ervant eye intent upon the outcome of the contest; upon the wreck
that is past hope, and upon the youth pausing on the verge of the pit
in which the other has long ceased to struggle. Sights and sounds of
Christmas there are in plenty in the Bowery. Balsam and hemlock and
fir stand in groves along the busy thoroughfare, and garlands of green
embower mission and dive impartially. Once a year the old street
recalls its youth with an effort. It is true that it is largely a
commercial effort; that the evergreen, with an instinct that is not of
its native hills, haunts saloon-corners by preference; but the smell
of the pine woods is in the air, and--Christmas is not too
critical--one is grateful for the effort. It varies with the
opportunity. At "Beefsteak John's" it is content with artistically
embalming crullers and mince-pies in green cabbage under the window
lamp. Over yonder, where the mile-post of the old lane still
stands,--in its unhonored old age become the vehicle of publishing the
latest "sure cure" to the world,--a florist, whose undenominational
zeal for the holiday and trade outstrips alike distinction of creed
and property, has transformed the sidewalk and the ugly railroad
structure into a veritable bower, spanning it with a canopy of green,
under which dwell with him, in neighborly good-will, the Young Men's
Christian Association and the Jewish tailor next door.

In the next block a "turkey-shoot" is in progress. Crowds are trying
their luck at breaking the glass balls that dance upon tiny jets of
water in front of a marine view with the moon rising, yellow and big,
out of a silver sea. A man-of-war, with lights burning aloft, labors
under a rocky coast. Groggy sailormen, on shore leave, make unsteady
attempts upon the dancing balls. One mistakes the moon for the target,
but is discovered in season. "Don't shoot that," says the man who
loads the guns; "there's a lamp behind it." Three scared birds in the
window recess try vainly to snatch a moment's sleep between shots and
the trains that go roaring overhead on the elevated road. Roused by
the sharp crack of the rifles, they blink at the lights in the street,
and peck moodily at a crust in their bed of shavings.

The dime museum gong clatters out its noisy warning that "the lecture"
is about to begin. From the concert hall, where men sit drinking beer
in clouds of smoke, comes the thin voice of a short-skirted singer,
warbling, "Do they think of me at home?