of the United States transport Santa Teresa. The wide space along the docks was a rumble of traffic, as usual: wagons of golden bananas, sacks of peanuts on the pavement. But along the waterside bulwark were the customary groups of colored citizens shooting dice. Crap, I surmise, is a truly reverent form of worship: nowhere else does one hear the presiding deities of the congregation addressed with such completely fervent petition. A lusty snapping of fingers and an occasional cry of "Who thinks he feels some?" rose from one group of happy competitors. Here again the student of manners may notice a familiar phenomenon, the outward thrust of the negro toe. It seems that the first thing our brother does on buying a new pair of shoes is cut out a section of leather so that his outmost phalange may sprout through.
The tranquil upper deck of the Race street recreation pier is a goodly place to sit and survey the shining sweep of the river. The police boat Ashbridge lies there, and one may look down on her burnished brasses, watch the tugs puffing up and down, and the panorama of shipping from Kaighn's Point to a big five-masted schooner drawn up at Cramps'.
Approaching the Vine street ferry a mood of reckless vagabondage is likely to seize the wayfarer. Posters inform that the Parisian Flitters with "40 French Babies 40" are in town, and one feels convinced that life still teems with irresponsible gaiety. A savor of roasting peanuts
