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Again the voice of the dreamer is heard. Let us, from a slight
elevation, watch the busy life of a large city. At early morning can be
heard the rattling of the carts and the merry whistle of the
drivers--the red-faced market woman is arranging fruit temptingly in
front of her stall; the shopman in a small street is lowering shutters
from his windows; the little old wizened woman has seated herself on the
curb stone with a small supply of apples and candy; the one armed beggar
has taken his accustomed place; the shop girls are hurrying to their
places behind the counters, the brawny workman with muscles of iron,
strides along to his days labor, and all the work-a-day world is alert.
A little later on the business portion of the city is abroad, the banker
is being driven to his counting house, the wealthy shop keeper hurries
to his place of business, and farther on the little flower girl with
fresh violets, still wet with dew, can be seen with her basket, offering
to the passers by the sweet contents. Now the great city is thoroughly
awake. The miser and the beggar jostle each other on the crowded
pavement, the little children are taken out for their morning airing by
the white-capped nurse, a black robed nun glides along on some errand of
mercy, with a face like a mediæval saint, jostling her as he passes can
be seen the excited face of the gambler who has staked his all and lost,
and again another flower-girl bearing her bright burden, now seen and
again lost sight of, looks like a bright humming bird as she flits
along, moving hither and thither in this strange medley of human beings.
A group has gathered around some Italian street musicians; little ragged
urchins are dancing in time to a merry waltz, and now the tune changes
from gay to grave. Watch the expression of the dark-eyed harpist while
he plays, surely his thoughts have flown to his sunny Italy, so sad, so
dreamy is his look. Even this picturesque looking street musician may