"He's used to it—it don't hurt his complexion."
Very like, poor little African; but it would hurt my feelings; besides I haven't got any chimney—no, nor a house;—don't own anything, I'm happy to say, but a bandbox and a tooth-brush; don't care a snap of my thumb for the "first of May" in New-York; it don't move me!
There's a little boy, under the window, holding up his hand for a penny. He's trying to cry; but it is very hard work. Never mind, Johnny, or Sammy, or whatever your name is, don't shed a tear for me, for mercy's sake; but there's a penny for making up such an awful face. I'll send you to puzzle the barber in the avenue, who advertises to "cut hair to suit the countenance!"
What in the world is that?—a poor old man, almost bent double, drawing a little wooden horse upon the pavement, and laughing and talking to it as if he were seven years old, instead of seventy! How white his hair is; and see—his hat is without a crown, and one of the flaps of his coat is torn off. Now one of the boys has pelted him with a stone, that has brought the blood from his wrinkled cheek; another asks him "how much he will take for his hat," while all the rest surround him, shouting, "Old crazy Uncle Tim—old crazy Uncle Tim!"
Come here, boys, won't you?—and let poor Uncle Tim go home, while I tell you his story.
Uncle Tim used to be the village shoemaker, hammering away at his lap-stone in that little shop with the red eaves, as contentedly as if he owned a kingdom. He always had a pleasant smile and a merry story for his customers, and it was worth twice the money one paid him, to see his sunshiny face and hear his hearty laugh.
CRAZY TIM.