ong hours between eight and twelve and
one and six is something like this:

[Illustration]

UP. DOWN.

Detective taking
prisoner to
Central Office.
Chinaman.
Messenger boy. Two house-painters.
Two priests. Boy with basket.
Jewish sweater, Boy with tin
with coats on beer-pails on a
his shoulder. stick.
Carpenter.
Another Chinaman.
Drunken woman
(a regular).
Glass-put-in
man.

[Illustration]

UP. DOWN.

Washer woman
with clothes.
Poor woman
with market-basket.
Drunken man.
Undertaker's
man carrying
trestles.
Butcher's boy.
Two priests. Detective
coming back
from Central
Office
alone.

Such is the daily march of the mob in Mulberry Street near the mouth of
Jersey's blind alley, and such is its outrageous behavior as observed by
a presumably decent person from the windows of the big red-brick
building across the way.

Suddenly there is an explosion of sound under the decent person's
window, and a hand-organ starts off with a jerk like a freight train on
a down grade, that joggles a whole string of crashing notes. Then it
gets down to work, and its harsh, high-pitched, metallic drone makes the
street ring for a moment. Then it is temporarily drowned by a chorus of
shrill, small voices. The person--I am afraid his decency begins to drop
off him here--leans on his broad window-sill and looks out. The street
is filled with children of every age, size, and nationality; dirty
children, clean children, well-dressed children, and children in rags,
and for every one of these last two classes put together a dozen
children who are neatly and cleanly but humbly clad--the children of the
self-respecting poor. I do not know where they have all swarmed from.
There were only three or four in sight just before the organ came; now
there are several dozen in the crowd, and the crowd is growing. See, the
women are coming out in the rear tenements. Some male passers-by line up
on the edge of the sidewalk and look on with a superior air. The Italian
barber has come all the way up his steps, and is sitting on the rail.
Judge