Recently two new-comers appeared among the street exhibitors— an old man and a little girl, who illustrated and offered for sale a new system of lightning arithmetic. The man had a pale, intelligent, studious face and wore a threadbare suit of black. The girl, who was about fifteen or sixteen, spoke in a modest but business-like manner, and was dressed in a tasteful suit of gray — an attractive, womanly little body, who won the hearts of all spectators. The father carried a small blackboard and an easel, and when the inexorable policeman was out of the way, a convenient street corner was selected for an exhibition.

The Broadway police belong to a special squad, and are noted for their intelligence, politeness, and military bearing. It is a picture to see one of these Apollos in buttons escorting a timid lady through a maze of vehicles, or carrying a school-child across the street in his arms, and sometimes the picture is heroic.

Many odd characters drift in the crowd; advertising handbills without number are thrust upon us; our ears are assailed by the deafening tramp of feet and the crash of the wheels; misery and merriment, pomp and poverty, in various shapes, file before us. What a matchless pageantry it is!

Then there are days when the whole aspect of the street is changed, as in a rain-storm, when the pedestrians almost disappear, and the sidewalk and pavement shine with smooth moisture; and as in a snow-storm, when the fleecy white plays miracles with appearances. But to even glance at all the phases of Broadway within the limits of a magazine article is, indeed, impossible.