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Show . A 1'uneral from the Tenements. A funeral in a crowded east side street! From every window in the giant tenements tene-ments human heads are thrust, in every doorway is a group of women, and clustered clus-tered on every hand are littlo knots of children, on whose peaked faces is stamped the desire to lose no portion of what is going on.- Stretched along the curb is a long string of coaches, headed by a hearse decked out in all the trappings trap-pings of woe. The drivers, a brawny set of men, used to such scenes, stand together to-gether idly talking. In the mouth of one of the tenements stand a dozen women. "She must be heart broken," said one. "Indeed sh6 must," said another, "or she'd never have spent so much money." "It'll cost a heap to pay for such a beautiful funeral." "And she hasn't a cent, poor thing, She'll have to work her fingers to the bone to pay for it." "And the poor children; what'U they do?" ... v - There is a clatter of heavy footsteps on the stairs, and a rosewood casket comes bumping dovfn on the shoulders of six struggling men. It is rolled into the bearse, which moves slowly away, and the first coach takes its place. A wild shrill cry, half a moan and half a shriek of pain, is heard, and out comes the widow, a gaunt faced woman of middle age. She sways her body to and fro, and rubs her eyes viciously with her handkerchief. A crowd gathers around her, and she is bustled out of sight into the coach, with three other women in rusty black clothes. A little boy in well worn knickerbockers climbs up in the driver's seat and there graciously recognizes recog-nizes a crowd of little chaps on the sidewalk, side-walk, who gaze at him with envious eyes. "Are ye goin' to ride up there, Dinny?" asked one. "Of course," was the reply; "ain't it me fodder's funeral?" And the somber procession moved slowly away. New York Sun. |