From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Sight
I squint through the autumn haze at those stiff silhouettes of men in top hats, all fussing over Secretary Root’s arrival like a bunch of blockheads. The street is a riot of charcoal wool and high-collared corsets, though I’d much rather be hunched over my Rook cards than pacing this chilly lane. From a nearby open window, the brassy holler of "You’re a Grand Old Flag" by George M. Cohan crackles off a new Victrola, drowning out the clatter of horse hooves on the pavement. I pull my cap low, watching the neon-bright posters flutter against the brick as that patriotic tune thumps rhythmically in my chest.