Five O'Clock.

A score of whistles wail in differentkeys,
And soon the traffic in the roaring street
Grows thicker, more impatient, home-going feet
Make rapid rhythm as the people pass
In streaming crowds that surge their separate ways,
Unheeding now the artful, bright dis-plays
That breathe their subtle lure through plated glass.
Within the milk-bars globes of warm light glow,
And rosy neon signs begin to flare
More richly in the smoke-blue evening air.
Like sleek black beetles that have golden eyes,
Cars weave and glide and scurry to and fro;
The mournful bleating of the paper boys
Cuts sharp and thin across the throbbing noise
The traffic makes; trams rattle on their way,
Grind over intersections, clang and sway,
Packed close with people who have left behind
Warehouses, workshops, factories and mills,
And carefree now, elate of heart and mind,
Jostle and cling to straps, their faces turned
Towards the home-lights spattered onthe hills.

—Katherine O'Brien.

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