o side, gazing up at the
windows of the brick building where the great wrought-iron griffins
stare back at him from their lofty perches. His anxious black eyes rove
from window to window. The poor he has always with him, but what will
the folk who mould public opinion in great griffin-decorated buildings
do for him?

I think we will throw him down a few nickels. Let us tear off a scrap of
newspaper. Here is a bit from the society column of the _Evening_ ----.
That will do excellently well. We will screw the money up in that, and
there it goes, _chink_! on the pavement below. There, look at that grin!
Wasn't it cheap at the price?

I wish he might have had a monkey to come up and get the nickels. We
shall never see the organ-grinder's monkey in the streets of New York
again. I see him, though. He comes out and visits me where I live among
the trees, whenever the weather is not too cold to permit him to travel
with his master. Sometimes he comes in a bag, on chilly days; and my own
babies, who seem to be born with the fellow-feeling of vulgarity with
the mob, invite him in and show him how to warm his cold little black
hands in front of the kitchen range.

I do not suppose, even if it were possible to get our good old maiden
lady to come down to Mulberry Street and sit at my window when the
organ-grinder comes along, she could ever learn to look at the mob with
friendly, or at least kindly, eyes; but I think she would learn--and she
is cordially invited to come--that it is not a mob that rejoices in
"outrageous behavior," as some other mobs that we read of have
rejoiced--notably one that gave a great deal of trouble to some very
"decent people" in Paris toward the end of the last century. And I think
that she even might be induced to see that the organ-grinder is
following an honest trade, pitiful as it be, and not exercising a
"fearful beggary." He cannot be called a beggar who gives something that
to him, and to thousands of others, is something valuable, in return for
the money he asks of you. Our organ-grinder is no more a beggar than is
my good friend Mr. Henry Abbey, the honestest and best of operatic
impresarios. Mr. Abbey can take the American opera house and hire Mr.
Seidl and Mr. ---- to conduct grand opera for your delight and mine, and
when we can afford it we go and listen to his perfect music, and, as
our poor contributions cannot pay for it all, the rich of the land meet
the deficit. But this poor, foot-