cemetery at Thompson street and Columbia avenue, in the hush of a hot summer siesta.
There is a note of grace and comeliness in Wildey street life that one attributes to the good native stock of the inhabitants. The children are clean and rounded and goodly. The little girls have plump calves and crisp gingham dresses and blue eyes; they sit in their little gardens playing with paper dolls. Their brothers, with the mischief and errant humor that one expects of small boys, garnish walls and hoardings with whimsical legends scrawled in chalk. The old family tooth-brush that laid on the floor was one such that amused me. Another was a regrettable allegation that a (presumably absent) playmate was afflicted with "maines." The Mountaineer and I, after studying the context, came to the conclusion that the scourge hinted at was "mange!"
Most thrilling of all, Wildey street becomes more and more maritime. Over the roofs of the houses one sees the masts of ships—always a sight to make the eager heart leap up. Cramps' ship-yard is at hand, and many of the front windows display the starred service cards of the United States Shipping Board. On Richmond street, parallel to Wildey, are ship chandlers' stores, with windows full of brass pulleys and chocks and cleats, coils of rope and port and starboard lanterns. We hurried down toward the waterfront and peeped through the high board fence to see a steamer in drydock for a coat of camouflage.
