Spring on East Broadway. The air is winey, the heavens are radiant blue and full of fire. A sparrow chirps on the window-sill, fluttering before the milk-glass sign: “Doctor Rast.” Down toward the East the wet pavement is golden with sun, and through the splendor wades an ancient people on their way to work. For it is early morning; early April; the waters of river and bay flash about that shining floating city of towers; and, though the great Earth is buried beneath paving stone and brick and steel and granite, her mighty yearning exhales through the cool white air, and four million human beings are dazzled and smelted in the fires of Spring. The big dark Doctor was shaving before a tiny w…
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