UNKNOWN.

Mine is a house at Notting Hill: The Indian's tum-tum smites my ear; A crowd enjoys a casual 'mill' With no policeman lingering near. The thief attempts the chain and watch Conspicuous in my spacious vest; Their balls of brass the tumblers catch, In soiled and spangled garments dressed. Around my steps street-organs bring The dirtiest brats that can be seen; And boys turn wheels, and niggers sing To banjo and to tambourine. The dustman bawls; the beggars tease When coppers are not duly given; Whilst papers, flowers, and fusees, Annoy me six days out of seven.

Fish have their times to bite— The bream in summer, and the trout in spring, What time the hawthorn buds are white, And streams are clear, and winds low-whispering. The pike bite free when fall The autumn leaves before the north-wind's breath, And tench in June, but there are all— There are all seasons for the gudgeon's death. The trout his ambush keeps Crafty and strong, in Pangbourne's eddying pools, And patient still in Marlow deeps For the shy barbel wait expectant fools. Many the perch but small That swim in Basildon, and Thames hath nought Like Cookham's pike, but, oh! in all— Yes, in all places are the gudgeon caught. The old man angles still For roach, and sits red-faced and fills his chair; And perch, the boy expects to kill, And roves and fishes here and fishes there. The child but three feet tall For the gay minnows and the bleak doth ply His bending hazel, but by all— Oh! by all hands the luckless gudgeon die.

Hang thee, vile North Easter: Other things may be Very bad to bear with, Nothing equals thee. Grim and grey North Easter, From each Essex-bog, From the Plaistow marshes, Rolling London fog— 'Tired we are of Summer' Kingsley may declare, I give the assertion Contradiction bare, I, in bed, this morning Felt thee, as I lay: 'There's a vile North Easter Out of doors to-day!' Set the dust clouds blowing Till each face they strike, With the blacks is growing Chimney-sweeper like. Fill our rooms with smoke gusts From the chimney-pipe. Fill our eyes with water, That defies the wipe. Through the draughty passage Whistle loud and high, Making doors and windows Rattle, flap and fly; Mark, that vile North Easter Roaring up the vent, Nipping soul and body, Breeding discontent! Squall, my noisy children; Smoke, my parlour grate; Scold, my shrewish partner; I accept my fate. All is quite in tune with This North Eastern Blast; Who can look for comfort Till this wind be past? If all goes contrary, Who can feel surprise, With this Rude North Easter In his teeth and eyes? It blows much too often. Nine days out of ten, Yet we boast our climate, Like true English men! In their soft South Easters Could I bask at ease, I'd let France and Naples Bully as they please, But while this North Easter In one's teeth is hurled, Liberty seems worth just Nothing in the world. Come, as came our fathers Heralded by thee, Blasting, blighting, burning Out of Normandy. Come and flay and skin us, And dry up our blood— All to have a Kingsley Swear it does him good!

Let us begin and portion out these sweets, Sitting together. Leave we our deep debates, our sage conceits,— Wherefore? and whether? Thus with a fine that fits the work begun Our labours crowning, For we, in sooth, our duty well have done By Robert Browning. Have we not wrought at essay and critique, Scorning supine ease? Wrestled with clauses crabbed as Bito's Greek, Baffling as Chinese? Out the Inn Album's mystic heart we took, Lucid of soul, and Threaded the mazes of the Ring and Book; Cleared up Childe Roland. We settled Fifine's business—let her be— (Strangest of lasses;) Watched by the hour some thick-veiled truth to see Where Pippa passes. (Though, dare we own, secure in victors' gains, Ample to shield us? Red Cotton Night-cap Country for our pains Little would yield us.) What then to do? Our culture-feast drag out E'en to satiety? Oft such the fate that findeth, nothing doubt, Such a Society. Oh, the dull meetings! Some one yawns an aye, One gapes again a yea. We girls determined not to yawn, but buy Chocolate Ménier. Fry's creams are cheap, but Cadbury's excel, (Quick, Maud, for none wait) Nay, now, 'tis Ménier bears away the bell, Sold by the ton-weight. So, with unburdened brains and spirits light, Blithe did we troop hence, All our funds voted for this closing rite,— Just two-and-two-pence. Do—make in scorn, old Crœsus, proud and glum, Peaked eyebrow lift eye; Put case one stick's a halfpenny; work the sum; Full two and fifty. Off with the twine! who scans each smooth brown slab Yet not supposeth What soft, sweet, cold, pure whiteness, bound in drab. Tooth's bite discloseth? Are they not grand? Why (you may think it odd) Some power alchemic Turns, as we munch, to Zeus-assenting nod Sneers Academic. Till, when one cries, ''Ware hours that fleet like clouds, Time, deft escaper!' We answer bold: 'Leave Time to Dons and Dowds; (Grace, pass the paper) Say, boots it aught to evermore affect Raptures high-flying? Though we choose chocolate, will the world suspect Genius undying?'