A small and dirty boy--his grandson, maybe--pushes the organ for him.

On Tuesday there comes the remnants of a German band--remnants because now there are only the cornet, the flute and the trumpet.

Sadly wind-blown, drunken and diseased they are, and the Square can remember when there were a number of them, hale and hearty young fellows, but drink and competition have been too strong for them.

On Wednesdays there is sometimes a lady who sings ballads in a voice that can only be described as that contradiction in terms "a shrill contralto." Her notes are very piercing and can be heard from one end of the Square to the other.

She sings "Annie Laurie" and "Robin Adair," and wears a battered hat of black straw.