ers, when suddenly, without any change
being made, there will come a rush of street-rovers to it, and scores
will have to be sent away, and the house be crowded for months after.
Perhaps these denizens of boxes and hay-barges have their own fashions,
like their elders, and a "Boys' Hotel" becomes popular, and has a run of
custom like the larger houses of entertainment. The numbers too, at
different seasons, vary singularly. Thus, in the coldest nights of
winter, when few boys could venture to sleep out, and one would suppose
there would be a rush to these warmed and comfortable "Lodges," the
attendance in some houses falls off. And in all, the best months are the
spring and autumn rather than the winter or summer. Sometimes a single
night of the week will show a remarkable increase of lodgers, though for
what reason no one can divine.

The lodgers in the different houses are singularly different. Those in
the parent Lodging-house--the Newsboys'--seem more of the true _gamin_
order: sharp, ready, light-hearted, quick to understand and quick to
act, generous and impulsive, and with an air of being well used "to
steer their own canoe" through whatever rapids and whirlpools. These
lads seem to include more, also, of that chance medley of little
wanderers who drift into the city from the country, and other large
towns--boys floating on the current, no one knows whence or whither.
They are, as a rule, younger than in the other "Lodges," and many of
them are induced to take places on farms, or with mechanics in the
country.

One of the mysterious things about this Boys' Hotel is, what becomes of
the large numbers that enter it? In the course of the twelve months
there passes through its hospitable doors a procession of more than
_eight thousand_ different youthful rovers of the streets--boys without
homes or friends; yet, on any one night, there is not an average of more
than two hundred. Each separate boy accordingly averages but nine days
in his stay. We can trace during the year the course of, perhaps, a
thousand of these young vagrants, for most of whom we provide ourselves.
What becomes of the other seven thousand? Many, no doubt, find
occupation in the city or country; some in the pleasant seasons take
their pleasure and business at the watering-places and other large
towns; some return to relatives or friends; many are arrested and
imprisoned, and the rest of the ragged throng drift away, no one knows
whither.

The