feebly several perches to the north and commits suicide in a merry little cul-de-sac frequented by journeymen carpenters, who bury it in their sweet-smelling shavings.
O blessed little Ludlow street! You are to Philadelphia what the old book stalls on the Seine bank are to Paris, what Charing Cross Road is to London. You are the home and haunt of the shyest, sweetest Muses there are: the Muses of old books. The Ludlow Street Business Men's Association, in convention assembled, drinks a beaker of Tom and Jerry to your health and good fortune!
WILD WORDS WE HAVE KNOWN
About noon on Saturday the city heaves a sigh of relief. Indeed, it begins a little earlier than that. About eleven-forty even the most faithful stenographer begins to woolgather. Letters dictated in that last half hour are likely to be addressed "Mrs. Henrietta Jenkins, Esq.," or "Miss John Jones." The patient paying teller has to count over his notes three times to be sure of not giving a five instead of a one. The glorious demoralization spreads from desk to desk. No matter who we are or how hard we have worked, it is Saturday noon, and for a few hours we are going to forget the war and spend our pocketful of carefree fresh-minted minutes. As Tom Daly, the poet laureate of Philadelphia, puts it—
