Volume 103 — THE BUILDER AND THE ARCHITECT.

The sun was shining on the fog, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The London day look bright— And yet it seemed as though it were The middle of the night. The Builder and the Architect Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such eligible land: "If this were only built upon," They said, "it would be grand!" "Oh, Tenants, come and live with us!" The Builder did entreat, "And take a little villa in This countrified retreat, Where stand straight rows of houses, So very new and neat!" The elder Tenants looked at him, But never a word said they; The elder Tenants winked their eyes, As though they meant to say, "Old birds, like we, are never caught By chaff in such a way." But four young Tenants hurried up, Each eager to rent one; Their looks were pale, their faces white, Like muffins underdone— Which was not odd, because, you know, They never saw the sun. The Builder and the Architect Went on a year or so Building damp villas on damp ground Conveniently low: And still some little houses stood Quite empty in the row. "I cannot think," the Builder said, "Why people should complain Of mortar made of mud from roads, Or roofs that let in rain, Or sewer-gas that comes from an Unventilated drain." "A fair return," the Builder said, "Two hundred, say, per cent., Is all the profit that I want On anything I've spent, Now, if you're ready, Tenants dear, I'll take the quarter's rent." "But not from us," the Tenants cried, "The houses are so new, They've made us all so very ill We don't know what to do." "The County Court," the Builder said, "Is very near to you." "I tell you what," the Builder said, "I fear that I must seize Your furniture, unless you pay; So fork out, if you please." And even he, in that damp air, Began to cough and sneeze. "Oh, Tenants," said the Architect, "Just think what I have done, Designing such æsthetic homes!" But answer came there none— And this was scarcely odd, because They'd perished every one.