Danny walked up the street to the Avenue and then struck northward into the heart of the district where Easter—modern Easter, in new, bright raiment—leads the pascal march. Out of towering brown churches came the blithe music of anthems from the living flowers—so it seemed when your eye looked upon the Easter girl.
Gentlemen, frock-coated, silk-hatted, gardeniaed, sustained the background of the tradition. Children carried lilies in their hands. The windows of the brownstone mansions were packed with the most opulent creations of Flora, the sister of the Lady of the Lilies.
Around a corner, white-gloved, pink-gilled and tightly’ buttoned, walked Corrigan, the cop, shield to the curb. Danny knew him.
“Why, Corrigan,” he asked, “is Easter? I know it comes the first time you’re full after the moon rises on the seventeenth of March—but why? Is it a proper and religious ceremony, or does the Governor appoint it out of politics?”
“’Tis an annual celebration,” said Corrigan, with the judicial air of the Third Deputy Police Commissioner, “peculiar to New York. It extends up to Harlem. Sometimes they has the reserves out at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street. In my opinion ’tis not political.”
“Thanks,” said Danny “And say—did you ever hear
