The girl who otherwise might have painted atrocious pictures is, in the Village, decorating delightful-looking boxes and jars, or hammering metals into quaint, original shapes that embody her own fleeting fancies.

The man who wanted to draw but could never get his perspective right is carving wood--a work where perspective is superfluous--and achieving pleasure for others, and comfort and a livelihood for himself, at one and the same time.
I know of nothing which is so typical or so significant in all the Village as this new urge toward good craftsmanship, elementary poetic design,--the fundamentals of a utilitarian, beautiful and pervading art life apart from clay or canvas.
The capitol of the Village shifts a bit from time to time, as befits so flexible, so fluid a community.

Just at the present writing, it is at Sheridan Square that you will find it most colourfully and picturesquely represented.

Tomorrow, no man may be able to say whence it has flitted.
You will find much golden sunshine in Sheridan Square--not the approved atmosphere of Bohemia, yet the real thing nevertheless.

It is a broad, clean, brazen sort of sunshine--a sunshine that should say, "See me work! See me shine! See me show up the least last ugliness or smallness or humbleness, and glorify it to something Village-like and picturesque!" When you leave the sunny square, you will enter the oddest little court in all New York; it has not to my knowledge any name, but it is the general address of enough tea shops and studios and Village haunts to stock an entire neighbourhood.