The scrap book, Volume 2, No. 2

IN STREET AND GRAND-STAND.

Reading edition

Familiar Sounds That Enter the Windows of City Flats and Put Sleep to Flight, or, on Baseball Fields, Cause the Voice of the Umpire to Seem Like a Penny Whistle in a Company of Fog-horns.

THE OLD HAND-ORGAN.

By W. D. Nesbit.

The old hand-organ in the street

Has not the gaudy gold and gilt

The new ones have—but, oh, the sweet

Old tunes it plays with limping lilt!

“The Harp That Once Through Tara’s Halls,”

“Jim Crow,” and “Annie Laurie,” too—

And, answering its bugle-calls,

The old times rise for me and you.

“Then You’ll Remember Me,” it plays—

And straight our memories go back

Through all the dead years’ mellow haze,

With frequent pause along the track.

And then we see the grass-grown streets,

The orchards gleaming in the sun,

Where crooning bees seek out the sweets

And shadows o’er the grasses run.

We see the flash of merry eyes;

We see the gleam of old-time smiles;

And, ere the old-time music dies.

We live again the old-time whiles.

We walk the pathway in the lane.

And day-dream as we used to then,

For on the rippling old refrain

The old times come to life again.

Play, old hand-organ, in the street!

Play every song we used to sing,

And let our hearts in cadence beat

With each glad memory they bring.

Play, in your halting, careless way,

The fine old tunes that softly tell

Of every God-made happy day

In those old times we love so well.

Baltimore American.

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THE STREET MINSTREL.

By S. E. Kiser.

His hands are soiled, his throat is bare,

His face is streaked with dirt and thin,

And many a slip is in the air

He plays upon his violin;

A sadness dwells within his eyes,

The shoes are ragged on his feet,

And scoffers stop to criticise

The little minstrel in the street.

Thereby the curb he plays away,

Where flakes float past and winds blow chill,

And maybe, as the critics say,

He lacks the tutored artist’s skill;

But now and then a little strain,

Played faultlessly and soft and sweet,

Floats up from where he stands out there—

The little minstrel in the street.

Say, ragged little minstrel, why

Must people listen but to hear

The false note, ever passing by

The strain that rises soft and clear?

Oh, it were well with us if we

Might in our own ways sound the sweet

And faultless notes as oft as he—

The little minstrel in the street.

Chicago Record-Herald.

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

A CONFESSION.

I’ve been down to the city, an’ I’ve seen the ‘lectrlc lights,

The twenty-story bulldin’s an’ the other stunnin’ sights;

I’ve seen th’ trolley-cars a-rushin’ madly down the street,

An’ all the place a-lookin’ like a fairyland complete.

But I’d rather see the big trees that’s a-growin’ up to home,

An’ watch the stars a-twinklin’ in the blue an’ lofty dome;

An’ I’d rather hear the wind that goes a-singin’ past the door

Than the traffic of the city, with its bustle an’ its roar.

I reckon I’m peculiar, an’ my tastes is kind o’ low;

But what’s the use denyin’ things that certainly is so?

I went up to a concert, an’ I heard the music there;

It sounded like angelic harps a-floatin’ through the air.

Yet spite of all its glory an’ the gladness an’ acclaim,

If I stopped to think a minute, I was home-sick jes’ the same;

An’ I couldn’t help confessing though it seems a curious thing,

That I’d rather hear a robin sweetly pinin’ in the spring.

Washington Star.

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THE ORGAN-GRINDER.

Beside the curb, out in the street,

The organ-grinder stands,

With stubbles on his swarthy face,

And very dirty hands,

And, while you curse him, plays away

Like twenty German bands.

The ragtime airs you gaily hummed

A year or two ago

Forth from the box he wheels around

In jangling torrents flow—

The waltzes always hard and fast,

The marches mild and slow.

I often think Pandora must

Have chanced along one day,

And opened up the box the first

Poor dago had to play,

And thus ungraciously let all

But discord get away.

Chicago Times.

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PICKLES.

The rain and snow were falling fast,

As through a down-east village passed

A youth who chalked with great display,

Upon a barrel in his sleigh,

“Pickles to sell.”

His cheeks were blue, and red his nose,

His ears and feet were nearly froze,

And tears of cold bedimmed his sight.

But still he yelled with all his might,

“Pickles to sell.”

As on he went, a maiden bold

Came out and asked him what he sold;

The youth looked up with winning smile,

And said with voice as soft as ILE,

“Pickles.”

“Oh, tell me!” cried the maid divine;

“Say, tell me are they in the brine?”

“Nay,” said the youth, “that sort don’t pay,”

Quite vexed, he heard the maiden say,

“Such Pickles!”

That one so sweet should speak so tart

(The word went deep into his heart);

That she should crush his hopes so flat,

And scorn his smiles, or worse than that,

“His Pickles.”

Away he drove, through wind and rain;

They tried to stop his course in vain.

By asking what he had to sell;

He wouldn’t stop but only yelled,

“Pickles.”

“Don’t drive so fast,” an old man said;

“That worn-out nag is nearly dead.”

“His shoes are off,” another cried;

With shout of scorn the youth replied,

“Oh, Pickles!”

“For mercy’s sake don’t cross the creek!

That wooden bridge is awful weak!”

The youth dashed on his headlong way.

And only turned his head to say,

“Oh, Pickles!”

The night was dark, the wind was cold,

The pickle boy was brave and bold;

He never stopped or checked his flight,

And soon the sleigh was lost to sight,

Pickles and all.

Next morn, two little wandering Jews

Came into town and brought the news;

Down in the drift a corpse they found,

While far and near were scattered round,

The Pickles.

Old scrap book.

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“FR-R-RAISH PEANUTS.”

Who is this man of mighty voice

Who bids all human kind rejoice—

Who visits bleacher and grand-stand

With roasted rapture in his hand?