Volume 156 — THE SPACE PROBLEM.

The sad queues shiver in the drains And do not get upon the bus; Men battle round successive trains, And each is yet more populous; Twelve times a week I pay the fare, But know not when I last sat down; It almost looks as if there were Too many people in the town. I know not where they all may dwell; I know my lease is up in May; I know I said, "Oh, very well, I'll take a house down Dorking way;" I scoured the spacious countryside, I found no residence to spare, And it is not to be denied There are too many people there. They say the birth-rate's sadly low; They say the death-rate tends to soar; So how we manage I don't know To go on growing more and more; Let statistology prefer To think the race is nice and small, But how do all these crowds occur, And who the dickens are they all? Where do they come from? Where on earth In olden days did they reside, When there was really lots of birth And hardly anybody died? Where had this multitude its lair? Some pleasant spot, I make no doubt; I only wish they'd go back there And leave me room to move about; And leave some little house for me In any shire, in any town, Or, otherwise, myself must flee And build a dug-out in a down; If none may settle on the land, Yet might one settle underground (Provided people understand They must not come and dig all round). There will I dwell (alone) till death And soothe my crowd-corroded soul; And, when I breathe my latest breath, Let no man move me from my hole; Let but a little earth be cast, And someone write above the tomb: "Here had the poet peace at last; Here only had he elbow-room." A.P.H.