he country legislator, who makes the laws which govern cities, no doubt supposes the day ends with "milking time" and to him the hour of midnight is the meridian which divides the good from the bad, by fixing the time when the former are in bed and the latter are abroad. Even people born and raised in cities imagine that life ceases at least with the return from the opera, and the "last car" is to them the signal which warns them that dissipation is wooing them from their sleep. To most people staying-up-all-night is intimately associated with the Americanism, "red paint", which expresses a deal of meaning to those familiar with this quaint Dakota idiom. Those who turn night into day in Minneapolis to earn a living number several thousand, but it is the people who take their playtime or recreation in the evening who impart the animation to the streets and give vivacity to the scenes by gaslight. The life of a "street" reporter on a morning daily in a great city includes a symposium of events which might be taken as a true record of the happenings, which, with occasional deviations, make up the history of Minneapolis after dark. Take a large town, just putting on metropolitan airs, in which there is an almost entire absence of the criminal class, spawned and bred into an existence which comes almost like a heritage, restrict its immoral propensities to a degree that is almost irksome and you have Minneapolis. There are no organized gangs of toughs, "no holes in the wall," no dance houses, few dives. A night spent "doing the town" could furnish but little amusement for the blase rounder who has run the gauntlet of vice in larger cities. But to return to the night - its history devoid of sensationalism presents a routine chat grows quickly wearisome.

8 p. m. The streets are alive with people. The small dealers and hucksters garner their harvest of trade. The places of amusement and recreation are filled with their patrons. The high-toned saloon has its run of fashionable tipplers, men about town and youthful bacchanalians, where the pleasant clinking of glasses, the rich coloring of attractive surroundings and genial companionship, make a scene of careless pleasure far from disagreeable. The resorts of the middle lower each have their cotorie of loungers, and grade themselves instinctively in accordance with the character of their visitors.

Midnight. The lights have died away in the store fronts. The tinkle of the street-car bell comes less frequently, or has ceased [altogether]. The promenaders have vanished and in their stead occasional pedestrians dot the pavements. The saloons disgorge, for the order "close up" comes promptly. Snatches of song and laughter die away around the corners. Shadows creep into the alley-ways and entrances. The slamming of a hack door or "good night" is the benediction of the evening. Then come the night birds, the loiterers, and those who seek forgetfulness in dissipation, or who court the forbidden pleasures which must be sought behind curtained windows and locked doors. "The Rounder" is abroad, and his bluster can be heard upon the curb and at corners.

2 a. m. Even these seem to melt away, and the darkness and the streets are quiet -- where do they go? To the resorts where the farcial laughter of women is heard, where painted faces and tinseled finery bequile the quickly passing hours. Here "The Sucker" learns his lesson, and the debauchee has his amusement. Enter that house with its darkened front. A ring at the door brings the face of a sable attendant to view. There is the rattle of a chain, and you are admitted.

4 a. m. The gray light of early morning shoots over the tops of the business blocks and dulls the glimmer of the gaslights to a sickening yellow. The sidewalks and the pavements seem dirty and begrimmed, and there is a smell of decay which you have not noticed before. Perhaps some weary "bum" or sleeping vagrant greets your eye as you look up and down the avenue which seems unnatural because you have never seen it before without its crowds of rushing, pushing humanity, or without its roar and bustle. Now it seems cold and quiet, and the very telegraph poles appear to stand as monuments in some great, silent cemetery. As you walk along signs of returning life appear. The newspaper carrier, half asleep, stumbles along. Then comes the rattle of a milk wagon, a block away, but what a noise it makes. White turbaned bakers stand in the area across the way to catch a breath of the morning breeze.

5 a. m. The noise of lumbering wagons has increased, pedestrians multiply and hurry along briskly. Omnibuses and cabs go jolting along on their way to deports. Store doors come open and sweepers appear. The motor steams down its narrow track and discharges its load of passengers. The street cars roll along, the sun breaks out in a glory of light and the day is born again.