ANNE GILCHRIST'S HOUSE
The Kensington car that goes northward on Seventh street carries one straightway into a land of adventure. Hardly have you settled in your seat when you see a sign, The Pickwick Cafe, 53 North Seventh street. Admirable name for a chophouse! Glancing about, across the aisle is a lady with one of those curious hats which permit the wearer to scrutinize through the transparent brim while her head is apparently bent demurely downward. The surprising effect of impaling oneself upon so unexpected a gaze is startling. Bashfully one turns elsewhere. On a hoarding stares a theatrical sign: "Did You Tell Your Wife ALL Before Marriage?"
I got off at Master street and walked stolidly west. It is a humble causeway in that region, rich in junk shops and a bit shaky in its spelling. At the corner of Warnock is an impromptu negro church, announcing "Servers every Sunday, 3 p. m." The lithograph which is such a favorite on South street, crops up again: the famous golden-haired lassie with a blue dress, asleep under a red blanket, guarded by a white dog with a noble, steadfast expression. Fawn and Camac streets reappear and afford quiet vistas of red brick with marble trimmings. I believe this is Fawn's first venture north of Bainbridge. As its name implies, a shy, furtive street. One could spend a lively day afoot tracing
