crated to the best in the drama? On this night I paused for a moment, musing before the portal, somewhat after this manner—for I have always found that things rather than people awaken any latent sentiment and sympathy in my heart—and then again I passed on.
Soon I came to a tiny Chinese shop, although I was still several blocks above Chinatown. The window was stacked with curious crisp waffles or wafers in the shape of lotus flowers, for the religious and sexual symbolism of the Chinese extends even to their culinary functions, and a Chinaman, just inside, was dexterously transferring the rice batter to the irons, which were placed over the fire, turned a few moments, and a wafer removed and sprinkled with dry rice powder, as Richelieu, lacking a blotter, sprinkled pounce on his wet signature. But the shop was not consecrated solely to the manufacture of waffles; there were tea-sets and puppy-cats, all the paraphernalia of a Chinese shop in New York—on the shelves and tables. It was the waffles, and the peanut cakes, however, which tempted me to enter.
Once inside, I became aware of the presence of a Chinese woman at the back of the shop, holding in her arms an exquisite Chinese baby, for all Chinese babies, with their flat porcelain faces, their straight black hair, and their ivory hands, are exquisite. This baby, in green-blue trousers fashioned of some soft silk brocade, a pink jacket of the same material,
