162 Little Byron 



down silently, steadily, mercilessly. They were 

 drifted about and blown in every direction, and 

 formed a winding-sheet for poor little Byron. 



His plaintive whinings had been growing feebler ; 

 his eyes were becoming dimmed to all about him. 

 Inside the fountain inclosure, where the rippling 

 music of the water had all the long summer kept 

 time to the laughter of merry children, the ' spar- 

 row police ' of the park had stored the now empty 

 benches on which tramps and nurses and lovers 

 had passed so many happy and sunny hours. Byron 

 made a desperate effort, and succeeded in reach- 

 ing the shelter of one of these piles of deserted 

 benches. The cold here was no less intense, but 

 the wind was not so piercing, and the snow came 

 only in sifting flakes. Here he passed the night. 

 His weak form curled itself into a trembling and 

 shivering mass, getting what warmth it could from 

 its own vitality. The icy stone was his bed, and 

 the latticed benches his only covering. Poor little 

 Byron ! God pity him, in his desertion and despair ; 

 and God pity and forgive the heartless ones who turn 



