This is my first day in New York. And looking around to find the number of the house where I was going to stay, my thoughts were so animated as to feel that all the arteries and veins of my body through my feet were kissing the ground upon which my heart would soon appease with its Maker. A few people, going to the Low Mass, I should judge by the solemnity of their walk, men and women, sent curious glances at the stranger dressed in the robes on the street. By this time approaching the 7th Avenue and not finding the desired number I was just directing my steps towards a gentleman dressed in some kind of uniform to inquire about the place, when a young man tipped his hat in front of me and raised the finger of his right hand and pointed to the sign of the florist's store just a few steps backwards. I could then plainly read the name on the board above the door. It was the name very dear to me, which, with longing heart I was looking for. Almost immediately a man came out from that same store with a broad smile on his face and with a gentle bow, as though asking my permission, he took my valise thus relieving me just in time, and leading the way into the store I saw another gentleman behind a counter preparing a large floral design from the rarest flowers of the season, for the funeral of a most distinguished politician of Harlem. Although I yield to no man in the appreciation of a good smiling face and here I had two of them and the most typical faces which are prominent in the making of this heterogeneous republic, John, representing the Huguenot and Dutch, and Jack whose father and mother were Irish, and Jack was Irish too. Both these gentlemen with pantomimic actions in a few words which now I know were English words but at that time I could not tell if they were Chinese or Hindoo. They tried to make me understand that Mr. George N., whom they knew I was looking for, as they had heard him speaking of me and they saw my photograph, and they were waiting notification of my coming, and that they were struck by ecstasy at my sudden appearance, he was at breakfast and that he would soon be back so I had better step into his office and rest myself while waiting for him. The expectancy to meet my friend George N., it lengthened every moment for me waiting in that little office. Twenty-four years since I saw him last when I was only ten years old, and even if I had not seen his photograph in all these years I could distinguish him among ten thousand. He was my first teacher in the grammar school; neighbor in my home and a very great distant relative. He always took especial interest in my scholarship. My childhood and school days were not all that I could desire for me, to be, for I was an orphan, yet it was that orphan who always carried the first or the second honors in the annual examinations. It was for this reason, perhaps, that my teachers were all well pleased with my progress. The