In purpose and in method these episodes and these incidents of the urban panorama are closely akin to the experiments in story-telling which were gathered a few years ago into the pair of volumes entitled _Vignettes of Manhattan_ and _Outlines in Local Color_. The earliest of these stories in this third volume--replevined here from another collection long out of print--was written more than a quarter of a century ago; and the latest of them first saw the light only within the past few months. To each of the dozen sketches the date of composition has been appended as evidence that it was outlined in accord with the actual fact at the time it came into being, even if the metropolitan kaleidoscope has revolved so rapidly that more than one of these studies from life now records what is already ancient history. The bob-tailed car, for example, is already a thing of the past; the hansom is fast following it into desuetude; and no longer is it the fashion for family parties to bicycle through Central Park in the afternoon. Slight as these fleeting impressions may seem, this much at least may be claimed for them--that they are the result of an honest effort to catch and to fix a vision of this mighty city in which the writer has dwelt now for more than half a century. B. M. _February 21, 1912._ [Illustration: A Young Man from the Country] I NEW YORK, Sept. 7, 1894. MY Dear Miriam,--For you are mine now, all mine, and yet not so much as you will be some day--soon, I hope. You can't guess how much bolder I feel now that you are waiting for me. And it won't be so long that you will have to wait, either, for I am going to make my way here. There's lots of young fellows come to New York from the country with no better start than I've got, and they've died millionaires. I'm in no hurry to die yet, not before I've got the million, anyway; and I'm going to get it if it can be got honestly and by hard work and by keeping my eyes open. And when I get it, I'll have you to help me spend it.