brow and his thoughtful eyes bent down, while the gay little girl
trips lightly along as if she were forced to keep hold of my hand lest
her feet should dance away from the earth. Yet there is sympathy
between us. If I pride myself on anything, it is because I have a
smile that children love; and, on the other hand, there are few grown
ladies that could entice me from the side of little Annie, for I
delight to let my mind go hand in hand with the mind of a sinless
child. So come, Annie; but if I moralize as we go, do not listen to
me: only look about you and be merry.

Now we turn the corner. Here are hacks with two horses and
stage-coaches with four thundering to meet each other, and trucks and
carts moving at a slower pace, being heavily laden with barrels from
the wharves; and here are rattling gigs which perhaps will be smashed
to pieces before our eyes. Hitherward, also, comes a man trundling a
wheelbarrow along the pavement. Is not little Annie afraid of such a
tumult? No; she does not even shrink closer to my side, but passes on
with fearless confidence, a happy child amidst a great throng of grown
people who pay the same reverence to her infancy that they would to
extreme old age. Nobody jostles her: all turn aside to make way for
little Annie; and, what is most singular, she appears conscious of her
claim to such respect. Now her eyes brighten with pleasure. A
street-musician has seated himself on the steps of yonder church and
pours forth his strains to the busy town--a melody that has gone
astray among the tramp of footsteps, the buzz of voices and the war of
passing wheels. Who heeds the poor organ-grinder? None but myself and
little Annie, whose feet begin to move in unison with the lively tune,
as if she were loth that music should be wasted without a dance. But
where would Annie find a partner? Some have the gout in their toes or
the rheumatism in their joints; some are stiff with age, some feeble