MY NIGHTINGALE.

 

OLGER JESPERSEN and his

mother lived in a small street in
the quaint old city of Copenhagen—a
very small street indeed, down by Chris-
tian’s Harbour. They had one room at
the top of a big tumble-down house in
which numbers of other people lived,
many of them rough and all of them
poor. The street was called Liljegade,
(Lily Street), and it almost seemed as if
it had been named thus as a kind of sad.
joke, because it was just the opposite of
all that a lily should be. The houses