Around the City [excerpt]

     A dray filled with trash stood before an F street [sic] store, and a colored man lumbering up from the basement with a bag of more trash on his back showed that the store’s head was a working member of the clean city league.
     The dray was heaped high with broken boxes, slabs of pasteboard, crumpled wrapping paper and—and everything like that—and propped up behind the driver’s seat was a half-life-sized photograph in a tarnished frame. The glass was cracked and the paper beneath followed the broken lines with snuff-brown ridges of dust. There were brown and gray rosettes of mildew scattered over the once white mat and a cobweb draped one corner of the frame.
     Hundreds of people scurried by in the couple of minutes that a woman paused to watch, but if they saw the picture they paid no attention.
     But the picture itself seemed to have seeing eyes that were sad with the premonition of the death that was to come to its original—and of the forgetfulness that was so soon to follow.
     And yet it seems only the other day that one Czolgoz fired a shot at Buffalo that was heard around the world.