The horoscope seller must have taken his degree from some college of venders, his call has such finesse. I cannot reproduce the lilt of it—“Here’s where you get your horoscope, a dime, ten cents.” It is suggestive of the midways of country fairs, shooting galleries on the Board Walk, and circuses in the springtime. “Here’s where you get your horoscope, a dime, ten cents.”
The little, old, blind man sitting there with one hand outstretched and the other holding a book, his white hair and beard neatly combed, reminds me of something Biblical and prophetic like pictures in old churches. Alas! no one seems to buy his story of prohibition. I think he would do lots better in Kansas or Iowa. A particularly fascinating one is the man of mending wax who stands before his table like some professor of chemistry with a tiny flame and saucers of mysterious powders and, I almost said, a blow pipe.
But, pshaw, I can’t write them up. I take them too seriously. “Logic is logic, that’s all I say.”
The San Francisco Police
The San Francisco police are the handsomest and most-willing-to-flirt policemen in the United States, if not in the world. What a surly lot, the New York policemen. They treat one as though he were a blackguard for merely asking some direction.
“What car shall I take for the New Jersey Central Ferry?” we ask.
“Zippity-ip,” he snaps, moving off.
“What did you say?” we ask in timid desperation.
“Zippity-ip,” he yells, shaking his fist at us.