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NEW-VOKKEK 
September 2G, 
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“OUR STREET.” 
M ANY of us live in lonely places where 
there are few neighbors or passers- 
by. I once lived on a farm off on a side 
road where only five teams went by in 
one month. There was no other house in 
sight. On still mornings in Winter we 
could see a thin curl of smoke at the end 
of the valley, and when the leaves were 
off the trees we could sometimes see a 
light at night. There were no telephones 
in those days, and the roads were bad. 
Those of us who lived in such places were 
obliged to find society in “the beauties of 
nature,” and I fear they are not. fully ap¬ 
preciated until you are shut away from 
them rather than shut in with them. I 
was thinking of this the other day as I 
looked out into West ”.01 h St., from The 
It. N.-Y. window. 
BLASTING. —It is a scene of destruction 
just now—rivalling the battlefield of Eu¬ 
rope. There must be a drain to take the 
overflow from the big subway, so they 
are blasting a big trench 40 feet or more 
deep, and nearly a mile long through this 
street. Scrape off a few feet of the up¬ 
per soil of Manhattan Island and you 
strike solid rock, and the new ditch must 
be blasted out foot by foot. The whine 
and “chug” of the steam drills is con¬ 
stant. Every now and then the work¬ 
men will come climbing like ants out of 
the hole waving red (lags to keep the peo¬ 
ple back. Then there will be an explo¬ 
sion that makes you think the enemy has 
brought the big siege guns within shot of 
New York. There is no sign of the ef¬ 
fect upon the surface, but the men crawl 
back into the hole, and great chunks of 
rock begin to come up. Far down the 
street stands a steam engine under its 
little shelter, and steel cables reach away 
from it like long arms. The big fingers 
reach down into the hole and bring up 
great masses of rock or loads of earth and 
dump them upon waiting wagons. 
An Old Nurse. —Through the roar and 
battle of this great project human life 
flows on in its regular course. Stand on 
the street corner and look in four direc¬ 
tions and you have within the sweep of 
your eye the homes of 30,000 people— 
more than are to be found in many en¬ 
tire rural counties. And the human flood 
which sweeps past you carries ail types 
of humanity—the good, the bad, the 
weak, the strong, the miserable t. e con¬ 
tented, the desperate and the hopeful. 
Here comes our old friend the “nurse,” an 
old man with a white beard who takes 
care of the family baby. He limps a 
little as he wheels the little one through 
the bright sunshine up and down the 
street. This is his job, and he does it 
well. Very likely the child's mother is 
out at work to help support the family, 
and grandfather, no longer able to do 
hard work, plays the part of home de¬ 
fender. I have seen old soldiers who, 
in their young manhood, helped wheel the 
cannon into line, now serving the home 
by wheeling the family baby. And the 
family baby is ever present, for as soon 
as one climbs out of the carriage to stand 
on his own legs there is another to be 
put in. And no child ever had more faith¬ 
ful care than these old veterans give. 
You should see them on some cool, sunny 
diy when they have wheeled the baby 
into some bright, protected corner and sit 
down beside their little charge to rest. 
They seem to think that if the ending of 
their own life is not all they hoped for 
the beginning of the baby shall be right 
at least. 
Working Dinners. —At noon the en¬ 
gine and the steam drills stop for 
rest, and the workmen get at their 
dinner. Labor groups itself into 
classes. The engineers and drillers 
and higher class workmen are mostly 
Americans with a good-sized dash of Ger¬ 
man and Irish blood. There was a time 
when all such work was done by hand 
labor—drilling and lifting by brute force 
of hand and back. Now when steam or 
electric power does this hard work the 
men with brains find work directing this 
mighty power. The crude work is done 
by newer immigrants—stout fellows just 
from Italy or Austria. The trap-nest of 
time will sort them out, and some will be 
doing the superior work of the future. 
At dinner time the engineers and head 
men usually go to some nearby restaurant 
for food. The laborers curl up at the 
pleasant side of some building and eat 
what they have brought from home. 
Bread is the foundation of their meal. 
Tip to October most of them will have 
two fried eggs to eat with their bread. 
When eggs go higher in price it will be 
cheese or an occasional piece of meat. 
These men know how to buy the most 
muscle-making food for a dollar, and they 
look for it in unexpected places. I often 
see a big husky man eating bread and 
onions or a stalk of celery or a tomato, 
and doing a full job at lifting stones or 
shoveling dirt. As these men become 
“Americanized” they will probably come 
to realize that this is not “a balanced 
ration.” 
