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Why, yes, indeed! don't they always draw the biggest crowds and haven't I seen them playing on tamborines and fiddles just like little men for all the world?

There was one, I remember, dressed just like a soldier in bright scarlet uniform. He had a sword at his side and a rifle on his shoulder, -- yes, and he knew how to use them too! Of course he danced, turned somersets, made bows to those who had anything to give him, and snapped his great white teeth if anybody scolded him.

Then I remember seeing another that was taking real comfort "in his own house." It was a curious little room where a number of hand-organ men had congregated; and while the master was taking his lunch, Mr. Monkey was taking his ease, now resting upon his haunches, now eating with all his might, and running about like a school-boy let loose from study.

Oh, dear! what a strange, gypsey-sort of life these street-musicians have to follow! Even the little bootblacks look down upon them with pity, and are ashamed to own the fact if they have ever been in the business themselves.

It may do very well for monkeys, but I heartily wish there was not a child in our city who had to earn a living in this wretched, beggarly way. Will the good day ever come, I wonder, when street musicians will just be an interesting matter of history?

THE BALLOON VENDERS.

Red, white and blue! how they sway in the breeze, and how they glisten in the sunlight!

Pedro holds them high up, that every one who passes may see how bright and pretty they are.

He is standing on the Common, just at the end of the long flag-stone walk that makes a diagonal cut to Boylston Street and Park Square.

It is one of the very best places to sell his balloons; for, no matter what time of day it is, there always seems to be a moving crowd just here. Some- times there is a long procession to and from the Providence depot; and then a great many people who live on Columbus Avenue, Boylston Street, and the Back Bay, find this particular flag-stone walk the nearest as well as the pleasantest way "down town."

Yes, indeed! Pedro had a good eye for business when he chose his stand right here.

"Only ten cents apiece!"

Grave Papa Randolph has just come from his law-office, and is in a brown study over some puzzling "case in court," as he hurries on to catch the train.

But Pedro has somehow managed to catch his eye and ear.

The children! -- why! he had nearly forgotten them! But here are these bright balloons -- would it be possible to carry them home?

Pedro seems to read his thoughts, for, taking out of his coat pocket a little flat bag with a bright magenta tube at one end he puts it to his mouth; and in a few seconds holds up to the light the pretty red balloon he has blown up so quickly from what seemed but a bit of brown rubber.

Another second -- the big, round ball goes off with a sharp whistle, and nothing is left in Pedro's sun-burnt hand, but a mass of wrinkled gutta percha!

The grave lawyer looks on with interest -- he likes to sift matters to the bottom -- and Pedro explains how the balloons already inflated that he holds up on the string are filled with hydrogen gas, but are not a bit better or stronger than those blown up with the breath.

"Only, to be sure, the hydrogen gas does make them a little lighter," adds Pedro who is anxious to tell the whole truth.

Papa Randolph, however, is satisfied with these convenient little empty bags that can be blown up with the breath, and stops to buy a white one for Maud, a blue one for Tom, and a red one for Harry; and while he is tucking them into his pocket a lady -- somebody's dear mamma, I know, -- is asking Pedro for a couple more.

Trade is brisk to-day, and Pedro will have to get a new stock of balloons by afternoon. Would you like to know just where he goes to buy them, and wouldn't you like to see how the pretty little things are made?

Let us follow him as he saunters down Boylston Street. There! he is just turning into Carver Street, and, if we hurry a bit, we can catch up with him.

Dear me! what a funny little doorway it is where Pedro says we must stop. I'm going to write down the odd sign just over the entrance, for it is a genuine curiosity in the way of spelling and punctuation. Here it is:

ESTOUP NOEL & Co.
FRENCH CUTLERY
REPAIERD, AT SHORT, NOTICE, RAZARS
put in order.
ALSO BALOON MAKER.

The sign is evidently home made, and is painted in red and black letters upon a white ground, so that it stands out in bold relief. The door, or rather gate, is very low and very narrow -- we will let Pedro go first, and then follow, one by one.

"Bow bow-wow!" Why! what is this? A big, black Newfoundland, sure enough, and I do believe Pedro trod upon his toes, for the dog and the kennel together quite fill up the narrow passage way! There is plenty of room overhead, though, way up to the sky! For it is an open court, and looking in between the old, broken-down, picturesque buildings I could easily imagine myself in some far away city of the East.