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 abounds in gracious garden vistas, rubber plants and an apartment house of a Spanish tinge of architecture. A patriotic Presbyterian church has turned its front lawn into a potato patch. At 1534 one of the smallest and most delightful black puppies ever seen was tumbling about on a white marble stoop. He was so young that his eyes were still blue and cloudy, but his appeal for a caress was unmistakable. I stopped to pay my respects, but a large Airedale appeared and stood over him with an air of "You haven't been introduced."

A few blocks further on one abuts upon Ridge avenue, the Sam Brown belt of Philadelphia. In its long diagonal course from Ninth and Vine up to Strawberry Mansion, Ridge avenue is full of unceasing life and interest. It and South street are perhaps the two most entertaining of the city's humbler highways. Master street crosses it at a dramatic spot. There is a great cool lumber yard, where the piled-up wood exhales a fragrant breath under the hot sun, and lilac-breasted pigeons flap about among the stained rafters. A few yards away one catches a glimpse of the vast inclosure of Girard College, where the big, silvery-gray parthenon rises austerely above a cloud of foliage.

One aspect of Ridge avenue is plain at a glance. It is the city's stronghold of the horse. You will see more horses there than anywhere else I know (except perhaps down by the docks). From horse-shoeing forges comes the mellow clang of beaten iron. As the noon whistles blow, scores of horses