with birds--the most expensive kind of birds--singing in
the branches.

The street in the softer hours of the morning has an
almost reverential quiet. Great motors move drowsily
along it, with solitary chauffeurs returning at 10.30
after conveying the earlier of the millionaires to their
downtown offices. The sunlight flickers through the elm
trees, illuminating expensive nurse-maids wheeling valuable
children in little perambulators. Some of the children
are worth millions and millions. In Europe, no doubt,
you may see in the Unter den Linden avenue or the Champs
Elysees a little prince or princess go past with a
clattering military guard of honour. But that is nothing.
It is not half so impressive, in the real sense, as what
you may observe every morning on Plutoria Avenue beside
the Mausoleum Club in the quietest part of the city. Here
you may see a little toddling princess in a rabbit suit
who owns fifty distilleries in her own right. There, in
a lacquered perambulator, sails past a little hooded head
that controls from its cradle an entire New Jersey
corporation. The United States attorney-general is suing
her as she sits, in a vain attempt to make her dissolve
herself into constituent companies. Near by is a child
of four, in a khaki suit, who represents the merger of
two trunk-line railways. You may meet in the flickered
sunlight any number of little princes and princesses far
more real than the poor survivals of Europe. Incalculable
infants wave their fifty-dollar ivory rattles in an
inarticulate greeting to one another. A million dollars