Napoleon's Dream Book. I could learn a good deal, I am sure, by studying those volumes.
Franklin Square is full of color. The green spaces are islanded in a frame of warm, red brick. The fountain bubbles whitely, the flag is an eager spot of brightness on the tall white mast. Shop windows seem to display a broader, more lilting kind of poster than they do on Market street. There is one on a by-street representing a young man blowing heart-shaped smoke rings and a glorious young woman is piercing them with a knitting needle or some other sharp instrument.
I don't know just what I would do for a living on Franklin Square. The only thought that has occurred to me is this: some one must have to look after those little white dogs while their debonair mistresses are at the theatre. Why couldn't I do that, for a modest fee? I would take them all out at night and tow them through the fountain pool. It would serve to bleach them.
Another thing I could do, which I have always wanted to do, would be to decipher the last line of the small tombstone that stands over the pathetic grave of Benjamin Franklin's little son. That is not far from the square. The stone reads, as far as I can make it out, Francis F., Son of Benjamin and Deborah Franklin, Deceased Nov. 21, 1736. Aged 4 years. The number of months and days I can't make out, nor the last line of the epitaph, which begins with the sadly expressive word Delight. It is much effaced, and without squatting
