humor; but no one can conceive of humor without jokes.
This philosophy, probably scoffable for the trained thinker, is a clumsy preface to the thought that city streets at night are the most fascinating work of man. Like all other handouts of nature, man has taken darkness and made it agreeable, trimmed and refined and made it acceptable for the very nicest people. And the suburbanite who finds himself living in town for a week or so is likely to spend his whole evenings in wandering espial, poring over the glowing caves of shop windows and rejoicing in the rich patterns of light wherewith man has made night lovely. Night by herself, naked and primitive and embracing, is embarrassing; she crowds one so; there is so much of her. So we push her up the side streets and into the movie halls and out to the suburbs, and taking her a little at a time we really learn to enjoy her company.
There is a restaurant on Arch street near Ninth where one may dine on excellent jam omelet and coffee, after which it is good to stroll along Ninth street (which with its tributary Ludlow I esteem the best street we have) to admire the different tints of light that man has set out in order to get a look at the darkness. There is the wan white glow of the alabaster inverted bowls that are favored in barbers' shops. There is the lucent gold of jewelers' windows where naked electric bulbs of great candlepower are masked in silvered