Children. —There are troops of them 
on our street. They come running out 
of the houses to play upon the sidewalks 
and pavements. The babies sleep in their 
carriages out in the air, and the older 
ones play ball in the street, dodging about 
among the wagons like little rabbits. 
They never seem to be hurt. The usual 
picture of the city child is a thin blood¬ 
less little creature starved for fresh air 
and food. The little ones who play in 
front of our building are rosy and bright¬ 
eyed—full of vitality and mischief. It 
takes but a short time to get dirty on 
the pavements, but it must be said that 
these little scamps are hard-fleshed, sound- 
limbed and hearty. They rarely see the 
bare ground or a growing plant, but they 
are certainly healthy and strong. The 
city looks after the health of school chil¬ 
dren—their ears and eyes and teeth and 
throats are examined and cared for be¬ 
fore disease gets too far. So here they 
are—healthy little animals playing and 
dancing in the true joy of youth. If 
country children could have the medical 
inspection and care which these city 
youngsters enjoy what a generation of 
giants would be prepared for us. Down 
the street comes an old woman on 
crutches. She has but one foot, but limps 
about playing the violin at convenient 
places. It is but poor music, but as she 
plays the children gather about her and 
dance. The crutch leading the light, 
fantastic toe is only one of the curious 
things in our street. 
Selling Food. —A terrible cry comes 
ringing down the street—rising above the 
whine of the steam drills and the puff 
of the engine. "Bcr-r-r-ah-r-r-r /” But 
who can put such a sound into letters? 
There has been nothing more frightful 
since centuries ago when the Indian tribe 
which held this part of the island caught 
some poor fellow from the “enemy” and 
did their duty as they saw it. Here comes 
a man with fruit to sell. He has bought 
a crate of late berries. They were prob¬ 
ably sorted over in some dusty corner. 
Now the boxes are spread out on a board 
and he goes yelling his cry for customers. 
"Our Street” does not respond. You can¬ 
not break up old friendship with a yell. 
A wagon soon rattles into the street and 
our old friend the Italian huckster has 
come. Here is a man who knows human 
nature as you know farming and he 
never harrows it. See him talking with 
that woman who runs the boarding 
house? They have got to have their quar¬ 
rel and argument, but, sooner or later, as 
sure as fate, she will walk up to the 
wagon and buy her vegetables for tomor¬ 
row. Everything on that wagon has 
slowly dried for a week or more since it 
left the vine, and our folks at home would 
not look at it, but this woman, after much 
bargaining, buys a cabbage, a few hand¬ 
fuls of stringbeans, a “measure” of po¬ 
tatoes, some suspicious looking peaches. 
My friend the Italian pockets 75 cents 
for what you would pick out of the gar¬ 
den and looks around for his next, cus¬ 
tomer. First he twists the tops off two 
hunches of carrots and feeds them to his 
faithful friend the horse. Down the 
street a few doors below the old soldier 
is sitting on the steps. His folks are 
good customers, and the Italian goes that 
way. 
Warfare. —You can see as he sits on 
the steps to talk that he is discussing the 
European War. What he really knows 
about it is probably as far from head¬ 
quarters as his vegetables are from the 
vine, but it is a good topic for the old 
soldier—with friends and comrades gone. 
There is a little bronze badge at his but¬ 
tonhole. I do not know how it happened, 
but as he talked the afternoon sun got at 
just the right angle to make that little 
badge gleam like a star. The old man is 
raising his stick, pointing it out like a 
sword, and we know without listening 
that he is fighting his battles over again. 
It is Gettysburg or Cold Harbor brought 
down to date in “Our Street.” The 
Italian knows when to stop talking. He 
knows that attentive listening to these 
old war stories will sell more goods than 
any information about Europe that he 
can give. 
Peace. —There are great contrasts in 
our street. A few doors below this war¬ 
like display lies a dead man waiting for 
burial. It is only a plain boarding house. 
The man was only one of the thousands 
of humble units who go about their work 
in this great city. Out of the millions 
here they have perhaps attracted half a 
dozen friends. They fill no important 
place in the world’s economy. They drop 
and the machine runs over them. A few 
friends come to their funeral—out of the 
boarding house door into our street they 
carry the coffin much as if it were a 
trunk that was going upon a journey. 
