I live in a desert, but my desert is in the very heart of London. The waste is all round me though; I have taken good care of that. Once, indeed, it blossomed like the rose, for a thousand fertilising streams trickled through its bright expanse. Do not you as I did. I turned all the streams into one channel, “in the sweet summer-time long ago,” and “sat by the river,” like those poor fools in the song, and said, “Go to! Now I shall never thirst again!” But in the night there came a landslip from the upper level, and choked the river, turning its course through my neighbour’s pastures, so that the meadows, once so green and fresh, are bare and barren now for evermore. I speak in parables, of course; and the value of “this here observation,” like those of Captain Bunsby, “lies in the application of it.” I need not observe, the street in which I hide myself is a _cul de sac_. A man who sells chickweed, perhaps I should say, who would sell chickweed if he could, is the only passenger. Of the houses on each side of me, one is unfinished, the other untenanted. Over the way, I confront the dead wall at the back of an hospital. Towards dusk in the late autumn, when the weather is breaking, I must admit the situation is little calculated to generate over-exuberance of animal spirits. Sequestered, no doubt, shady too, particularly in the short days, and as remote from the noise or traffic of the town as John o’ Groat’s house, but enlivening—No. On first beginning to reside here, I confess I felt at times a little lonely and depressed. Therefore I brought home “Bones” to come and live with me. And who _is_ “Bones”? Ah! that is exactly what I have never been able to find out. Contemplative, affable, easily pleased, and an admirable listener, he is yet on some points reserved to a degree that might almost be termed morose; while in his personal appearance there is a dignity of bearing, an imposing presence, which forbids the most intimate associate to attempt a liberty. I will describe him as I see him at this moment, reclining in an easy attitude on the cushions of my favourite arm-chair, benevolently interested, it would seem, in my lightest movements, while I sit smoking silently by the fire. Neither of us are great talkers quite so early in the evening.