full of lobsters! Here comes another mounted on a cart, and blowing a
hoarse and dreadful blast from a tin horn, as much as to say, "Fresh
fish!" And hark! a voice on high, like that of a muezzin from the summit
of a mosque, announcing that some chimney-sweeper has emerged from smoke
and soot, and darksome caverns, into the upper air. What cares the world
for that? But, well-a-day, we hear a shrill voice of affliction, the
scream of a little child, rising louder with every repetition of that
smart, sharp, slapping sound, produced by an open hand on tender flesh.
Annie sympathizes, though without experience of such direful woe. Lo!
the town crier again, with some new secret for the public ear. Will he
tell us of an auction, or of a lost pocketbook, or a show of beautiful
wax figures, or of some monstrous beast more horrible than any in the
caravan? I guess the latter. See how he uplifts the bell in his right
hand, and shakes it slowly at first, then with a hurried motion, till the
clapper seems to strike both sides at once, and the sounds are scattered
forth in quick succession, far and near.

Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

Now he raises his clear, loud voice, above all the din of the town; it
drowns the buzzing talk of many tongues, and draws each man's mind from
his own business; it rolls up and down the echoing street and ascends to
the hushed chamber of the sick, and penetrates downward to the cellar
kitchen, where the hot cook turns from the fire to listen. Who, of all
that address the public ear, whether in church, or court-house, or hall
of state, has such an attentive audience as the town crier? What saith
the people's orator?

"Strayed from her home, a LITTLE GIRL, of five years old, in a blue silk
frock and white pantalets, with brown curling hair and hazel eyes.