The Organ Grinder

The organ-grinder always comes in Spring;— About the time that crocuses are here, And we are thinking of the garden swing And little girls with skipping-ropes appear.

He has a brownish greenish velvet coat, And tips his faded hat back on his head; His face is sun-burned, and around his throat Is tied a handkerchief of blue and red.

We like his little battered box of tunes; Some notes are cracked, but most are high and sweet, And with the boy who sells the toy balloons We follow after him along the street.

Because he has a monkey small and grey That sits up on his shoulder, dressed in plaid And lifts its cap to us the funniest way! (Although he doesn't seem exactly glad.)

The organ-grinder's smile just flashes white! So while he turns the tunes out, we reach up And smile back at his face so brown and bright And drop our pennies in the monkey's cup.

But afterwards, when all the tunes are done He swings his little box up with a sigh— Almost as though it were a heavy one— And then he waves to us and nods goodbye.

At home I heard my own grandmother say: "That hand-organ has never changed at all! It plays the lovely airs it used to play— One waltz—we danced to it at my first ball."