The Pioche weekly record. [volume] (Pioche, Nev.) 1877-1900, 1894-06-21
NIGHT IN CENTRAL PARK.
When New YoIk's Famous Beauty Spot
is Entirely Deserted
The Great Recreation Ground as il is When The Big ClIy
SIeeps-Strict Regulations Enforced,


iced that only the cleverest dOdger can
get into the park after the closing hour of
midnight and nothing in the way of an
alarm can happen after that hour without
calling from one to ten policemen. Ser
geant and roundsman each make two visits
of inspection to all the posts during the
night and patrolmen guard the gates and
walk the devious ways of the pleasure
ground. Within two years a patrolman
has been placed in each of the three trans
verse roads now open, and these thorough
fares once of unsavory reputation, have
become almost as safe by night as by day
The roundsman who inspects the trans
verse roads by night makes no signal to
the patrolmen, as the latter are supposed
to be always on post.
The result of all this has been to make
the park safe place at night, an impor-
tant necessity, since Central park is pecu-
liar from the fact that it cuts in twain for
two and half miles crowded residence
district. The growth of the west side
brought about the opening of the park
until midnight and the patrolling of the
transverse roads. Vehicles may drive
across the park after that hour, but they
may not loiter by the way, and a few per-
sons whose business requires them to be
out at all hours of the night hold special
permits to enter and cross the park at any
time. Other persons found entering the
park after midnight and unable to give
satisfactory reason for their presence are
ruthlessly turned back and ordered out by
the nearest gate. The place is rarely peo-
pied in the small hours by any human
creatures save the police and such belated
travellers as may be hurrying through in
wheeled vehicles.
Probably no other park in any great city
of the world has fewer crimes or scandals
than Central park, and this is true of the
night as well as the day, though the park
is open to visitors for nineteen hours out
of the twenty-four. Crowds remain in the
park after nightfall in all but the coolest
f and stormiest weather At midnight the
word is officially passed from bench to
bench that the closing hour has arrived,
and at once str'a of people begins
moving along each path toward the exits.
By half past II the park is almost empty
of visitors, 1t is easy enough for man to
conceal himself when the closing hour
comes, but once the crowd is gone it is
difficult for him to move about or get into
any mischief without attracting attention.
Big as the park is, and intricate as its
mazes are, the faithful policeman knows
every foot of his beat even after nightfall.
and inspects all its paths. Migrants sell
dom seek shelter in the park at night, be-
cause it's dews are dangerous to persons
sleeping in the open air.
The park policeman's suspicion at the
sound of pistol after night is suicide
The park is favorite place for suicides
and night favorite time, though man is
more likely perhaps to be able to take his
life undisturbed in Central park by day
than by night. There are all sorts of dis
fractions by day to attract the attention of
the police, but by night the noise of pis-
toll shot is audible almost half the length
of the park, and for quite it's breadth. Such
a sound would ordinarily bring a police
man to the spot in from twenty seconds to
three minutes.
! 1t is usually quiet watch with the park
police after midnight. From then until Q
o'clock carriages bearing late diners or
theater goers are frequent. Such equip
ages roll by occasionally even up to 4
o'clock, and an early morning drive through
the park is a favorite amusement with rev.
| SiiSio "ho hofS tIC hiShU
other forms of amusement. After O'Clock,
| however, the park for the most part settles
down to darkness and silence. There are
no night prowling beasts, save predatory
cats, and rarely some genuine wild crea-
ture, as raccoon or opossum, which now
and then mysteriously makes it's way into
the heart of the city, probably from the
large parks on the outskirts. Few night
birds, save owls, and now and then a whip
| poorwill, are abroad.
The few natural sounds of the park are
intensified in the general silence of the
small hours. The tapping of waves in the
great reservoir, ordinarily inaudible, is
borne for some yards through the sur
rounding park. The plash of fountains
and the steady downpour of the brook
where it leaps the falls are carried hun
dreds of feet. The movements of elevated
railway trains, which by day attract little
or no attention in the park, may be regis
tered in the mall with absolute certainty
by any one who may choose to listen.
There are dreamy complainings from the
hilltops near the winter quarter pond,
where peafowl and pigeons are roosting.
The flop of fish in the lake and the sudden
plunge of the muskrats are perhaps the
most frequent sounds. The rumble of be-
lated vehicles in the transverse roads Is
carried for yards beyond the overhanging
greenery of the park.
According to an old tradition there is a
ghost in the ramble. Moonlight upon the
white dogwood in May might easily
strengthen this superstition. The story is
told to each new patrolman along with
that of Hizar's ghost Hizar, who was
dispossessed when the park was laid out
cut his throat on the hill near Ninetieth
street on the west side of the park, and has
since haunted the spot. There are no other
terrors for even the most timid and super
stitious of patrolmen.
The dim light of approaching dawn finds
the police in their gray, woodmanlike uni
form, yawning little after the all night
out and awaiting relief. At o'clock the
park is open to visitors and half an hour
later workingmen begin to hurry along the
paths, and the police must be on the watch
that nobody takes short cuts, to the dam
age of the sod. This is about the last duty
of the night force, for at 6 o'clock, when
the CLINT of rapid wheels is seen upon every
drive, and the early sun burning the mist
from the lakes and making mist of the
dew, relief comes, and the sergeant at the
station house turns over to the day Officer
clean blotter, the blank record of an un
eventful night.-New York Sun.