Time and circumstances have effectually disposed of the water-carrier, his occupation is gone, it is impossible London can ever again see a man bent beneath the weight of a yoke and two enormous pails, vociferating "_Any fresh and fair Spring Water here?_" But the cry of "Milk," or the rattle of the milk-pail will never cease to be heard in our streets. There can be no reservoirs of milk, no pipes through which it flows into the houses. The more extensive the great capital becomes, the more active must be the individual exertion to carry about this article of food. The old cry was "_Any Milk here?_" and it was sometimes mingled with the sound of "_Fresh Cheese and Cream_;" and it then passed into "_Milk, maids below_;" and it was then shortened into "_Milk below_;" and was finally corrupted into "_Mio_," which some wag interpreted into _mi-eau_--_demi-eau_--half water. But it must still be cried, whatever be the cry. The supply of milk to the metropolis is perhaps one of the most beautiful combinations of industry we have. The days have long since passed when Finsbury had its pleasant groves, and Clerkenwell was a village, and there were green pastures in Holborn, when St. Pancras boasted only a little church standing in meadows, and St. Martin's was literally in the fields. Slowly but surely does the baked clay of Mr. Jerry, "the speculative builder" stride over the clover and the buttercup; and yet every family in London may be supplied with milk by eight o'clock every morning at their own doors. Where do the cows abide? They are congregated in wondrous herds in the suburbs; and though in spring-time they go out to pasture in the fields which lie under the Hampstead and Highgate hills, or in the vales of Dulwich and Sydenham, and there crop the tender blade,-- "When proud pied April, dress'd in all his trim, Has put a spirit of youth in everything."