. The Saturday evening post. ons strut-ting before you waiting for crumbs, thesewill catch your tired eyes and smooth thewrinkles from beneath them. Dont looliat the lady cashier; she looks too tired foiwords as she sits with her queer tin boxesof change and tickets in front of her. Heionly joy seems to be scattering crumbs tcthe few birds that are sitting up late to-night. Hardly a murmur of Paris trafficwill come to you, only a vaguely disquiet-ing rumble of big trams on one side andtearing taxis on the other. At this hour it seems as though all Parisfolded its sordid cares away, shook the b
. The Saturday evening post. ons strut-ting before you waiting for crumbs, thesewill catch your tired eyes and smooth thewrinkles from beneath them. Dont looliat the lady cashier; she looks too tired foiwords as she sits with her queer tin boxesof change and tickets in front of her. Heionly joy seems to be scattering crumbs tcthe few birds that are sitting up late to-night. Hardly a murmur of Paris trafficwill come to you, only a vaguely disquiet-ing rumble of big trams on one side andtearing taxis on the other. At this hour it seems as though all Parisfolded its sordid cares away, shook the bitsof thread from its* work apron, dug thedays grime from its finger nails, or changedits heavy street shoes for sandals of gilt andsilver brocade, and—heigh presto! away tdelights, to sweet quiet meetings under (liscreet trees; to soothing, unhurried strolls,arms entwined, mouth meeting mouthwhen words give place to gusts of feelingYou must, willy-nilly, forget your own(Continued on Page 181) THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 179. From the Bankers Standpoint
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