siness
and chants the ancient song of his fathers. When distance has somewhat
muffled its nearer sharpness, the song bears a melody unparalleled
among tradesmen's cries. Window glass, too, is hawked pleasantly from
house to house and requires but a knife and putty. In the spring the
vegetable vender, standing in his wagon, utters melodious sounds that
bring the housewives to their windows. Once, also, by good luck, I
fell into acquaintance with a fellow who peddled brooms and dustpans
along the countryside. He was hung both front and back with cheap
commodities--a necklace of scrubbing brushes--tins jangling against
his knees. A very kitchen had become biped. A pantry had gone on
pilgrimage. Except for dogs, which seemed maddened by his strange
appearance, it was, he informed me, an engaging livelihood for a man
who chafed indoors. Or for one of dreamy disposition the employment of
a sandwich man, with billboards fore and aft, offers a profitable
repose. Sometimes several of these philosophers journey together up
the street in a crowded hour, one behind another with slow
introspective step, as befits their high preoccupation.

Or one has an ear, and the street-organ commends itself. Observe the
musician at the corner, hat in hand and smiling! Let but a curtain
stir and his eye will catch it. He hears a falling penny as 'twere any
nightingale. His tunes are the herald of the gaudy spring. His are the
dancing measures of the sunlight. And is anyone a surer judge of human
nature? He allows dyspeptics to slink along the fence. Those of
bilious aspect may go their ways unchallenged. Spare me those, he
says, who have not music in their souls: they are fit for treasons,
stratagems, and spoils. It was with a flute that the poet Goldsmith
starved his way through France. Yet the flute is a cold un-stirring
instrument. He would have dined the oftener had he pitched upon a
street-organ.

But in this Christmas season there is a man goes up and down among the
shoppers blowing shrill tunes upon a pipe. A card upon his hat
announces that it is music makes the home and that one of his
marvelous implements may be bought for the trifling and altogether
insignificant sum of ten cents. A reticule across his stomach bulges
with his pipes. He seems to manipulate the stops with his fingers, but
I fancy that he does no more than sing into the larger opening. Yet
his gay tune sounds above the traffic.

I have wondered where such seasonal pro