ddenly　on　anything　at　all　in　New　York　as　a　loiterer；　because　he　has　had　no　time　between　trains。　He　has　fished　in　Manhattan’s　wallet　and　dug　out　coins　but　has　never　listened　to　Manhattan’s　breathing；　never　awakened　to　its　morning；　never　dropped　off　to　sleep　in　its　night。　About　400；000　men　and　women　e　charging　onto　the　island　each　weekday　morning；　out　of　the　mouths　of　tubes　and　tunnels。　Not　many　among　them　have　ever　spent　a　drowsy　afternoon　in　the　great　rustling　oaken　silence　of　the　reading　room　of　the　Public　Library；　with　the　book　elevator　（like　an　old　water　wheel）　spewing　out　books　onto　the　trays。　They　tend　their　furnaces　of　the　Bowery；　the　fires　that　burn　in　oil　drums　on　zero　winter　nights。　They　may　work　in　the　financial　district　downtown　and　never　see　the　extravagant　plantings　of　Rockefeller　Center—the　daffodils7　and　grape　hyacinths　and　birches　and　the　flags　trimmed　to　the　wind　on　a　fine　morning　in　spring。　Or　they　may　work　in　a　midtown　office　and　may　let　a　whole　year　swing　round　without　sighting　Governors　Island　from　the　sea　wall。　The　muter　dies　with　tremendous　mileage　to　his　credit　but　he　is　no　rover。 His　entrances　and　exits　are　more　devious　than　those　in　a　prairie…dog　village；　and　he　calmly　plays　bridge　while　buried　in　the　mud　at　the　bottom　of　the　East　River。　The　Long　Island　Rail　Road　alone　carried　forty　million　muters　last　year；　but　many　of　them　were　the　same　fellow　retracing　his　steps。

The　terrain　of　New　York　is　such　that　a　resident　sometimes　travels　farther；　in