In all its phases, whistling is an interesting subject of study; whether we regard its aptitude for expressing personal independence, recklessness, and jollity; its antiquity--having begun no doubt with Adam--or its modes of production; as, when created grandly by the whistling gale, or exasperatingly by the locomotive, or gushingly by the lark, or sweetly by the little birds that "warble in the flowering thorn." The peculiar phase of this time-honoured music to which we wish to draw the reader's attention at present, is that which was exemplified one November night (the same November night of which mention has been made in the previous chapter) by a small boy who, in his progress through the streets of London, was arrested suddenly under the shadow of St. Paul's by the bright glare and the tempting fare of a pastry-cook's window. Being hungry, the small boy, thrusting his cold hands deep into his empty trouser-pockets, turned his fat little face and round blue eyes full on the window, and stared at the tarts and pies like a famishing owl. Being poor--so poor that he possessed not the smallest coin of the realm--he stared in vain; and, being light of heart as well as stout of limb, he relieved his feelings by whistling at the food with inexpressible energy. The air selected by the young musician was Jim Crow--a sable melody high in public favour at that time--the familiar strains of which he delivered with shrill and tuneful precision, which intensified as he continued to gaze, until they rose above the din of cabs, vans, and 'busses; above the house-tops, above the walls of the great cathedral, and finally awakened the echoes of its roof, which, coming out, from the crevices and cornices where they usually slept, went dancing upwards on the dome, and played around the golden cross that glimmered like a ghost in the dark wintry sky. The music also awakened the interest of a tall policeman whose beat that night chanced to be St. Paul's Churchyard. That sedate guardian of the night, observing that the small boy slightly impeded the thoroughfare, sauntered up to him, and just as he reached that point in the chorus where Mr Crow is supposed to wheel and turn himself about, spun him round and gave him a gentle rap on the head with his knuckles, at the same time advising him to move on. "Oh!" exclaimed the small boy, looking up with an expression of deep concern on his countenance, as he backed off the pavement, "I _hope_ I didn't hurt you, bobby; I _really_ didn't mean to; but accidents will happen, you know, an' if you won't keep your knuckles out of a feller's way, why--" "Come," muttered the policeman, "shut up your potato-trap for fear you catch cold. Your mother wants you; she's got some pap ready for you."