From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Sight
The glare from the new electric signs is blinding, reflecting off the stiff silk stovepipe hats of the rich as they flee the carnage uptown. I clutched my morning paper in a sweat, reading how those strikers hurled volleys of bricks at the Hotel Astor while the New Year’s merriment was at its height; it makes a person wonder if any place is safe from the mob anymore. Everything is becoming so dreadfully expensive, with bread climbing to six cents a loaf and this lousy feeling of unrest hanging over the city like a fog. I tried to hum a bit of "Peg o' My Heart" to calm my nerves, but my eyes kept darting toward every shadow in the alleyway.