From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Sight
The gas lamps flicker low as I squint at the newsprint, my heart sinking to see General Wallace is confined to his bed; if a hero like him is failing, what hope is there for the rest of us? Everything is getting so dear, and I’m a total blockhead for eyeing that new **Teddy Bear** in the window when five cents for a loaf of bread is already a king's ransom. The street is a blur of stiff wool coats and dark silhouettes against the November gloom. I pull my collar tight, humming "Bill Bailey" to drown out the fearful talk of sickness that seems to linger in every doorway.