Washington Avenue.

When Lilly was twelve years old her walk to school was across quite an
intricacy of electric-car tracks, and on rainy days, out of a small fund
of children's car tickets laid by in Mrs. Becker's glove box for just
that contingency, she would ride to and from school, changing cars with
a drilled precision at Vandaventer and Finney Avenues.

For the first few of these adventures Mrs. Becker wrote tiny notes, to
be handed out by Lilly along with her street-car ticket:

Conductor, please let this little girl off at Jefferson Avenue: she
wants to change cars for the Pope School.

One day by some mischievous mischance Mrs. Schum's board receipt found
its way into Lilly's little pocketbook:

Received of Mrs. Ben Becker, forty-five dollars for one month's board
for three.

"Aw," said the conductor, thrusting it back at her, "ask your mamma to
tell her troubles to a policeman, little girl."

From that day Lilly rebelled.

"Guess I can find my way to school without having to carry a note like a
baby."

"But, Lilly, you might get mixed up."