The subject of this article is at present leaning against a tree directly opposite to my window.  He wears his cap with the wrong side before, apparently for no other object than that which seems the most obvious, ­of showing more than the average quantity of very dirty face.  His clothes, which are worn with a certain buttonless ease and freedom, display, in the different quality of their fruit-stains, a pleasing indication of the progress of the seasons.  The nose of this vulgar little boy turns up at the end.  I have noticed this in several other vulgar little boys, although it is by no means improbable that youthful vulgarity may be present without this facial peculiarity.  Indeed, I am inclined to the belief that it is rather the result of early inquisitiveness ­of furtive pressures against window-panes, and of looking over fences, or of the habit of biting large apples hastily ­than an indication of scorn or juvenile superciliousness.  The vulgar little boy is more remarkable for his obtrusive familiarity.  It is my experience of his predisposition to this quality which has induced me to write this article.

My acquaintance with him began in a moment of weakness.  I have an unfortunate predilection to cultivate originality in people, even when accompanied by objectionable character.  But, as I lack the firmness and skilfulness which usually accompany this taste in others, and enable them to drop acquaintances when troublesome, I have surrounded myself with divers unprofitable friends, among whom I count the vulgar little boy.  The manner in which he first attracted my attention was purely accidental.  He was playing in the street, and the driver of a passing vehicle cut at him, sportively, with his whip.  The vulgar little boy rose to his feet and hurled after his tormentor a single sentence of invective.  I refrain from repeating it, for I feel that I could not do justice to it here.  If I remember rightly, it conveyed, in a very few words, a reflection on the legitimacy of the driver’s birth; it hinted a suspicion of his father’s integrity, and impugned the fair fame of his mother; it suggested incompetency in his present position, personal uncleanliness, and evinced a sceptical doubt of his future salvation.  As his youthful lips closed over the last syllable, the eyes of the vulgar little boy met mine.  Something in my look emboldened him to wink.  I did not repel the action nor the complicity it implied.  From that moment I fell into the power of the vulgar little boy, and he has never left me since.

He haunts me in the streets and by-ways.  He accosts me, when in the company of friends, with repulsive freedom.  He lingers about the gate of my dwelling to waylay me as I issue forth to business.  Distance he overcomes by main strength of lungs, and he hails me from the next street.  He met me at the theatre the other evening, and demanded my check with the air of a young foot-pad.  I foolishly gave it to him, but re-entering some time after, and comfortably seating myself in the parquet, I was electrified by hearing my name called from the gallery with the addition of a playful adjective.  It was the vulgar little boy.  During the performance he projected spirally-twisted playbills in my direction, and indulged in a running commentary on the supernumeraries as they entered.

To-day has evidently been a dull one with him.  I observe he whistles the popular airs of the period with less shrillness and intensity.  Providence, however, looks not unkindly on him, and delivers into his hands as it were two nice little boys who have at this moment innocently strayed into our street.  They are pink and white children, and are dressed alike, and exhibit a certain air of neatness and refinement which is alone sufficient to awaken the antagonism of the vulgar little boy.  A sigh of satisfaction breaks from his breast.  What does he do?  Any other boy would content himself with simply knocking the hats off their respective heads, and so vent his superfluous vitality in a single act, besides precipitating the flight of the enemy.  But there are aesthetic considerations not to be overlooked; insult is to be added to the injury inflicted, and in the struggles of the victim some justification is to be sought for extreme measures.  The two nice little boys perceive their danger and draw closer to each other.  The vulgar little boy begins by irony.  He affects to be overpowered by the magnificence of their costume.  He addresses me (across the street and through the closed window), and requests information if there haply be a circus in the vicinity.  He makes affectionate inquiries after the health of their parents.  He expresses a fear of maternal anxiety in regard to their welfare.  He offers to conduct them home.  One nice little boy feebly retorts; but alas! his correct pronunciation; his grammatical exactitude, and his moderate epithets only provoke a scream of derision from the vulgar little boy, who now rapidly changes his tactics.  Staggering under the weight of his vituperation, they fall easy victims to what he would call his “dexter mawley.”  A wail of lamentation goes up from our street.  But as the subject of this article seems to require a more vigorous handling than I had purposed to give it, I find it necessary to abandon my present dignified position, seize my hat, open the front door, and try a stronger method.