Guido stood on the curb-stone in Fourteenth Street, between Fifth Avenue and Sixth Avenue, with a row of plaster figures drawn up on the sidewalk in front of him.  It was snowing, and they looked cold in consequence, especially the Night and Morning.  A line of men and boys stretched on either side of Guido all along the curb-stone, with toys and dolls, and guns that shot corks into the air with a loud report, and glittering dressings for the Christmas trees.  It was the day before Christmas.  The man who stood next in line to Guido had hideous black monkeys that danced from the end of a rubber string.  The man danced up and down too, very much, so Guido thought, as the monkeys did, and stamped his feet on the icy pavement, and shouted:  “Here yer are, lady, for five cents.  Take them home to the children.”  There were hundreds and hundreds of ladies and little girls crowding by all of the time; some of them were a little cross and a little tired, as if Christmas shopping had told on their nerves, but the greater number were happy-looking and warm, and some stopped and laughed at the monkeys dancing on the rubber strings, and at the man with the frost on his mustache, who jumped too, and cried, “Only five cents, lady—­nice Christmas presents for the children.”

Sometimes the ladies bought the monkeys, but no one looked at the cold plaster figures of St. Joseph, and Diana, and Night and Morning, nor at the heads of Mars and Minerva—­not even at the figure of the Virgin, with her two hands held out, which Guido pressed in his arms against his breast.

Guido had been in New York city just one month.  He was very young—­so young that he had never done anything at home but sit on the wharves and watch the ships come in and out of the great harbor of Genoa.  He never had wished to depart with these ships when they sailed away, nor wondered greatly as to where they went.  He was content with the wharves and with the narrow streets near by, and to look up from the bulkheads at the sailors working in the rigging, and the ’long-shoremen rolling the casks on board, or lowering great square boxes into the holds.

He would have liked, could he have had his way, to live so for the rest of his life; but they would not let him have his way, and coaxed him on a ship to go to the New World to meet his uncle.  He was not a real uncle, but only a make-believe one, to satisfy those who objected to assisted immigrants, and who wished to be assured against having to support Guido, and others like him.  But they were not half so anxious to keep Guido at home as he himself was to stay there.

The new uncle met him at Ellis Island, and embraced him affectionately, and put him in an express wagon, and drove him with a great many more of his countrymen to where Mulberry Street makes a bend and joins Hester.  And in the Bend Guido found thousands of his fellows sleeping twenty in a room and over-crowded into the street:  some who had but just arrived, and others who had already learned to swear in English, and had their street-cleaning badges and their peddler’s licenses, to show that they had not been overlooked by the kindly society of Tammany, which sees that no free and independent voter shall go unrewarded.