PHIL THE FIDDLER

"Viva Garibaldi!" sang a young Italian boy in an uptown street,
accompanying himself on a violin which, from its battered appearance,
seemed to have met with hard usage.

As the young singer is to be the hero of my story, I will pause to
describe him. He was twelve years old, but small of his age. His
complexion was a brilliant olive, with the dark eyes peculiar to his
race, and his hair black. In spite of the dirt, his face was strikingly
handsome, especially when lighted up by a smile, as was often the case,
for in spite of the hardships of his lot, and these were neither few nor
light, Filippo was naturally merry and light-hearted.

He wore a velveteen jacket, and pantaloons which atoned, by their extra
length, for the holes resulting from hard usage and antiquity. His
shoes, which appeared to be wholly unacquainted with blacking, were,
like his pantaloons, two or three sizes too large for him, making it
necessary for him to shuffle along ungracefully.

It was now ten o'clock in the morning. Two hours had elapsed since
Filippo, or Phil, as I shall call him, for the benefit of my readers
unfamiliar with Italian names, had left the miserable home in Crosby
Street, where he and forty other boys lived in charge of a middle-aged
Italian, known as the padrone. Of this person, and the relations between
him and the boys, I shall hereafter speak. At present I propose to
accompany Phil.

Though he had wandered about, singing and playing, for two hours, Phil
had not yet received a penny. This made him somewhat uneasy, for he knew