THE STRANGER.
Along the streets they're thronging, walking,
Clad gaily in their best and talking,
Women and children quite a crowd;
The bright sun overhead is blazing,
The people sweat, the dust they're raising
Arises like a golden cloud.
Still out of every door they scatter,
Laughing and light. Pray what's the matter.
That such a flock of folks I see?