SMALL MAN. I'VE BEEN ON THE PLATFORM WITH HIM OFTEN, AND HE STANDS
FULLY AS TALL AS I DO!"]

* * * * *

THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN.

[Illustration]

Soon on Piccadilly's pavement solitude once more will reign;
Soon the Park will be a desert, for the Season's on the wane;
In Belgravia's lordly mansions nearly all the blinds are down,
For "the Family is gone, Sir,"--not a soul is left in Town.

South to Switzerland they hurry, to explore each snowy fell;
North to Scotland's moors and forests, where the grouse and
red-deer dwell;
Carlsbad, Homburg, Trouville, Norway, soon their jaded eyes will
view;
For Society is speeding "to fresh woods and pastures new."

Everyone is gone or going,--everyone, that is, one knows,--
And the "Great Elections'" Season fast is drawing to its close.
Never surely was a poorer; such dull dinners, so few balls,
Such an Epsom, such an Ascot, or so many empty stalls.

Gone the Season, with its dances, with its concerts and its _fêtes_,
With its weddings and divorces, with its dinners and debates;
Gone are all its vapid pleasures, all its easy charities,
Gone its _causes célèbres_ and scandals, gone its tears and