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There's Pippins and Cheese to Come by Charles S. Brooks
page 46 of 106 (43%)
done at a window that overlooks this park. Were it not for several high
buildings in my sight I might fancy that I lived in one of the older
squares of London. There is a look of Thackeray about the place as though
the Osbornes might be my neighbors. A fat man who waddles off his steps
opposite, if he would submit to a change of coat, might be Jos Sedley
starting for his club to eat his chutney. If only there were a crest above
my bell-pull I might even expect Becky Sharp in for tea. Or occasionally I
divert myself with the fancy that I am of a still older day and that I have
walked in from Lichfield--I choose the name at hazard--with a tragedy in my
pocket, to try my fortune. Were it not for the fashion of dress in the park
below and some remnant of reason in myself, I could, in a winking moment,
persuade myself that my room is a garret and my pen a quill. On such
delusion, before I issued on the street to seek my coffee-house, I would
adjust my wig and dust myself of snuff.

But for my exercise and recreation--which for a man of Grub Street is
necessary in the early hours of afternoon when the morning fires have
fallen--I go outside the park. I have a wide choice for my wanderings. I
may go into the district to the east and watch the children play against
the curb. If they pitch pennies on the walk I am careful to go about, for
fear that I distract the throw. Or if the stones are marked for hop-scotch,
I squeeze along the wall. It is my intention--from which as yet my
diffidence withholds me--to present to the winner of one of these contests
a red apple which I shall select at a corner stand. Or an ice wagon pauses
in its round, and while the man is gone there is a pleasant thieving of
bits of ice. Each dirty cheek is stuffed as though a plague of mumps had
fallen on the street. Or there may be a game of baseball--a scampering
on the bases, a home-run down the gutter--to engage me for an inning.
Or shinny grips the street. But if a street organ comes--not a mournful
one-legged box eked out with a monkey, but a big machine with an extra man
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