these little ones, whose natures are drawn from the land of music. We
have repeatedly seen them sawing away patiently at a violin, or jerking
the strings of a harp, but could detect no semblance of melody in the
noise they made. Not a few of the little ones endeavor to make up in
dancing what they lack in musical skill. Their parents or proprietors
are harsh and stern with them, and endeavor to beat some slight
knowledge of their art into them, but it is a long time before they
succeed. Sometimes death steps in to end the troubles of the child
before success has crowned the efforts of the parent. Let us hope the
little voices will be more melodious in the unseen world.

Sometimes these children will be found in pairs on the streets,
consisting of a boy with a small harp, and a girl with a violin; or
sometimes two girls; one with an old, broken guitar, and the other with
a tambourine; or, again, of two boys, with harp and violin. Their
music, at the best, is but worthless, and their voices have a cracked,
harsh, monotonous cadence, but they also possess a sadness which rarely
fails to bring a penny or two into the outstretched hat. They are
dirty, ragged, and more like monkeys than children, but they have a
wistfulness and weariness about their gaze and manner that make one's
heart ache. It is so sad to see young children condemned to such lives.
They are very young, the average age being eight years, but they do not
seem like children. You think they are little old men and women.

At all hours of the day, and until late at night, you may hear their
music along the streets, and listen to their sad, young voices going up
to the ear that is always open to them. They are half fed and half
clothed, and their filthiness is painful to behold. They sleep in fair
weather under a door step, in some passage-way or cellar, or in a box
or hogshead on the street, and in the winter huddle together in the