Beside the curb, out in the street,
The organ-grinder stands,
With stubbles on his swarthy face,
And very dirty hands,
And, while you curse him, plays away
Like twenty German bands.
The ragtime airs you gaily hummed
A year or two ago
Forth from the box he wheels around
In jangling torrents flow—
The waltzes always hard and fast,
The marches mild and slow.
I often think Pandora must
Have chanced along one day,
And opened up the box the first
Poor dago had to play,
And thus ungraciously let all
But discord get away.
_Chicago Times._
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