You will stammer something of what it
means to climb upward from the subway on a spring morning and see
that golden figure over Fulton Street spreading its shining wings
above the new day. And they will smile gently, that knowing, amiable
Philadelphia smile.
We were false to our credo in that we went via the P.R.R., but we
were compensated by a man who was just behind us at the ticket
window. He asked for a ticket to Asbury Park. "Single, or return?"
asked the clerk. "I don't believe I'll ever come back," he said, but
with so unconsciously droll an accent that the ticket seller
screamed with mirth.
There was something very thrilling in strolling again along Chestnut
Street, watching all those delightful people who are so unconscious
of their characteristic qualities. New York has outgrown that stage
entirely: New Yorkers are conscious of being New Yorkers, but
Philadelphians are Philadelphians without knowing it; and hence
their unique delightfulness to the observer. Nothing seemed to us
at all changed--except that the trolleys have raised their fare from
five cents to seven. The Liberty Toggery Shop down on Chestnut
Street was still "Going Out of Business," just as it was a couple of
years ago. Philip Warner, the famous book salesman at Leary's Old
Book Store, was out having lunch, as usual. The first book our eye
fell upon was "The Experiences of an Irish R.
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