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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