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"Tomling, Sir Christopher Tomling, the South American engineer who built the " "San Juan Viaduct. I know," said Penfentenyou. "We ought to have had him with us.... Do you think a monkey would climb the tree?" The organ-grinder at the gate fenced his beast with one arm as Jimmy-talked. "Don't show off your futile accomplishments," said Lord Lundie. "Tell him it's an experiment. Interest him!"
The organ-grinder can delight his audience as much by his first as by his last performance, but his répertoire is limited. Reason is indefinite, free, and versatile. Instinct is exact, but circumscribed.
"How nice of you, Trevor! Do you know I'm so happy to-day, I want to sing." "You may sing to your heart's content when we get out into the country," he said. She laughed. "No, no! Cinders would howl. How cleverly you drive! You will teach me some day, won't you? Do you know, I dreamt I was driving your organ-grinder last night. Do tell me about him. Is he really a friend of yours?"
But when Miss Husted conferred a patent of nobility on a foreign gentleman, were he an Italian organ-grinder or a French waiter, that title stood, his own protest to the contrary notwithstanding. In this particular view-point Miss Husted was completely opposite to her maid of all work.
A few words passed between them, and almost before the children knew what was happening, the policeman had the organ-grinder by the arm, and was marching him off down the street. The gentleman who had caused the arrest followed with the poor trembling monkey. "That's the president of the society for preventin' you bein' cruel to animals," explained one of the larger boys to the crowd of children.
Beecher with his correspondence; at the close of one afternoon, while he was with the Plymouth pastor at work, an organ-grinder and a little girl came under the study window. A cold, driving rain was pelting down. In a moment Mr. Beecher noticed the girl's bare toes sticking out of her worn shoes. He got up, went into the hall, and called for one of his granddaughters.
Bernard, and the old man was trying to look like he wouldn't have murdered the first organ-grinder he heard play Mendelssohn's wedding-march, I looked up at him and said, in my way: "What are you looking so sour about, you oakum trimmed lobster? She don't kiss you. You don't have to sit on her lap and listen to talk that would make the book of a musical comedy sound like the maxims of Epictetus.
"That little bit in the neck ... But." He walked about the studio and looked at the thing from this point and from that. Then he said a wicked word. In the original the word is given. "Painting," he says he said. "Just a painting of an organ-grinder a mere portrait. If it was a live organ-grinder I wouldn't mind. But somehow I never make things alive. I wonder if my imagination is wrong."
Just as we were in the middle of our villainy, the organ-grinder or the child would have struck up, and we should have burst into tears, and have rushed from the carriage, and have fallen upon each other's necks outside on the platform, and have wept, and waited for the next train.
I was somewhat staggered at his answer. I had expected a groan of remorse. The ghost appeared, on the contrary, to be rather conceited over the business. I thought that, as he had taken my reference to the wait so quietly, perhaps he would not be offended if I questioned him about the organ-grinder. I felt curious about that poor boy.
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