But patiently unravelling, the threads will soon appear,
In cottage hearths, and burning weeds, and misty woodland sere.

The day is fading, all the West with sunset's glow is bright,
And island clouds of crimson float in depths of emerald light,
Like circles on a rippled lake the tints spread up the sky,
Till, mingling with the purple shade, they touch night's shore, and die.

Down where the beech-trees, nearly bare, spread o'er the red-leaf'd hill,
Where yet late-lingerers patter down, altho' the wind is still,
The cottage smoke climbs thinly up, and shades the black-boled trees,
And hangs upon the misty air as blue as summer seas.

'Tis this, in other guise, that wraps the town in sombre pall,
While like two endless funerals the lines of traffic crawl,
And from the abysmal vagueness where flows the turbid stream
Like madden'd nightmares neighing, the steamers hoarsely scream.

The Arab yearns for deserts free, the mariner for grog,
The hielan' laddie treads the heath, the croppy trots the bog;
The Switzer boasts his avalanche, the Eskimo his dog,
But only London in the world, can show a London fog.

* * * * *

A WONDERFUL SHILLINGSWORTH.

My Dear Mr. Punch,--Fresh from the country (which has been my
perpetual residence for the last twenty years), I came to London,
a few days ago, to visit an establishment which seemed to me to