and the vast gray building of the South Philadelphia High School, where, reading backward through the stained glass transom I discerned the grave and very Bostonian motto: "Work—Self-reliance—Culture—Life." But more exhilarating to me was the Southern Home for Friendless Children at Morris street. Its large playground is surrounded by a high stone wall. I could easily have scaled it and would have loved to smoke a pipe sitting up there to watch the children playing inside. (I could hear their laughter, and caught a glimpse of a small boy as he flew up in the air on a swing.) But I feared penalties and embarrassments. It does not do to love anything too well; people naturally are suspicious of you. And though my heart was warm toward the Southern Home, I didn't quite like to do what I yearned for. That would have been to ring the door-bell and ask to go in and play in the garden with the others. Instead I snooped round the wall until I found a corner with a glimpse into the shady ground where the urchins were busy. One small boy was working in his garden, others were burning up rubbish and hammering at something along the wall. I stood there a long time, listening to the warm, drowsy hum of the afternoon, and almost wished I were a friendless child.
After this excursion into culture and charity, Broad street feels the need of one more whistle-wetting before it wanders off onto the vast expanse of sunny, pollen-scented meadows that stretch to-
