I love to wander through the woodlands hoary
In the soft light of an autumnal day,
When Summer gathers up her robes of glory,
And like a dream of beauty glides away.

The Indian Summer, the dead Summer's soul.

THE LITTLE BOY IN THE BALCONY

HENRY WOODFIN GRADY

In the great city of New York, which has almost seven million inhabitants, incidents like that which is described in the following true and beautiful story may be seen every day by any one who has his eyes open. There are in New York many thousands of children who have never seen a cow. There are thousands of others who have never seen a patch of green grass. There are other thousands of children there like "The Little Boy in the Balcony." But the millions of hurrying workers in the great city do not see them. They rush to and fro to their daily work, too busy making a living to notice lonely children. They are too familiar with them even to notice them, as Henry Woodfin Grady did, much less to hunt out such a lonely little fellow and take him for a day to Coney Island, the wonder pleasure place at the southern end of the city. What a big, tender, noble heart Mr. Grady, one of the busiest men in the world, must have had, to take this lonely little boy out for a day of joy! And what a day of joy both must have had!

In reading the story, try to imagine it all, the author watching the windows and porches from the car on the elevated railroad in New York City; the little boy with his stick in the balcony; the wave of the hand to the boy by Mr. Grady; Mr. Grady's thoughts about the boy; his going to visit the little fellow; the trip to Coney Island; and the day spent in that place of wonders. See the man and his little friend as they wander hand in hand in and out among the booths, and the tents, and the hubbub of Coney Island.

Then try to see whether, each day, you cannot get your eyes a little more open to see things as this noble-hearted man saw them. There are all around you if you can only see them, sights, not just the same, but just as sad as that of the little boy in the balcony.

Let this story teach you to see the great world of love and suffering around you, as Mr. Grady did. Try to learn to see into the hearts of those whose faces bear evidence of inner sorrows. The following meanings of words will help you:

balcony: here, a tiny porch ex- ceaseless tumult: the never endtending out from a building beside the elevated railroad in New York City. kaleidoscope

(kȧ-li'dō-skōp):

here, an ever-changing scene. remorse: sorrow for something done or neglected. petulance (pět'ü-lăns): peevishness, ill humor.

ing confusion and noise. Coney Island: a wonderful place of amusement just south of New York City. On hot summer days hundreds of thousands of people may be found enjoying themselves at Coney Island.

robust lunch: a hearty lunch.

betokened: showed or indi- booths: stalls or little shops

cated.

where things are sold at fairs.

a desolate mite: a very sad, hubbub: noise and confusion. lonely little being. emulate to rival or to equal.

THE LITTLE BOY IN THE BALCONY

My special amusement in New York is riding on the elevated railway. It is curious to note how little one can see on the crowded sidewalks of this city. It is simply a rush of the same people, hurrying this way 5 or that on the same errands, doing the same shopping or eating at the same restaurants. It is a kaleidoscope

with infinite combinations, but with the same effects. You see it to-day, and it is the same as yesterday. Occasionally, in the multitude you hit upon an odd detail, such as a prim little dog that sits upright all day and holds in its mouth a cup for pennies for its 5 blind master, or an old bookseller with a grand head and the deliberate motions of a scholar moldering in a stall; but the general effect is one of sameness and soon tires and bewilders.

Once on the elevated road, however, a new world 10 is opened, full of the most interesting objects. The cars sweep by the upper stories of the houses, and, running never too swiftly to allow observation, disclose the secrets of a thousand homes, bringing to view people and things never dreamed of by the giddy, restless 15 crowd that sends its impatient murmur from the streets below. In a course of several months' pretty steady riding from Twenty-third Street, which is the station for the Fifth Avenue Hotel, to Rector, which overlooks Wall Street, I have made many acquaintances 20 along the route; and on reaching the city my first curiosity is in their behalf.

One of these is a boy about six years of age, — a youngster that is very precious to me. I first saw this boy in a little balcony about three feet by four, pro-25 jecting from the window of a poverty-stricken fourth floor. He was leaning over the railing, his white, thoughtful head just clearing the top, holding a short cund stick in his hand. The little fellow made a

pathetic picture, all alone there above the street, so friendless and desolate; and his pale face came between me and my business many a time that day. On going up town that evening just as night was falling, 5 I saw him still at his place, white and patient and silent. Every day afterwards I saw him there, always with a short stick in his hand. Occasionally, he would walk around the balcony rattling the stick in a solemn manner against the railing, or poke it across from one corner 10 to another and sit on it. This was the only playing I ever saw him do, and the stick was the only plaything that he had. But he was never without it. His little hand always held it, and I pictured him every morning when he awoke from his joyless sleep, pick15 ing up his plaything and going out to his balcony, as other boys go to play. Or perhaps he slept with it, as little ones do with dolls and whip-tops.

I could see that the room beyond the window was bare. I never saw any one in it. The heat must 20 have been terrible, for it could have had no ventilation. Once I missed the boy from the balcony, but saw his white head, moving about slowly in the dusk of the room. Gradually the little fellow became a burden to me. I found myself continually thinking of him, 25 and becoming troubled with that remorse that thoughtful people feel even for suffering for which they are not in the slightest degree responsible. Not that I had even seen any suffering on his face. It was patient, thoughtful, serious, but with never a sign of petulance.