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.
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