The mad progress of Big Business can almost be likened to a mighty cyclone which sweeps across the countryside with destruction in its wake, but here and there leaving, quite untouched, a farm, a fruit tree, or a windmill—delightful oases—which serve as the only record of a struggling civilization. Big Business in New York has wiped out the homes of the people and sent them in a frantic rush hither and thither in search of a place to live. Always there is that uprooting, due to the steady march of the threatening skyscraper up the island of Manhattan. As in the case of the cyclone, however, verdant places are left behind in this barren desert of commerce, little green spots which remain an eternal blessing and evidence that there were once normal human beings here who thought and had time to care for beauty. One such place is Gramercy Park. I started one day to try to guess the origin of the name “Gramercy.” Samuel Ruggles, the son of the maker of the park, told me that when his father had bought the land the squatters called it “Grommercy Crick” (there was then a small stream of water flowing through it) and the only word that sounded near enough to that was “Gramercy.” I asked Carl Arendt, a well-known actor, what Grommercy meant in Dutch. At first he said, “Nothing,” but later stopped me and said: “You may have been aiming at _Kromme Zee_, which means _Crooked Creek_.” Like _Zuyder Zee_, I believe this is the origin of Gramercy. The Park reminds one of certain places in London more than anything else. In fact, I have often seen moving-picture companies taking films down here which were afterward to be represented on the screen as taking place in the British metropolis. The garden is perfect in its miniature representation of the different seasons. There is one lilac bush at the southwest corner that always tells me of the approach of spring. One year it did not blossom and I felt as if I had lost a friend. The same gardener has been caring for the growing things for a number of years, and many a child has been intrusted to his care while the nurse or parent was busy elsewhere. He teaches them to love the flowers, to play on the paths so that the grass may grow, patches up the quarrels and broken heads, and is tsar in his little domain. The plot of ground, with enough money to keep it going, was presented to the residents who live about the square, and most of the provisos have been kept, except that the donor required that no buildings more than four stories be allowed, and no house of other than brick or stone (barring wood, evidently). One or two taller ones have managed to creep in, but in general everything is almost the same as it was in the ’nineties, when I first landed in New York.