AVE ATQUE VALE

During the last half-century, while the band-wagon of scientific progress has been rambling along, accumulating its balloon-tires, free-wheeling, and Wizard Controls, one little-known industry has been loitering by the wayside, gathering its hibiscus in shameful dalliance. These delinquents are the men who make Keys-to-the-City. Other locksmiths have been hard at work, stiffening bank-vaults against the professional marauder, fashioning Yale locks against the casual inebriate, while municipal keys have continued in the mold of the mediaeval rathaus.

Mayor Curley, sensible of this deficiency, has made the keys to Boston more than a pretty sentiment. He has builded his key in three parts, which together make a gesture of hospitality; and severally, prove to be a corkscrew, a pencil, and a comb. These adjuncts begin their work where other keys leave off. The corkscrew takes its guest past the portals to the very bosom the city, the pencil enshrines names and telephone numbers in his address-book, and the comb wishes him God-speed the morning after.