“—­West Eleventh Street!” sobbed the sad, prospective exile.

There are Villagers who while scarcely celebrities are characters so well known, locally, as to stand out in bizarre relief even against that variegated background of personalities.  There is Doris, the dancer, slim, strange, agile, with a genius for the centre of the Bohemian stage, an expert, exotic style of dancing, and a singular and touching passion for her only child.  At the Greenwich masquerades she used to shine resplendent, her beautiful, lithe body glorious with stage-jewels, and not much else; for the time being she has flitted away, but some day she will surely return like a darkly brilliant butterfly, and the Village will again thrill to her dancing.  There is Hyppolite, the anarchist, dark and fervid; there is “Bobby” Edwards, the Village troubadour, with his self-made and self-decorated ukelele, and his cat, Dirty Joe; there is Charlie-immortal barber!—­whose trade is plied in sublime accordance with Village standards, and whose “ad” runs as follows: 

     “The only barber shop in the Village where work is done
     conforming to its ideals....  Four barbers in attendance
     supervised by the popular boy-proprietor—­CHARLIE.”

There is Peggy, the artist’s model, who has posed for almost every artist of note, and who is as pretty as a pink carnation.

There is Tiny Tim—­of immense proportions—­who keeps the Tiny Tim Candy Shop; an impressive person who carries trays of candy about the Village, and who swears that he has sweets to match your every mood.

“If they don’t express your character, I’ll take them back!” he declares.  Though how he could take them back....  However, in the Village you need not be too exact.  There is “Ted” Peck’s Treasure Box.  Here all manner of charming things are sold; and here Florence Beales exhibits her most exquisite studies in photography.

There is the strong-minded young woman, who is always starting clubs; there is the Osage Indian who speaks eight languages and draws like a god; there are a hundred and one familiar spirits of the Village, eccentric, inasmuch as they are unlike the rest of the world, but oh, believe me, a goodly company to have as neighbours.

People have three mouthpieces, three vehicles of expression, besides their own lips.  We are not talking now about that self-expression which is to be found in individual act or word in any form.  We are speaking in a more practical and also a more social sense.  In this sense we may cite three distinct ways in which a community may become articulate:  through its press; through its clubs or associations; through its entertainments and social life.  Greenwich has a number of magazines, an even larger number of clubs and an unconscionable number of ways of entertaining itself—­from theatrical companies to balls!