There was no room for him on the sidewalk, so he took up his position
beyond the curbstone. The light from the large arc-lamp overhead,
exposed the old man’s thin white hair, withered face and threadbare
clothes. His sightless eyes were turned toward the passing throng, and
his head was slightly bent in an expectant attitude. But the hand that
drew the wheezy bow across the strings of the violin often faltered,
and the broken music, instead of attracting, repelled the crowds. The
player was tired and longed for rest. But the fire of an overmastering
purpose burned in his soul and kept him steadfast to his post.

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