The young black-coated minister with the 
sad, serious face halts on the steps and 
glances up the street as if he saw some¬ 
thing of the awful loneliness in the roar 
and bustle of our street. There are two 
women draped in black. Mother, sister, 
sweetheart, who can tell, and who in our 
street cares as the carriage turns the 
corner and is lest in the crowded avenue? 
The dead man has found peace, but in 
finding it he has exposed the great dif¬ 
ference that lies between our street and 
the lonely country road. Here the battle 
of life is so fierce that there is no time 
even for sympathy when the dead are 
carried from the ranks. There in the 
calm country sympathy and neighborly 
feeling are a part of life, and the dead 
are not forgotten. 
Hope, —And yet, even as the old sol¬ 
dier discusses his battle and the lonely 
man is carried to his rest two who carry 
the great hope of life come walking up our 
street. The young man, strong and clean- 
hearted, with a firm place in the world’s 
work, and the young woman, useful, ambi¬ 
tious and fair, are soon to have a home 
of their own. The old soldier has had 
his day of glory, the dead man has had 
his day of toil, but these happy young 
people are having their day of romance. 
Who can blame them for not feeling the 
sorrow or the apprehension as they pass 
on through the glory which hope and love 
have painted upon our street? it. w. C. 
Mrs. Homespun : “What’ll we con¬ 
tribute to the minister’s donation party?” 
Farmer Homespun: “Wal, I dunno, Han¬ 
nah ! Taters is ’way up, pork is ’way 
up, fowl is ’way up—we’ll save money by 
giving him money.”—Daily News. 
How to Get Lumber 
Write tons 
for prices 
on lumber 
delivered to your station. We can fur¬ 
nish you with stock shipped directly from our 
yellow pine mills and save you a large amount 
in the cost of your lumber, and supply you 
with better lumber than sold by a great many 
retail yards. The capacity of our yellow pine 
mills is over 75 million feet, per annum, and 
we carry in stock over 25 million feet of dry 
bright lumber from which to fill orders. If you 
contemplate building, write us now for information. 
Mill Work 
We can furnish 
Doors, Window Trim, 
Moulding, Porch Work, Hardwood, Flooring, 
also Building Paper, Plaster Board, and Roof¬ 
ing of all kinds. 
Home Owners Procure our 
mill prices be¬ 
fore you buy. We 
will quote whole¬ 
sale prices on all 
material delivered to your station. Special 
bills sawed out. Estimates furnished promptly. 
Carpenters 
Contractors 
Club Orders 
We can ship 
the same car 
lumber in 
to two or 
more parties, whenever requested. You can chib 
with your neighbors and get carload rates making 
a big saving on small orders. 
Send No Money 
We ship directly to any responsible party on 
approval. You can unload and inspect every piece 
of the shipment before paying us a cent. 
i 
Wrdo TWrlavr Write to us now for 
VV rue toaay full particulars. We 
can save you money and furnish you with guar¬ 
anteed grades of lumber. A postal card from you 
will bring full information regarding our liberal 
method of doing business. Write today. 
Home Lumber & Supply Co. 
343 S. Dearborn St. Dept. 3341 Chicago 
Be Your 
Own Model 
A picture can’t tell 
you whether the fabric 
is real wool, whether the 
coat is roomy and com¬ 
fortable, or whether the 
clothes will look well on 
you. 
Come to the Clothcraft 
Store and see “4130” 
Blue Serge Special and 
other Clothcraft suits 
and overcoats, for your¬ 
self. They’re all guar¬ 
anteed pure wool, and it 
won’t take a minute to 
slip into a coat that’s just 
right for your age, height 
and chest measure. 
Why these particular 
clothes? Well, because 
we’ve looked over every¬ 
thing that sells between 
ten and twenty-two dol¬ 
lars, and we can’t offer 
you as good value for 
your money in anything 
but Clothcraft. 
Clothcraft stands for 
better workmanship, 
better designing, money 
saved and put back into 
fabrics and linings— 
clothes that will last as 
well as they fit. Come 
in and see us. 
Write to The Joseph & Feiss Co., 635 
St. Clair Ave., Cleveland. Ohio, for their 
new Style Book, a sample of the all-wool 
fabric used in Clothcraft “4130'' and a 
personal note of introduction to the 
Clothcraft Store nearest you. 
i 
-HANDY BINDER- 
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T UST the thing for preserv- 
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ing files of The Rural 
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New-Yorker. Durable and 
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The Rural Now-Yorkor, 
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333 W. 30th St., N. Y. City. 
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