As he shuffled down the street, he clutched his coat tightly about his
throat, for the air was chill and he felt the cold.

At the first street corner he stopped and placed his violin to his
shoulder to play, but catching a glance from the policeman across the
street he hastily tucked his violin under his arm and shuffled on.

He walked a great distance before he again stopped.

It was a busy corner where hundreds of people passed every few minutes,
but when he played no one stopped to listen to his music, much less to
drop anything in the tiny tin cup he had placed on the sidewalk before
him.

Tears came to the poor little old man's eyes; everyone was too busy to
stop to hear his music.

So in the evening when he slowly retraced his steps towards his attic
home, his feet were very tired and he shuffled more than he had in the
morning. His back humped and his head drooped more, and the tears nearly
blinded him. He had to stop and rest at each flight of stairs and he
fell to his knees just as he reached the attic door.

He sat there and rested awhile, then caught hold of the doorknob and
raised himself to his feet.

A quaint little white-haired woman greeted him with a cheery smile as he
entered, then, seeing his sad face, she turned her head and tears came
to her eyes.