human
of a milk cart. The
gpt
of the ice man, the snort of a six o'clock switch engine and the
human
of a laundry wagon formed for him a pleasant morning symphony. The clatter of an elevated train was with him the normal accompaniment of dawn, but the poetry of the pastoral--well, it didn't exist, that's all--except in
gpt
human
I'm like George Ade's clerk: I never enjoy my vacation till I get back to the city.