It has always seemed to me a pity that nearly all of the people one meets walking in New York are going somewhere. I mean they have some definite destination. Thus they lose the rare delight, that all too little known pleasure, of a desultory stroll through the city streets. For myself, I know of no greater joy than an aimless ramble along the crowded metropolitan thoroughfares. Nor does ramble imply, as some might mistakenly suppose, a slow, dawdling gait. Not at all; the atmosphere of the city itself inspires a brisk, steady jogtrot; but the impression of a ramble is inevitable if the jog-trot have no intended goal. I am a country woman, -that is, I live in a suburban town; but it is quite near enough to the metropolis for us to consider ourselves near-New Yorkers. And Myrtlemead is a dear little worth-while place in its own way. We have a Current Culture Club and a Carnegie library and several of us have telephones. I am not a member of the Club, but that must not be considered as any disparagement of my culture-or, rather, of my capacity for assimilating culture (for the Club's aim is the disbursement of that desirable commodity). On the contrary, I was among the first invited to belong to it. Oh! yes, you have temperament, she twittered. "You must be a member, Miss Emmins," said the vivacious young thing who called to lay the matter before me, "because you have so much temperament." This word was little used in Myrtlemead at this time (although, since, it has become as plenty as blackberries), and I simply said "What!" in amazement. "Oh! yes, you have," she twittered, "and you create an atmosphere. Don't attempt to deny it, -you know you do create an atmosphere." This was too much. I didn't join the Club, although I occasionally look in on them at their cultured tea hour, which follows the more intellectual part of their programme. As they have delicious chicken-salad and hot rolls and coffee, I find their culture rather comforting than otherwise. Living so near New York, I find it convenient to run into the city whenever I hear it calling. Lilacs blossom along the curb In the spring its calls are especially urgent. I know popular sympathy leans toward springtime in the country, but for my part, as soon as March has blown itself away, and April comes whirling along the cleared path of the year, I hurry to keep my annual appointment to meet Spring in New York. The trees are budding in the parks, daffodils and tulips are blooming riotously on the street-corners, while hyacinths and lilacs blossom along the curb. A pearl-colored cloud is poised in that intense blue just above the Flatiron Building, and the pretty city girls smile as they prank along in their smart spring costumes behind their violet mows. The birds twitter with a sophisticated chirp, and the streetpianos respond with a brisk sharpness of tune and time. The very air is full of an urban ozone, that is quite different from the romantic lassitude of spring in the countr