he little old gentleman.--Come,
Annie, into the street again; perchance we may see monkeys on
horseback there.

Mercy on us! What a noisy world we quiet people live in! Did Annie
ever read the cries of London city? With what lusty lungs doth yonder
man proclaim that his wheelbarrow is full of lobsters! Here comes
another, mounted on a cart and blowing a hoarse and dreadful blast
from a tin horn, as much as to say, "Fresh fish!" And hark! a voice on
high, like that of a muezzin from the summit of a mosque, announcing
that some chimney-sweeper has emerged from smoke and soot and darksome
caverns into the upper air. What cares the world for that? But,
well-a-day, we hear a shrill voice of affliction--the scream of a
little child, rising louder with every repetition of that smart,
sharp, slapping sound produced by an open hand on tender flesh. Annie
sympathizes, though without experience of such direful woe.

Lo! the town-crier again, with some new secret for the public ear.
Will he tell us of an auction, or of a lost pocket-book or a show of
beautiful wax figures, or of some monstrous beast more horrible than
any in the caravan? I guess the latter. See how he uplifts the bell in
his right hand and shakes it slowly at first, then with a hurried
motion, till the clapper seems to strike both sides at once, and the
sounds are scattered forth in quick succession far and near.

Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

Now he raises his clear loud voice above all the din of the town. It
drowns the buzzing talk of many tongues and draws each man's mind from
his own business; it rolls up and down the echoing street, and ascends
to the hushed chamber of the sick, and penetrates downward to the
cellar kitchen where the hot cook turns from the fire to listen. Who
of all that address the public ear, whether in church or court-house
or hall of state, has such an attentive audience as the town-crier!
What saith the people's orator?

"Strayed from her home, a LITTLE GIRL of five years old, in a blue
silk frock and white pantalets, with brown curling hair and hazel
eyes. Whoever will bring her back to her afflicted mother--"

Stop, stop, town-crier! The lost is found.--Oh, my pretty Annie, we
forgot to tell your mother of our ramble, and she is in despair and
has sent the town-crier to bellow up and down the streets, affrighting
old and young, for the loss of a little girl who has not once let go
my hand? Well, let us hasten homeward; and