Taking the curious exhibits only, what a variety there are! Here is a little oyster saloon with two windows. One window is filled with moist dark green moss, upon which a stock of live frogs have flattened themselves underneath the sign of "fried frogs' legs," and just inside the shop a glowing range and frying-pan are ready to finish the business for the captives. In the other window several groups of lobsters have been made by a few touches of paint to resemble card and dinner parties with such verisimilitude that we wonder why so simple and available a disguise is not used oftener in this lying world. Around another window a crowd are watching a bulbous-headed child who is demonstrating the action of a patent swing called the "Baby Walker," a diabolical tendency to produce some brain disease in any infant sacrificed to it. Next door an athletic salesman is exhibiting an adjustable chair, which is susceptible of so many complicated twists and turns that its possessor must be constantly in danger of involving his limbs in its machinery; and a little lower down the street the attraction is a hive of uncomfortable-looking bees, which are sailing in and out among the crowd, and making honey for a summer drink, dispensed by their owners at five cents a glass. Here a toy-shop window has been converted into a miniature lake, upon which tiny steamboats are puffing about, and there a pretty girl is fingering a piano-like machine which obviates the use of a pen in writing. The dramas which reproduce Broadway scenes are always successful, however destitute they may be of intrinsic merit, the exhilaration of the reality diffusing itself into the pasteboard mimicry.

But the crowd and the show windows are not the only diversions. Besides these there are the street vendors, who often offer interesting studies. The eloquence of the vagabond whose commodity is small tablets of grease-erasers, and of his twin brother in humbug, the man with the dentifrice, brings a laugh into the most serious face. Neighbor to these is an ambiguous foreigner in a Turkish cap, with odorous Tonka-beans for sale; and the next peddler is a philosopher, who is apparently quite oblivious of every thing except the patent threader with which he threads and rethreads a needle while he mumbles the advantages of his invention.

A few years ago a precocious youngster attracted large audiences by his drawings on the sidewalk. His materials were a few bits of chalk hoarded in a torn trouser pocket, and with these he rapidly drew political and legendary characters on the flag-stones. No policeman being near, he fell earnestly to his work on his knees, and a life-sized figure soon appeared in plethoric blotches of red, blue, and yellow. An amused crowd gathered and silently watched the swift motions of the little vagabond's hand. Whose portrait would it be? In the earlier stages of its progress every body thought he could detect Captain Kidd, but an unforeseen touch quickly dissipated that notion; then it seemed to be bold Ben Butler, and then the late Mr. Eddy as Ingomar the Barbarian. Thus exciting the curiosity of his critics, and holding a dozen faces spell-bound, the artist completed his subject, working several more blotches of yellow into the legs, and mixing a little brown with white over the face. It was only "a Turk," indisputably crude; but was there no zeal and cunning in its execution? We fancied that we could see both, to say nothing of the brighter light in the none-too-clean face of the artist as he rubbed the colors on the flags. Besides, if this lad had no gift or love for his occupation, why