It was midmorning when three fashionably attired girls for the first time in their lives ascended to the Third Avenue Elevated, going uptown. At that hour there were few people traveling in that direction and they had a car almost to themselves. As they were whirled past tenements, so close that they could plainly see the shabby furniture in the flats beyond, the younger girls suddenly realized how great was the contrast between the life that was ahead of them and that which they were leaving. The thundering of the trains, the constant rumble of traffic below, the discordant cries of hucksters, reached them through the open windows. "It's hard to believe that a meadow lark is singing anywhere in the world," Bobs said, turning to Gloria. "Or that little children are playing in those meadows," the older girl replied. She was watching the pale, ragged children hanging to railings around fire escapes on a level with the train windows.