“My old man’s a fireman
    Now what do you think of that? 
    He wears goblimey breeches
    And a little goblimey hat.”

She always quotes this to me when (she says) I wear my hat too far on the back of my head.

The cross slope of Murray Hill drops steeply downward after one leaves Madison Avenue.  We dipped into a region that has always been very fascinating to me.  Under the roaring L, past dingy saloons, animal shops, tinsmiths, and painless dentists, past the old dismantled Manhattan hospital.  The taste of spring was in the air:  one of the dentists was having his sign regilded, a huge four-pronged grinder as big as McTeague’s in Frank Norris’s story.  Oysters going out, the new brew of Bock beer coming in:  so do the saloons mark the vernal equinox.

A huge green chalet built on stilts, with two tiers of trains rumbling by, is the L station at 34th Street and Second Avenue.  A cutting wind blew from the East River, only two blocks away.  I paid two nickels and we got into the front car of the northbound train.

Until Titania and I attain the final glory of riding in an aeroplane, or ascend Jacob’s ladder, there never will be anything so thrilling as soaring over the housetops in the Second Avenue L. Rocking, racketing, roaring over those crazy trestles, now a glimpse of the leaden river to the east, now a peep of church spires and skyscrapers on the west, and the dingy imitation lace curtains of the third-story windows flashing by like a recurring pattern—­it is a voyage of romance!  Did you ever stand at the front door of an Elevated train, watching the track stretch far ahead toward the Bronx, and the little green stations slipping nearer and nearer?  The Subway is a black, bellowing horror; the bus a swaying, jolty start-and-stop, bruising your knees against the seat in front; but the L swings you up and over the housetops, smooth and sheer and swift.

We descended at 86th Street and found ourselves in a new world.  A broad, dingy street, lined by shabby brown houses and pushbutton apartments, led in a gentle descent toward the river.  The neighbourhood was noisy, quarrelsome, and dirty.  After a long, bitter March the thaw had come at last:  the street was viscous with slime, the melting snow lay in grayish piles along the curbs.  Small boys on each side of the Street were pelting sodden snowballs which spattered around us as we walked down the pavement.

But after two blocks things changed suddenly.  The trolley swung round at a right angle (up Avenue A) and the last block of 86th Street showed the benefit of this manoeuvre.  The houses grew neat and respectable.  A little side street branching off to the left (not recorded by Mercator) revealed some quaint cottages with gables and shuttered windows so mid-Victorian that my literary heart leaped and I dreamed at once of locating a novel in this fascinating spot.  And then we rounded the corner and saw the little park.