No one has heard of such a child; but one tells him of a blind negro
who can play the trombone, and another knows of a blind woman who
tells fortunes "equal to the best mejums;" and so on, and so on. He
shakes his head with a patient look, makes his grand bow, and passes
on to the next street, the next wondering crowd, the next
disappointment. Sometimes he is hailed by some music-hall keeper who
hears him play, and knows a good thing when he hears it, and who
engages the old fiddler to play for an evening or two. He goes readily
enough; for there is no knowing where the dark stranger may have taken
the child, and where no clew is, one may follow any track that
presents itself. So the old man goes, and sits patiently in the hot,
noisy place. At first the merry-makers, who are not of a high degree
of refinement, make fun of him, and cut many a joke at the expense of
his blue coat and brass buttons, his nankeen trousers and
old-fashioned stock. But he heeds them not; and once he begins to
play, they forget all about his looks, and only want to dance, dance,
and say there never was such music for dancing. When a pleasant-
looking girl comes near him, or pauses in the dance, he calls her to
him, and asks her in a low tone the usual question: has she seen or
heard of a blind child, with the most beautiful hair, etc.
Pages:
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101