Or pedagogy's purposes are fruitless.
Poor creatures? Humph! Compassion's mighty fine;
A gentle feeling, who would wish to shock it?
But husbands out of work with children nine,
Should pay their fines themselves--not from _your_ pocket.

* * * * *

KEPT IN TOWN.-A LAMENT.

[Illustration]

The Season's ended; in the Park the vehicles are far and few,
And down the lately-crowded Row one horseman canters on a screw
By stacks of unperceptive chairs; the turf is burnt, the leaves are
brown, stagnant sultriness prevails--the very air's gone out of town!

Belgravia's drawn her blinds, and let her window-boxes run to seed;
Street-urchins play in porticoes--no powdered menial there to heed;
Now fainter grows the lumbering roll of luggage-cumbered omnibus:
Bayswater's children all are off upon their annual exodus.

On every hoarding posters flaunt the charms of peak, and loch, and sea,
To madden those unfortunates who have to stay in town--like me!
Gone are the inconsiderate friends who tell one airily, "They're off!"
And ask "what _you_ propose to do--yacht, shoot, or fish, or walk,
or golf?"

On many a door which opened wide in welcome but the other day,
The knocker basks in calm repose--conscious "the family's away."