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Little Katrina, however, is very glad to go to school; indeed, it is the exception when the children themselves rebel against the law.

"After school in the afternoon," says our little violinist, "I generally go out on the street and play until eight and nine o'clock in the evening. Sometimes I go alone up on Beacon Street; I like to sing and play there. Once some bad boys made fun of me, but I spoke just as cross as I could to them, and when they didn't mind, I called a policeman!"

She is a funny little thing -- this Katrina! I think Topsy must have looked somewhat like her, only Katrina has an olive skin and Topsy's was jet black.

Come with me, little WIDE-AWAKE readers, and I will show you another picture.

Isn't it a funny-looking court, -- so narrow you can touch both walls as you pass between them! And isn't this an odd-looking building? Why, it is so crowded and wedged In it makes one think of an old tooth that ought to be pulled to make room for new ones! Up a few steps, down a few more, and we come to a little room that seems more like a den than anything else. Oh! it is so low and dark and damp.

There are two windows, to be sure, in it, but they are so little and so dusty that hardly a bit of light comes through.

At one an old man with grey hair, but keen black eyes, sits busily at work. It is a shoe-last that he has in his hand, and under the table is any quantity of leather clippings.

Shoe-making is his trade, but music is his delight; and close beside the table is his harp- such a large one that it almost touches the low ceiling! On the wall hang two violins, and a third rests upon the window sill.

Pictures of all sizes, and all colors too, are tacked helter-skelter between the windows and over the chimney-piece, while just above the door hangs an old horse-shoe for luck, you know!

Pasquale is not at home that we can see for ourselves but the old father would like to explain why.

He cannot understand our English, and we are equally ignorant of his rapid Italian; but -- and isn't it funny and foolish? -- we all begin to talk louder and louder, as if by this means we may at last come to make each other understand! Finally, with a laugh, we give it up; but the old man takes the covering off his harp, tunes the really fine instrument, and gives us some excellent music.

The violins belong to Pasquale, and his father is evidently very proud of his little son, for nearly everything he tries to tell us has Pasquale's name in it.

Close by the violin, on the window, is a large toy-boat very nicely made and rigged. The old man nods his head with delight when we notice it. Yes, it is Pasquale's work, no doubt, for he is a very intelligent boy. But what a pity he is not at home to-day! However, we may find him on the street, and we are very glad to have seen just where and how he lives.

Pasquale Carvalo! That is his name; and if a black-eyed, black-haired boy of twelve, with a fine, earnest face, happens to come to your window with his violin, give him a few pennies, and some kind words too, for Pasquale needs them all. He is doing wonderfully well in his studies at school, and if right influences are only thrown about him, I think he will make a fine man.

And here is our little accordeon boy, Auguste by name.

I first met him in a horse-car, and his little brother was with him that day. The two boys had been out to Brookline, they said, and had made fifty cents since they left home.

Many children in our city learn to play the accordeon; for it is much easier to learn, and the instrument is far cheaper than the violin. Sometimes you hear it well played, and then the instrument sounds very sweetly; but I remember two little girls, ragged, un- tidy children they were, who used to make most h6rrible discords upon them. And then when they tried to sing, too- why! everybody in the neighborhood ran to their windows and shut them down with a bang! The children had mistaken their calling, like so many other people in this big world of ours.

But there is one little boy -- I have not seen him a lady was telling me about him -- who has such a wonderful voice that crowds always gather when he begins to sing.

His father carries a hand-organ, and I think the little fellow plays sometimes on a tambourine. But it is the rare singing of those beautiful Italian airs that brings the crowds and the coppers!

It is not often you see children, or women either, -- with hand-organs the instrument is too heavy to take about; but I remember a woman once came into our street with a hand-organ fastened to a wheel-barrow, and in the other half of this strange turn-out was a basket, and in the basket a real live baby -- just think of that! And just think of being lulled to sleep by "Captain Jinks" and "Molly Darling" ground into one's very ears! But this strange baby seems to enjoy it -- don't you think she will be a musical wonder if she ever lives to grow up?

But the monkeys -- I haven't told you a word about them, and they are most important personages among our street musicians.