Where Varick Street runs in there is a wide triangular spread, and this, gentle friends, is Finn Park, named for a New York boy who was killed in France.  The name reminded us also of Elfin Finn, the somewhat complacent stage child who poses for chic costumes in Vogue.  We were wondering which was a more hazardous bringing up for a small girl, living on Thompson Street or posing for a fashion magazine.  From Finn Square there is a stirring view of the Woolworth Tower.  Also of Claflin’s packing cases on their way off to Selma, Ala., and Kalamazoo, Mich., and to Nathan Povich, Bath, Me.  That conjunction of Finn and Bath, Me., suggested to us that the empty space there would be a good place to put in a municipal swimming pool for the urchins of the district.

Drawn from the wood, which legend still stands on the pub at the corner of Duane Street, sounds a bit ominous these wood alcohol days.  John Barleycorn may be down, but he’s never out, as someone has remarked.  For near Murray Street you will find one of those malt-and-hops places which are getting numerous.  They contain all the necessary equipment for—­well, as the signs suggest, for making malt bread and coffee cake—­bottle-capping apparatus and rubber tubing and densimeters, and all such things used in breadmaking.  As the signs say:  “Malt syrup for making malt bread, coffee, cake, and medicinal purposes.”

To conclude the scenic pleasures of the Sixth Avenue L route, we walk through the cool, dark, low-roofed tunnel of Church Street in those interesting blocks just north of Vesey.  We hark to the merry crowing of the roosters in the Barclay Street poultry stores; and we look past the tall gray pillars of St. Peter’s Church at the flicker of scarlet and gold lights near the altar.  The black-robed nuns one often sees along Church Street, with their pale, austere, hooded faces, bring a curious touch of medievalism into the roaring tide that flows under the Hudson Terminal Building.  They always walk in twos, which seems to indicate an even greater apprehension of the World.  And we always notice, as we go by the pipe shop at the corner of Barclay Street, that this worthy merchant has painted some inducements on one side of his shop; which reminds us of the same device used by the famous tobacconist Bacon, in Cambridge, England.  Why, we wonder, doesn’t our friend fill the remaining blank panel on his side wall by painting there some stanzas from Calverley’s “Ode to Tobacco?” We will gladly give him the text to copy if he wants it.

      [Illustration]

THE RUDENESS OF POETS