Dodging about among the crowd, shouting his "Extras" o'er and o'er;
Pausing by whiles to cheat the wind within some alley, by some door.
At last he stopped--six papers left, tucked hopelessly beneath his arm--
To eye a fruiterer's outspread store; here, products from some country farm;
And there, confections, all adorned with wreathed and clustered leaves
and flowers,
While little founts, like frosted spires, tossed up and down their mimic
showers.
He stood and gazed with wistful face, all a child's longing in his eyes;
Then started as I touched his arm, and turned in quick, mechanic wise,
Raised his torn cape with purple hands, said, "Papers, sir? _The
Evening News!"_
He brushed away a freezing tear, and shivered, "Oh, sir don't refuse!"
"How many have you? Never mind--don't stop to count--I'll take them all;
And when you pass my office here, with stock on hand, give me a call."
He thanked me with a broad Scotch smile, a look half wondering and half
glad.
I fumbled for the proper "change," and said, "You seem a little lad
To rough it in the streets like this.
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