Central Park, Manhattan, appears by day to be an ill-kept wasteland of stunted trees, ragged meadows, walks so tracked with gum-wrappers that they resemble the wake of a paper chase. At night not so; then the trees are like huge bundles of dark feathers, the lawns like scraps of green silk patterned with pathways. Here gum-chewers, muttering "loves me ... . loves me not . . ." as they tear the wrappers from their chiclets, take delight in strolling, in listening to the music coming from the Mall, where Edwin Franko Goldman...
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