midnight
No matter if they are cramped ; by and by they will have room . By and by comes the spring , and with it the steamer . Does not the green branch speak of spring and of hope ? The policeman on the beat hears their hammers beat a joyous tattoo past midnight , far into Christmas morning . Who shall say its message has not reached even them in their slum ? Where the noisy trains speed over the iron highway past the second-story windows of Allen Street , a cellar door yawns darkly in the shadow of one of the pillars that half block the narrow sidewalk . A dull gleam behind the cobweb-shrouded window pane supplements the sign over the door , in Yiddish and English : `` Old Brasses . ''