his
wooden leg.

Everywhere within the limits of the sidewalk, and sometimes out upon the
pavement beyond, stand fruit-stalls loaded with oranges, apples, nuts,
and all such fruits as are seasonable and plenty. There are tables on
which pink, pulpy melons, flecked with the jet-black seeds, are set
forth in slices, to tempt thirsty passengers; tables upon which large
rocks of candy are broken up into nuggets to suit customers; and tables
upon which bananas alone are exposed for sale. The lamps upon all these
flame and smoke in the fitful whiffs of night air. The weighing-machine
man is here, with a blazing light suspended in front of his brazen disk;
and, as I pass on, I notice that the man who exhibits the moon is
dismounting his big telescope, for the night is clouding fast, and his
occupation is gone. Two small girls are scraping doleful strains from
the sad catgut of violins nearly as big as themselves. They have long
been frequenters of the Bowery at night, and were much smaller than
their fiddles when I first saw them here. Off the sidewalk, upon the
pavement of the street, there is a crowd of men and boys, closely
grouped around something in the way of a show. As I approach, old voices
of the once familiar woodlands and farm-yards greet my ear. I listen to
them, for a brief moment, rapt. Alas! they are spurious. They emanate
from a dirty man, who stands in the centre of the group, with a small
wooden box slung before him. By his side stands his torch-bearer, who
illuminates him with a lamp suspended from a long pole. The performer
takes something from his mouth, and, having made a laudatory address
regarding its merits, replaces it between his teeth, and resumes his
imitations of many birds and quadrupeds. His mocking-bird is very fair;
his thrush, passable; but his canary less successful, being rather too
reedy and harsh. Farm-yard sounds are thrown off with considerable
imitative power. His pig is so good, indeed, that it invites a
purchaser, who puts one of the calls into his mouth, and frightfully
distorts his features in his wretched efforts to produce the desired
grunts and squeaks. The crowing of cocks, the neighing of horses, the
lowing of cows, and the bleating of sheep follow in succession,--sounds
so appropriate to the memories of the Bowery that was, that one is
tempted to applaud the rascal in spite of the swindle he is practising
on the crowd. Of course, with the exception of the bird-songs, none of