is the real "stuff of triumph" of which the President spoke. And one has only to pass along Wildey street to see that it is fine old native stock. It is an all-American street, of pure native breed, holding out stiffly and cleanly against the invasion of foreign population. The narrow side alleys look back into patches of vivid green; there are flower boxes and vines, and the pavements and marble steps are scrubbed as clean as water and soap will make them. A little further along we found a tavern dispensing Wildey street's favorite drink—pop and porter—and we halted to drink health to the block party.
Beyond Shackamaxon street we struck into the unique silence and quiet cleanliness of "Fishtown." The quietness of those streets of quaint little houses is remarkable: in the golden flood of a warm afternoon they lay with hardly an echo to break the stillness. The prevailing color scheme is green and red: many of the houses are neat cottages built of wood; others are the old parti-colored brick that comes down from ancient days. Almost every house has its little garden, often outlined with whitened shells. It seems like a New England fishing village in the heart of the city. An occasional huckster's wagon rumbles smoothly along the asphalt paving; an occasional tinkle of a piano in some cool, darkened parlor. That is all. I can imagine no haunt of ancient peace more drowsy with stillness and the treble chirp of birds than the tangled and overgrown
