THE LITTLE MUSICIAN.
“Little nuisance!”
So said a young school-girl who sat next me in the city cars. She was out of humor; perhaps she had an imperfect lesson at school; perhaps she was weary of sitting in a close room so many hours; perhaps her head ached badly, and she was faint for her dinner.
“Little nuisance!” Who was a little nuisance? It was a poor boy, who had first paid his five pennies to the conductor, and had commenced playing on an accordeon, in the hope of getting some money from the gentlemen and ladies in the car. Some scowled, some pouted, and some, like the young lady I have mentioned, loudly called him “a nuisance.” Still the boy played on, though with a weary, spiritless look in his young face, as if to say, “I know it is poor music, very poor, to ears which are used to opera or concert singing; but have pity on a poor boy, who would earn a few honest pence for his bread, who will not steal, anddislikes to beg.” It was of no use. The gentlemen were busy reading their newspapers, the ladies in taking care of their hooped skirts and flounces. “Lily Dale” charmed them not, nor “Auld Lang Syne.” There were diamond pins flashing in the sunlight from gentlemen’s shirt bosoms, rubies and emeralds from ladies’ fingers, and a massive gold bracelet clasped a snowy arm that was never pinched by cruel want. Little parcels, too, the ladies had, from which peeped costly purchases in embroidered lace and muslins. Little boys were with them, so unlike the little musician, in their silk-velvet jackets, frilled collars, and plump rosy faces, that one could hardly believe both to belong to the same human family.
Still the boy played on, with the old, weary, spiritless look, with his soft eyes fixed upon those unsympathizing faces: silver and gold glistened through the net-work of dainty purses, but not for him. One more tune the child played; then, folding his accordeon up under his arm, he stepped from the car, and was out of sight.
Where? In the great busy city? Did he sink down fainting from hunger and fatigue, feeling that God and his good angels had left him? Did he stand before some broker’s shop-window, as I have seenmany a little ragged child stand, counting the shining piles of dollars, half-dollars, and quarters, and the great round gold pieces—only one of which would make his weary feet to leap for joy? God help the lad! Did he look at them, with hungry eyes, and count them over and over, till wrong seemed to him to be right, and the little hand that never was stained by dishonesty became foul with crime? No—it were sad to be hungry and houseless; but it were sadder yet to be shut up in a prison—a bad conscience keeping him tormenting company.
Where did he go?—the “little nuisance”—where? The papers told me the next morning. Listen:
“A little boy who is accustomed to play the accordeon in the street-cars, in stepping from the Fulton ferry-boat to the pier, last evening, accidentally lost his footing, and was drowned.”
No more fault-finding voices to ask why don’t the lad earn his living, or call him “a nuisance” when he tried the only thing he could do, and failed; no more returns at nightfall with leaden feet, and empty pockets. The boats plough on just as merrily; the water dances and sparkles all the same as if the light in his blue eyes were not quenched forever.
Where is the little nuisance? where?
Ask them who, through much tribulation, have washed their robes white, who neither thirst nor hunger any more, and in whose song is no jarring discord. Of such is the little musician!