ite direction toward
the festival.

The whole personality of the old man was specially calculated to whet my
anthropological appetite to the utmost--his poorly clad, yet noble
figure, his unfailing cheerfulness, so much artistic zeal combined with
such awkwardness, the fact that he returned home just at the time when
for others of his ilk the real harvest was only beginning, and, finally,
the few Latin words, spoken, however, with the most correct accent and
with absolute fluency. The man had evidently received a good education
and had acquired some knowledge, and here he was--a street-musician! I
was burning with curiosity to learn his history.

But a compact wall of humanity already separated us. Small as he was,
and getting in everybody's way with the music-stand in his hand, he was
shoved from one to another and had passed through the exit-gate while I
was still struggling in the centre of the causeway against the opposing
crowd. Thus I lost track of him; and when at last I had reached the
quiet, open space, there was no musician to be seen far or near.

This fruitless adventure had spoiled all my enjoyment of the popular
festival. I wandered through the Augarten in all directions, and finally
decided to go home. As I neared the little gate that leads out of the
Augarten into Tabor Street, I suddenly heard the familiar sound of the
old violin. I accelerated my steps, and, behold! there stood the object
of my curiosity, playing with all his might, surrounded by several boys
who impatiently demanded a waltz from him. "Play a waltz," they cried;
"a waltz, don't you hear?" The old man kept on fiddling, apparently
paying no attention to them, until his small audience, reviling and
mocking him, left him and gathered around an organ-grinder who had taken
up his position near by.

"They don't want to dance," said the old man sadly, and gathered up his
musical outfit. I had stepped up quite close to him. "The children do
not know any dance but the waltz," I said.

"I was playing a waltz," he replied, indicating with his bow the notes
of the piece he had just been playing. "You have to play things like
that for the crowd. But the children have no ear for music," he said,
shaking his head mournfully.

"At least permit me to atone for their ingratitude," I said, taking a
silver coin out of my pocket and offering it to him.

"Please, don't," cried the old man, at the same time warding me off
anxiously with both hands--"i