high bridge. I named the Sherman House. But my brother, being precise,
judged it to a fraction of a telegraph pole. Beyond a certain turn--did we
remember?--well, it would be exactly sixteen telegraph poles further on.
What an excitement there was when the sun's lower rim was already below the
horizon! We stood on our knees and looked through the little window at
the back of the phaeton. With what suspicion we regarded my grandfather's
driving! Or if Dolly lagged, did it not raise a thought that she, too, was
in the plot against us? The sun sets. We cry out the victor.

The sky flames with color. Then deadens in the east. The dusk is falling.
The roads grow dark. Where run the roads of night? While there is light,
you can see the course they keep across the country--the dust of horses'
feet--a bridge--a vagrant winding on a hill beyond. All day long they are
busy with the feet of men and women and children shouting. Then twilight
comes, and the roads lead home to supper and the curling smoke above the
roof. But at night where run the roads? It's dark beyond the candle's
flare--where run the roads of night.

My brother and I have become sleepy. We lop over against my grandfather--

We awake with a start. There is a gayly lighted horse-car jingling beside
us. The street lights show us into harbor. We are home at last.




The Man Of Grub Street Comes From His Garret


I have come to live this winter in New York City and by good fortune I