have seen in Civil War times. I suppose many a train of men in blue said good-by to mothers and sweethearts along those platforms. That thought was with me as I stood inside the old station, which in spite of its bustle of freight is filled with the haunting sadness of all places that are old and decayed and echoing with the whispers of long ago. Does it seem absurd to sentimentalize over a railway station less than seventy years old? Well, I think a railway station is one of the most romantic places in the world. I like to imagine the old locomotives with their flaring stacks. And as I crossed Washington avenue (which runs just south of the station) I remembered a hot day in June twenty years ago when I tugged a roll of steamer rugs down that street from the trolley to the American Line pier. We were going on board the old Belgenland, bound for Liverpool. Somewhere along the hot, grimy pavement a barrel of molasses had broken open; I recall the strong, sweet smell. Childhood does not forget such adventures.
Below the quartermaster depot of the marine corps and the Third Regiment Armory, Broad street recalls its more sober responsibilities. Suddenly it realizes the fleeting uncertainty of life; perhaps because half the houses hereabouts are the offices of doctors and undertakers. It falls into a quiet residential humor about Wharton street and lines itself with trees and shady awnings. It seemed to me I could discern a breath of Italy in the air. At an Italian undertaker's a large and
