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Six o'clock in Harvard Square.
The whistles have all blown for six o'clock, and now the city time-pieces begin to strike, commencing with a deep boom and running up to a high treble till the air is filled with the clashing of iron tongues.
The dark comes down early these fall days.
All lingering traces of
red and
gold have died out of the evening sky, and the great, bare elm branches cast strange shadows, almost weird in their distinctness, on the brilliantly lighted pavements.
Bustle and confusion are everywhere; the incoming cars are loaded to the steps, and the turmoil increases as each empties its burden in front of the crowded station.
Now and then a trolley slips from the wire, causing a chorus of sparks to fly out for a moment, and calling to mind the witch of the “broomstick train.”
Little groups of students coming from the side streets hasten across the yard, bound for Memorial Hall, and in spite of the general din, fragments of their gay talk come clearly to the passersby.
A broad band of light streams from the baker's window, and the buyers of bread and rolls for the family supper keep the door constantly in motion in their hurry to be served and get away home again.
A warm fragrance rises from the gratings, making the hungry newsboy on the corner sniff wistfully till recalled to his work by the cries of his companions-“Herald, ”
