Ding-dong！ Ding-dong！ Ding-dong！
The town-crier has rung his bell at a distant corner， andlittle Annie stands on her father’s doorsteps trying to hearwhat the man with the loud voice is talking about. Let melisten too. Oh， he is telling the people that an elephantand a lion and a royal tiger and a horse with horns， andother strange beasts from foreign countries， have come totown and will receive all visitors who choose to wait uponthem. Perhaps little Annie would like to go？ Yes， and I cansee that the pretty child is weary of this wide and pleasantstreet with the green trees flinging their shade across thequiet sunshine and the pavements and the sidewalks allas clean as if the housemaid had just swept them with herbroom. She feels that impulse to go strolling away—thatlonging after the mystery of the great world—which manychildren feel， and which I felt in my childhood. LittleAnnie shall take a ramble with me. See！ I do but holdout my hand， and like some bright bird in the sunny air，with her blue silk frock fluttering upward from her whitepantalets， she comes bounding on tiptoe across the street.
Smooth back your brown curls， Annie， and let me tie onyour bonnet， and we will set forth. What a strange coupleto go on their rambles together！ One walks in black attire，with a measured step and a heavy brow and his thoughtfuleyes bent down， while the gay little girl trips lightly alongas if she were forced to keep hold of my hand lest her feetshould dance away from the earth. Yet there is sympathybetween us. If I pride myself on anything， it is because Ihave a smile that children love； and， on the other hand，there are few grown ladies that could entice me from theside of little Annie， for I delight to let my mind go hand inhand with the mind of a sinless child. So come， Annie； butif I moralize as we go， do not listen to me： only look aboutyou and be merry.
Now we turn the corner. Here are hacks with two horsesand stage-coaches with four thundering to meet eachother， and trucks and carts moving at a slower pace， beingheavily laden with barrels from the wharves； and hereare rattling gigs which perhaps will be smashed to piecesbefore our eyes. Hitherward， also， comes a man trundlinga wheelbarrow along the pavement. Is not little Annieafraid of such a tumult？ No； she does not even shrinkcloser to my side， but passes on with fearless confidence，a happy child amidst a great throng of grown people whopay the same reverence to her infancy that they wouldto extreme old age. Nobody jostles her： all turn aside tomake way for little Annie； and， what is most singular， sheappears conscious of her claim to such respect. Now hereyes brighten with pleasure. A street-musician has seatedhimself on the steps of yonder church and pours forth hisstrains to the busy town—a melody that has gone astrayamong the tramp of footsteps， the buzz of voices and thewar of passing wheels. Who heeds the poor organ-grinder？
None but myself and little Annie， whose feet begin tomove in unison with the lively tune， as if she were loththat music should be wasted without a dance. But wherewould Annie find a partner？ Some have the gout in theirtoes or the rheumatism in their joints； some are stiff withage， some feeble with disease； some are so lean that theirbones would rattle， and others of such ponderous sizethat their agility would crack the flagstones； but many，many have leaden feet because their hearts are far heavierthan lead. It is a sad thought that I have chanced upon.
What a company of dancers should we be！ For I too am agentleman of sober footsteps， and therefore， little Annie，let us walk sedately on.
It is a question with me whether this giddy child ormy sage self have most pleasure in looking at the shop-windows. We love the silks of sunny hue that glow withinthe darkened premises of the spruce dry-goods men； weare pleasantly dazzled by the burnished silver and thechased gold， the rings of wedlock and the costly loveornaments，glistening at the window of the jeweller； butAnnie， more than I， seeks for a glimpse of her passingfigure in the dusty looking-glasses at the hardware-stores.
All that is bright and gay attracts us both.
Here is a shop to which the recollections of my boyhoodas well as present partialities give a peculiar magic. Howdelightful to let the fancy revel on the dainties of aconfectioner—those pies with such white and flaky paste，their contents being a mystery， whether rich mince withwhole plums intermixed， or piquant apple delicatelyrose-flavored； those cakes， heart-shaped or round， piledin a lofty pyramid； those sweet little circlets sweetlynamed kisses； those dark majestic masses fit to be bridalloavesat the wedding of an heiress， mountains in size，their summits deeply snow-covered with sugar！ Then themighty treasures of sugarplums， white and crimson andyellow， in large glass vases， and candy of all varieties， andthose little cockles—or whatever they are called—muchprized by children for their sweetness， and more forthe mottoes which they enclose， by love-sick maidsand bachelors！ Oh， my mouth waters， little Annie， andso doth yours， but we will not be tempted except to animaginary feast； so let us hasten onward devouring thevision of a plum-cake.
Here are pleasures， as some people would say， of a moreexalted kind， in the window of a bookseller. Is Annie aliterary lady？ Yes； she is deeply read in Peter Parley’s tomesand has an increasing love for fairy-tales， though seldommet with nowadays， and she will subscribe next year to theJuvenile Miscellany. But， truth to tell， she is apt to turnaway from the printed page and keep gazing at the prettypictures， such as the gay-colored ones which make thisshop-window the continual loitering-place of children.