cold and darkness of their sleeping places, for we cannot call them
homes, and long for the morning to come. The cold weather is very hard
upon them. They love the warm sun, and during the season of ice and
snow are in a constant state of semi-torpor. You see them on the
street, in their thin, ragged garments, so much overpowered by the cold
that they can scarcely strike or utter a note. Sometimes they are
permitted by the keeper of some saloon to approach his stove for a
moment or two. These are the bright periods of their dark lives, for as
a general rule, they are forced to remain in the streets, plying their
avocations until late in the night, for blows and curses are their
reward should they fail to carry to those who own them a fair day's
earnings. Give them a penny or two, should they ask it, reader. You
will not miss it. It is more to them than to you, and it will do you no
harm for the recording angel to write opposite the follies and sins of
your life that you cast one gleam of sunshine into the heart of one of
these little minstrels.


AN INCIDENT.

During one of the heavy snows of the last winter, one of these child
harpers was trudging wearily down Fifth Avenue, on his way to the vile
quarter in which he was to spend the night. It was intensely cold, and
the little fellows strength was so much exhausted by the bleak night
wind that he staggered under the weight of his harp. At length he sat
down on the steps of a splendid mansion to rest. The house was
brilliantly lighted, and he looked around timidly as he seated himself,
expecting the usual command to move off. No one noticed him, however,
and he leaned wearily against the balustrade, and gazed at the handsome
windows through which the rich, warm light streamed out into the wintry