Some day some one should chart New York—some one who does not know a thing about statistics, who will study every section just for the love of it, without even thinking of selling the story to a newspaper. To this some one I will give some valuable points of which very few are aware.

In the hope that I may tempt such a one, I will give out the points one by one. Here is the first one:

The map of Europe is reproduced in New York by the different nationalities living here; each nationality having as neighbor the same that it has in Europe. Thus, the Greeks, Turks, Syrians and Italians are close neighbors in Europe, and also here. The same thing applies to the Russians, who are neighbors with the Roumanians, the Poles, the Austrians and the Germans. And one must not think that love attracts them. They hate one another as whole-heartedly as only neighbors can hate one another. Perhaps this mutual hatred attracts them: Hatred is not as bad as we have been taught to think. One can, and generally does, love lower than himself, but no one hates lower than himself. Hence:

The Roumanian quarter of New York is perhaps the most interesting one. It really starts at Delancey Street and the Bowery, and is bounded by Houston Street, north of which is Hungary and east of which are Bulgaria, Serbia and a group of other Balkanic peoples.

What distinguishes the Roumanian quarter is the people's carefree way of living. CafÉs, amusement places, pastry shops, everywhere. And you can hear music streaming out from every window. The sound from a grand piano on which some one is essaying Beethoven's "Appassionata," or Sarasate's undying and hackneyed "Gypsy Airs," played on a violin to a very inadequate accompaniment. Song, music and color, whichever way you turn.

But you only get the fringe of it, until you come down to Moskowitz's cellar on Rivington Street. And though the wine there is not as good as the music, the place is always full—to the glory of the Roumanians who know that no wine could be so good as to surpass the quality of the music one hears there.

The place is literally filled every night. You see, the real difference between the Russians and the Roumanians is—the Russians talk politics, literature and philosophy when they come together, while the Roumanians like to hear good music and drink wine in company. So they come, whole parties, whole families, children and all, to Moskowitz's.

And Moskowitz himself presides over his instrument, the cimbalon, and striking the tense wires with two little wooden sticks he draws out from them the weirdest sounds, the saddest chords, dissolving into the wildest dances. Of course Moskowitz plays regular stuff also; hits and misses of the popular repertoire of the vaudeville, etc., but he does this only when his guests are eating—orders from Mrs. Moskowitz, you know, who does not want food compared with her husband's Roumanian music.

Marco, the young Roumanian painter, was in love with Fay Roberts, a gifted American girl from up-State, who had made Greenwich Village her abode. She was so gifted in many directions that she was a failure at everything—except being loved. In this she had succeeded very well. A dozen artists and two dozen business men were in love with this possessor of a beautiful head from which brains mirrored through two blue eyes.

Of all the men Marco loved her best and most truly. She knew it. She liked him. But he was dull. He cut no figure anywhere. He took no part in discussions. He never cited Dostoiewsky. He never tiraded against the lack of understanding of the people. He once angered everybody by saying that the people, the plain common ordinary people, were the creators of everything worth while. She hated him for saying that. He had a way of his, of burying his bushy head in his pipe and looking from underneath his eyebrows, that angered her very much.

He loved her, he adored her, and as time went by, he became more dull. Some people's tongues are loosened by love as by wine, and others are stricken dumb.

Marco lost speech whenever he faced Fay, lost it more and more as his love for the girl grew.

"What's the matter with your Roumanian savage?" friends asked the girl.

"I don't know. He is getting duller every day," the girl answered.

Then, one day, as Fay and a party of friends planned a merry evening, Marco flared up enthusiastically.

"Come with me, somewhere."

"Where?" they all asked.

"With me, to a place I know."

And thus it was that a dozen American young men and women descended the stairs of Moskowitz's cellar.

It was too early; Moskowitz was not yet playing. Fay did not like the food, and her grumbling became contagious. They all mocked and derided Marco. Thompson and Carlisle, both in love with Fay, and Mary and Lucy, both in love with the two men, never ceased for a moment to taunt poor Marco. And though he ordered the best wine, Fay declared that "this Roumanian monstrosity was the worst ever."

The painter's eyes became moist; he pleaded, but Fay's eyes were as cold as steel.

"You are dull, you are stupid," she cried.

Then the music started. A thousand tripping feet descending lightly from Heaven—a million voices lifting themselves to the gods, the wedding of everything earthly to everything celestial, the whole universe dancing—man, woman and beast, mountains, oceans and stars—singing the joy of creation.

It was music, the kind of which Fay never heard before—interlaced songs, each one grown out of the hearts of millions of people through thousands of years, songs breathing life, as different from the music she had heard to then as a photograph is to the object it tends to portray. The water going down hill, the trees of the forest spreading their wings, the wheat actually swaying like golden waves.

Her own life passed before her as she heard the music; from early childhood to the very minute of her thought. How had she ever dared to insult Marco?

How had she dared bunch him together with her other admirers? She looked at him and her eyes pleaded forgiveness, but Marco was oblivious to everything.

And as the music continued Fay saw Marco's eyes brighten. Every line of his face became full with an inner life she had never seen before in any one.

Suddenly he started to sing a song as sad as the world's woes.

From the cimbalon rose chords that spoke of understanding. No one dared even move, lest it might disturb the perfect communion between singer and accompanist. Little by little another soul was carried in.

How dull the others were, sitting at the table disputing the quality of the food. How was she ever so blind and stupid as not to see!

Marco now got up from the table, put both his hands on the musician's shoulders, and sang on—and as he sang he grew bigger and bigger.

The place went wild when he finished. Moskowitz kissed him, and Fay could plainly see that at least fifty pairs of lips longed to do likewise.

"Marco, Marco, why have you never brought me here before?" cried Fay in joy, as she kissed the happy man.

And now, nightly at Moskowitz's, a bushy Roumanian is drinking his bottle in company of a pretty American girl, who dreams of the day when she will see the country from which such songs, and such men, come.