The Washington herald., 1922-03-17
Mu6nkGH
-Oay By DAY
impressions:
bMC0eMsmhv'e
hBa|Itfl,I,li(!!:::9

NEW YORK, March 16.-Thoughts
while strolling around New York:
A sweep of Central Park from the
bus top. Gaudy lights a-sparkle
amongst the naked trees. High
stepping mounts flashing in and
out under the Venetian foot bridges
Delectable aromas from palace
kitchens. rlk get off here at the
Carnegie home.
A friendly drizzle of rain against
French windows. Behind one sits
a bored looking man in a yellow
brocaded jacket-puffing slowly at
his cigar. On the wall hang a
Turkish scimitar and a Malay kris.
Perhaps a swashbuckler-tired Of
Snug civilization. Hope 1 get fried
onions for dinner.
Something overwhelming about
those ponderous grilled doors. The
boom of thunder. Bet my dog Is
under the bed. Rain makes me
long for the open sea. Hauling at
the halyard, shifting the sails
and hot grog. Harlem lunch
Distinctive silhouettes of Williams
burg bridge.
Third avenue. A curious crowd
clotted in front of an undertaking
parlor. Provocative young Greek
girls with marble white flesh and
flashing black eyes. Hard, pock-
marked men. And strapping lads
from river boats. Elevated pillars
like ghostly sentinels in the fog.
The shoddy shops fiaunt cheir OIL
skin coats. Here's the little cafe
where Owen Kildare, the Bowery
poet, loafed and wrote. Policemen
patrol the beats in pairs. Banging
the COP" a favorite sport over here.
Hooded old women in stuffy lamp
lit fats-rocking and rocking.
While the heavens weep.
Fat wives of pawnbrokers knit
ting in sheltered doorways. Mer-
curry lighter cafeterias a-clatter
a racing, changing ambulance. Rus
sian moujiks trying to be citizens.
Voices ragged and ironical-mostly
pitched in derision. More rain.
Now for home. the Longing robe,
slippers and volume of Thoreau.
= Broadway wonders what has be-
come of the Old Brigade at the
cocktail hour. For years these
regulars perambulated the absinthe
route at 5 o'clock. Under Old King
Cole at the Knickerbocker bar the
smartly dressed men of boulevard
ian cosmopolitanism were ten rows
deep and the first row passed back
the cocktails from the bar to the
thirsty. Now they are never seen
in these pinched times of drouth.
Five o'clock is the hour only for
fappers and cake eaters. The Old
Brigade has vanished. One Won
ders If they are lined up against
the counters of those chain lunch
counters devouring pastry for
these new tangled places were
crowded at that hour. The other
night one of the Old Brigade was
Illuminating over the times at his
club. Boys" he said. do you re-
member that never to be forgotten
line: This will be the last, gentle
men. We close at one?"
In q block of tumble down buildings
on East 2sth street there is little
shop which bears a scrofulous sign
Shoes Repaired" 1t is dingy and
forbidding from the street. The 9TH
er morning at o'clock / passed 1t.
A window opened above the shop and
yellow-pale, frowsy-looking old
man was hanging out a very much
worn national nag. 1t so impressed
me that I stepped in to talk to the
ancient cobbler. He came to Ameri-
ca from Germany when he was Is
years old. Three Of his sons died with
the American Army in France. I'm
all alone" he said land sometimes
the people call me that damn Ger
man and it hurts but I stu love
America and my flag"