ON the steps leading into the back court of one of the largest hotels in the city of — might be seen, early on a June morning, a lad apparently about ten years of age. He was a rosy, good-humored boy, and was at this moment whistling a lively tune in a subdued tone, while his hands were busily employed in shelling peas. Before him, on the stone pavement, stood a bushel-basket of peas in the pod. From this basket he transferred them to a pan in his lap, and from thence, when shelled, to a larger one which stood within the door. He had just commenced his task, but seemed not at all discouraged by it. He went on merrily, whistling "Dan Tucker," occasionally glancing up toward a platform which …
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