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to the panhandler’s Christmas clown face, to which he still had not grown accustomed. Before last week, Ted never would have dreamed of letting a begging nutball like this say more than three words to him, let alone to his niece, but this bum, if a “bum” was what you’d call him, was different.
    This panhandler was nothing like the others he had seen come and go on Broadway through the years, listlessly sitting in front of homemade signs that proclaimed they would work for food. If they were so anxious to seek employment, perhaps a hot shower, a collared shirt, and an hour with the want ads might prove a better recipe for success.
    The truth was, years ago Ted had been a soft touch for panhandlers. He regularly reached into his pocket for any who asked. But over time he began to despair at his paltry offerings of relief for what seemed to be a relentless river of never-ending need. No matter how much he gave, there was always another outstretched hand. He felt powerless and guilty and frustrated. Impotent. So Ted began to avert his eyes and shut down until finally he stopped seeing the beggars altogether. Better to feel that they were somehow responsible for their own troubles. Better not to feel much at all.
    But again, this one was different.
    It was seven days ago that Ted had first heard the sonorous voice as he walked with Mila, negotiating their way through the sidewalk’s lunch bustle.
    â€œAt Christmas I no more desire a rose than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled mirth. But like of each thing that in season grows!”
    Ted had stopped mid-stride and couldn’t help but peer over the crowd to discover where the voice was coming from, a voice quoting Shakespeare of all things, not what one would expect echoing out amidst the din of the afternoon crowd. But there he was, this bearded, curly-haired, overgrown green sprite clutching a rose in his hand.
    â€œSo you, to study now, it is too late. Climb over the house to unlock the little gate.”
    The man was a cartoon, his face a mask like something out of a Christmas circus. But his voice was captivating. Ted couldn’t help himself and recited the next line aloud. “Well, sit you out: go home, Biron. Adieu.”
    The line escaped out of Ted’s mouth before he knew it, and his niece stared over at him in wonder.
    â€œUncle Ted?”
    Ted looked at Mila with the same surprise in his own eyes. “I used to study Shakespeare, in school, when I was a boy.” Ted collected himself and turned to guide her back out of the Broadway crowd, but the beggar was before him in an instant.
    â€œNo, my good lord: I have sworn to stay with you.” A wild smile stretched across his lips.
    Ted’s eyes couldn’t help but crinkle at the ridiculous sight in front of him, and he moved with Mila to escape, but the Christmas clown was not daunted.
    â€œA businessman who knows his Bard. That is a rarity in this corner of the world.”
    Ted looked back at the beggar and nodded. “As rare as a panhandler quoting Love’s Labour’s Lost with a trained tongue.”
    Patrick bowed with a sweeping flourish, one hand completing the dramatic bow, but the other holding up the cup. “Spare some coin for the Ghost of Christmas Present. It will secure you place in heaven, good sir.”
    Ted’s natural instinct was to turn and walk away. It wasn’t his job to save the world. He gripped Mila’s arm to go. Then his eyes met those of his niece.
    â€œWhy don’t you give him some money?” she asked.
    â€œI don’t reward panhandlers who approach me.”
    â€œBut Uncle,” Mila gently reminded him, “you spoke to him first.”
    Indeed.
    And now, a week later, Ted, who hadn’t given any money to a beggar in years, found himself once again fishing into his wallet to reward this singing mendicant. Indirectly, that is. “You give it to him. And I should take it out of your