to a better use,--she will make a swing of it. So she lifts it
way up, and then seizing hold with both hands, swings herself down upon
the sidewalk. Ah! she has alighted in a puddle! She looks at her little
fat feet, and makes up her mind she will take a bath; so she pumps out
the water, and holds first one little plump foot under, then the other,
till they are as white and polished as marble, and her little
pink-tipped toes look all too dainty to touch the dirty sidewalk. Now,
she sees me looking at her, and blushing scampers off.

"Sweep, ho--sweep, ho! want any chimneys swept, ma'am?"

"No, indeed! not if that poor child behind you has got to crawl up the
chimney to do it. Why, he can't be more than five years old."

"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_!"

CRAZY TIM.

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.

[Illustration: CRAZY TIM.]