venturesome landau, with crested panel and top-booted coachman. Then
drays and omnibuses and more street-cars; then, presently, somewhere in
the line, between the tail end of one truck and the menacing tongue of
another, a family carry-all--a carry-all loaded with its family, driven
by a man of all work, drawn by a slight and amiable old mare, and
encumbered with luggage which shows the labels of half the hotels of
Europe.

It is a very capable and comprehensive vehicle, as conveyances of that
kind go. It is not new, it is not precisely in the mode; but it shows
material and workmanship of the best grade, and it is washed, oiled,
polished with scrupulous care. It advances with some deliberation, and
one might fancy hearing in the rattle of its tires, or in the suppressed
flapping of its rear curtain, a word of plaintive protest. "I am not of
the great world," it seems to say; "I make no pretence to fashion. We
are steady and solid, but we are not precisely in society, and we are
far, very far indeed, from any attempt to cut a great figure. However, do
not misunderstand our position; it is not that we are under, nor that we
are exactly aside; perhaps we have been left just a little behind. Yes,
that might express it--just a little behind."

How are they to catch up again--how rejoin the great caravan whose fast
and furious pace never ceases, never slackens? Not, assuredly, by the
help of the little sorrel mare, whose white mane swings so mildly, and
whose pale eyelashes droop so diffidently when some official hand at a
crowded crossing brings her to a temporary stand-still. Not by the help
of the coachman, who wears a sack-coat and a derby hat, and whose frank,
good-natured face turns about occasionally for a friendly participation
in the talk that is going on behind. Can it be, then, that any hopes for
an accelerated movement are packed away in the bulging portmanteau which