cinating place it is, though I fear not much of South Broad street ever takes the trouble to open those iron gates marked "Pull." Perhaps if they had been marked "Push" the public would have responded more eagerly. But who are we to discuss the subtleties of advertising psychology? As I pass the long, heavily-pillared frontage of the library I seem to hear the quiet, deliberate ticking of the clock in the cool, gloomy reading room and smell the faint, delicious, musty fragrance of the old volumes. It is no small thrill to step inside and revel in the dim scholarly twilight of this palace of silence, to pore over the rare books in the glass showcases and explore the alcoves where the marvelous collection of chess books is kept. Those alcoves look out over a little playground at the back, where the shady benches would be an ideal place for a solemn pipe; but alas! no men are admitted. The playground is reserved for women and children.
Very different is the old railroad station across the way, now used as a freight depot. Built in 1852, it was Philadelphia's crack terminus fifty years ago, and as one studies the crumbled brownstone front one thinks of all the eager and excited feet that must have passed into the great arched hall. Now it is boarded up in front, but inside it is crammed with box cars and vast cases stenciled "Rush—Military Supplies—U. S. Army." Sixty freight cars can be loaded there at one time. One thinks what emotions that glass-roofed shed must
