in the overflow. And there were window-boxes with bright flowers.
At the corner of Reese and Summer streets is a little statuary workshop—a cool dim place, full of white figures and an elderly man doing something mysterious with molds. I would have liked to hear all about his work, but as he was not very questionable I felt too bashful to insist.
If I were a sketcher I would plant my easel at the corner of Summer and Randolph streets and spend a long day puffing tobacco and trying to pencil the quaint domestic charm of that vista. The children would crowd round to watch and comment and little by little I would learn—what the drawing would be only a pretext for learning—something of their daily mirth and tears. I would hear of their adventurous forays into the broad green space of Franklin Square, only a few yards away. Of scrambles over the wall into St. John's churchyard when George Hahn isn't looking. Of the sweets that may be bought for a penny at the little store on the corner. I should say that store sells more soap than anything else. Randolph street simply glistens with cleanliness—all except the upper end, where the city is too lazy to see that the garbage is carried away. But then a big city is so much more concerned with parades on Broad street than removing garbage from the hidden corners where little urchins play.
Round the corner on Fifth street is the quaint cul de sac of Central place, which backs up against
