permission. Very few blind men care for smoking, for the reason that
they cannot see the smoke. Now, could you enjoy having the news read to
you from an evening newspaper unless you could see the colors of the
headlines?

"'Tis Easter Day," said Mrs. McCree.

"Scramble mine," said Danny.

After breakfast he dressed himself in the Sabbath morning costume of
the Canal Street importing house dray chauffeur--frock coat, striped
trousers, patent leathers, gilded trace chain across front of vest,
and wing collar, rolled-brim derby and butterfly bow from Schonstein's
(between Fourteenth Street and Tony's fruit stand) Saturday night sale.

"You'll be goin' out this day, of course, Danny," said old man McCree,
a little wistfully. "'Tis a kind of holiday, they say. Well, it's fine
spring weather. I can feel it in the air."

"Why should I not be going out?" demanded Danny in his grumpiest chest
tones. "Should I stay in? Am I as good as a horse? One day of rest my
team has a week. Who earns the money for the rent and the breakfast
you've just eat, I'd like to know? Answer me that!"

"All right, lad," said the old man. "I'm not complainin'. While me two
eyes was good there was nothin' better to my mind than a Sunday out.
There's a smell of turf and burnin' brush comin' in the windy. I have me
tobaccy. A good fine day and rist to ye, lad. Times I wish your mother
had larned to read, so I might hear the rest about the hippopotamus--but
let that be."