Like an electric current the greeting communicated itself from bench to bench. A woman across the aisle caught the force of it and waved her hand over the heads of the crowd as she cried: "How do you do?" She held up a fretful boy of five, who raised his voice in lamentation; while she said: "Behave yourself, kid; there's an American boss on the car." But the boy, thoroughly American, would not be frightened by threats of boss, police, or any other bugaboo. He pulled at her skirt, clutched her expansive hat, nearly tearing it from its insecure moorings, then rolled the window shade up and down, suddenly letting it go with a spring--after which, all in one breath, he peremptorily demanded candy, water, bananas, and that his mother make the reluctant "choo-choo cars" go at once. This woman's husband is a merchant in Wilmerding, Pa., and she, after many years in America, was going home to visit her people, bringing this hopeful youngster with her to disturb the "peace of Jerusalem." "If he were my boy," growled the unfortunate man who sat on the same bench with him, "I'd throw him out the window;" and the woman apologetically said: "He is an American boy, and they are all like this. You can't tame them. Whipping does no good." "Well," the man muttered, under his fierce moustachio, "I am glad I am not living in America." A young Moravian woman, who, in America, had exchanged her peasant garb and ruggedness for our more expensive dress and gentler ways, corroborated the mother's statement. She had worked in American homes and testified: "Children in America are all terrible. Nothing is sacred to them; neither the kitchen nor the church. It's because they have so few children; they spoil them." "Yes," agreed a young Hungarian Jew; "in America, they have the one child system, and many women do not have even one child. They are so sterile. You should see how thin and flat-chested they are." Then, in his realistic way, he described the physique of our women. He was a great talker, that young Jew. Having been unsuccessful in New York, he was returning home a cynic and a severe critic. "Hm!" he continued; "the women of America are the boss. Just think of it; you can't get a woman to black your boots. That is the reason so many men get a divorce." He knew all about the American woman's luxuries, and talked loudly and long of silken petticoats, lace waists, and other sartorial mysteries; for he had worked in a tailor's shop and was acquainted with all woman's "doings." "The American men are to blame!" exclaimed a man who was crowded close to me. He had returned from America some time before, and was travelling up and down the country, buying butter and eggs. He had caught a vision of the American man and his business methods in Chicago, where he had worked in a large packing-house, and in a modest way, he was applying his knowledge.