  Blind Peter Piper used to play All up and down the city; I'd often meet him on my way, And throw a coin for pity. But all amid his sparkling tones His ear was quick as any To catch upon the cobble-stones The jingle of my penny. And as upon a day that shone He piped a merry measure: "How well you play!" I chanced to say; Poor Peter glowed with pleasure. You'd think the words of praise I spoke Were all the pay he needed; The artist in the player woke, The penny lay unheeded. Now Winter's here; the wind is shrill, His coat is thin and tattered; Yet hark! he's playing trill on trill As if his music mattered. And somehow though the city looks Soaked through and through with shadows, He makes you think of singing brooks And larks and sunny meadows. Poor chap! he often starves, they say; Well, well, I can believe it; For when you chuck a coin his way He'll let some street-boy thieve it. I fear he freezes in the night; My praise I've long repented, Yet look! his face is all alight . . . Blind Peter seems contented. A day later. On the terrace of the Closerie de Lilas I came on Saxon Dane. He was smoking his big briar and drinking a huge glass of brown beer. The tree gave a pleasant shade, and he had thrown his sombrero on a chair. I noted how his high brow was bronzed by the sun and there were golden lights in his broad beard. There was something massive and imposing in the man as he sat there in brooding thought. MacBean, he told me, was sick and unable to leave his room. Rheumatism. So I bought a cooked chicken and a bottle of Barsac, and mounting to the apartment of the invalid, I made him eat and drink. MacBean was very despondent, but cheered up greatly. I think he rather dreads the future. He cannot save money, and all he makes he spends. He has always been a rover, often tried to settle down but could not. Now I think he wishes for security. I fear, however, it is too late. |
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