No
doubt I had forgotten several times that number. In the four years
after that during which I remained in Mulberry Street I was called
only once to record a deed of violence in the neighborhood, and
that was when a stranger came in and killed himself. Nor had the
Bend simply sloughed off its wickedness, for it to lodge and take
root in some other place. That would have been something; but it
was not that. The Bend had become decent and orderly because the
sunlight was let in, and shone upon children who had at last the
right to play, even if the sign "keep off the grass" was still
there. That was what the Mulberry Bend park meant. It was the story
it had to tell. And as for the sign, we shall see the last of that
yet. The park has notice served upon it that its time is up.
[Illustration: The Mulberry Bend as it is.]
So the Bend went, and mighty glad am I that I had a hand in making
it go. The newspapers puzzled over the fact that I was not invited
to the formal opening. I was Secretary of the Small Parks Committee
at the time, and presumably even officially entitled to be bidden
to the show; though, come to think of it, our committee was a
citizens' affair and not on the pay-rolls! The Tammany Mayor who
came in the year after said that we had as much authority as "a
committee of bootblacks" about the City Hall, no more.
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