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There is a heavy clatter down in the alleyway now, for the city carts have come; and trudging just behind is a little tatterdemalion with an old basket on his arm. He helps the men put back the empty barrels, and for this service they let him look over the rubbish before it is thrown into the big blue carts. But little Rosa, as you and I know, has already had the "first pick," of five barrels, and Billy wonders he doesn't find much of anything for a while but bits of coal which Rosa hadn't time to take. Billy, by the way, is a famous little coal picker. Down by the wharves and the freight depots, he finds so many pieces that he doesn't have to depend upon the refuse of ash barrels; although I see he is very ready to take whatever he can find here.

One morning, just about light, there was an alarm of fire that started Billy to his feet at once. Now you must know that to run after the big "Steamer" is one of Billy's greatest delights; but his passion for picking up coal is still greater, and hose wagon, steamer and all, were suddenly deserted that morning for a tempting "dump," that caught his keen eye as he scampered down the street. An hour later, when the firemen came back, Billy's old basket was heaped to the brim, and I don't know but the enterprising little fellow will "set up trade" for himself, since he finds he can sell his coal for twenty cents a bushel.

Perhaps my Wide Awake readers are wondering what the "dump" is, where Billy lays in his stock.

Down by the Albany depot, in various vacant lots throughout the city, and over in East Boston, there are certain places where the city carts regularly deposit their contents. These forlorn heaps of debris are the so-called ''dumps" and men, women and children may be seen busily at work here almost any hour of the day. Some collect old bones that they sell at half a cent a pound; others take only paper rags; and here is the little fellow who is on the look out for bits of old iron.

It is curious to notice how much honor for each other's specialties there is among this ragged crowd. Every bag is as secure from pilfering as if it were under lock and key; and any man, woman or child, who dares trespass on somebody's else "dump" is looked upon as no better than a sneak and a thief.

There seems to be scarcely anything in these motley heaps that is not put to some use. Even old hair combings are straightened out and made into puffs, curls, frizzes, and -- nobody knows what! Old bottles find a market, too, and bits of leather, wood and rope are always carefully gathered up. Sometimes, gold and silver coins, spoons, forks, rings, watchcharms, and various other pieces of jewelry, are found; but it is not often that such articles reach the "dump" even when through carelessness they find their way into ash barrels.

There are many wonderful stories told; but, after all, it is by the careful "gathering up of fragments" -- not by any special "luck" -- that these ash-pickers manage, sometimes, to get sixteen and twenty dollars a week just from their "pickings! "

In a single season nine tons of coal were collected at the East Boston dumps, and this is but one item among many.

Here is a ragged old man with his wheelbarrow and empty bags; let us follow him and see what he will find to-day. Little Tommy, only nine years old, is his constant companion, and I don't know what the old man would do without the bright eyes and nimble fingers of this tiny boy.

"I say, daddy, we'll have to hurry, for I can hear the big carts coming; there's lots going to the 'dump' to-day!"

"Hey?"

And the old man puts his hand to his ear as Tommy repeats in a higher sharper key the warning words. It is evident he hears this time, for the jog trot is suddenly quickened, and it is as much as Tommy can do to keep pace with the rattling, squeaking wheelbarrow. They are just in time to have the first "haul," and with miser-like delight the old man crams into one bag every rag and scrap of paper he can find, while Tommy's smutty fingers are gathering up the coal.

But look! there is still another bag in the wheel-barrow -- yes, two more, that they mean to carry back "chuck full." Into one goes all sorts of rusty nails, old screws, broken locks, bits of wire, iron filings, etc.; into the other is crammed anything that can be converted into firewood, such as old cigar and fruit boxes, pieces of rotten shingles, laths, chips, -- no matter what, so long as it can come under the head of "kindlings."

You see the old man understands "business;" he sorts out his findings with as much care and method as a salesman arranges his new goods on shelves and counters. A sharp cuff on the ear, and Tommy suddenly remembers that he has made a mistake. The old man has found two iron nails in his "paper bag," and such carelessness is altogether too much for any ash-picker's patience. Tommy hangs down his head, whimpers a little, and then goes to work again with tingling ears, but a better memory.

All day long they keep at work, wheeling the barrow back and forth, till it grows too dark to pick up even coal. And when I tell you that for three whole years the old man and Tommy have worked together in this way, at this same old dump in East Boston, I think you will understand how it is they have been able not only to earn a living but to lay up pennies for a rainy day.