush which bears the most gorgeous rose-colored blooms, monsters, six inches in diameter. It occurred to me that I would like one on my desk today, and so I cut the biggest and handsomest. Instead of wrapping it up and possibly crushing it, I decided to carry it uncovered in my hand. Well! that peony and myself as attached to it was the sole cause of my novel experience. It is very evident that the common run of humanity loves beauty, and it is to their credit. Young men 60 One Peony and old men, maidens and matrons, capitalists and laborers, by the score, looked with admiration and pleasure at my gorgeous flower. One lady at a candy counter dropped her work and gazed at me in wondering admiration. The young man in the market where I stopped to make a purchase expressed his delight as he commented on the size and beauty of nature's wonderful handiwork and recklessly offered me ten cents for my treasure. I really felt embarrassed before I'd got a quarter of the way on my journey. I tried to look absorbed in thought and failed. I tried to swing my prize nonchalantly, as though I lived in an acre field of splendid peonies, but felt that my deception was perfectly transparent. 'Twas only by sheer resolution that I was able to go on without becoming really ridiculous in my bearing and behavior. And, truly, it was a deep relief when I closed behind me the door to the stairway that leads to the office where I daily fight the monster, H. C. L. 61