How pathetic some of these little parks are, and what a part they play in the lives of those who live in the dingy streets near. Take, for instance, one with a high-sounding name, Avondale Park. It is little more than ten minutes’ walk from Shepherd’s Bush Station or Notting Hill Gate. Yet, on inquiry for the most direct road, nobody can give a satisfactory answer. One man will say, “I have lived here for years and never heard of it”; another, “I don’t think it can be in this district.” The same would be the result even nearer to it; but ask for the recreation ground, and any child will tell you. “Down the first narrow turning and to the right again, by the pawnbroker at the corner.” It is a melancholy shop, with the plain necessaries of life and tiny babies’ boots for sale on the trays outside the door--what a volume of wretchedness and poverty those poor things bespeak. A few yards further, and the iron railings of the “Park” come in view. The happy shrill voices of children resound, the swings are in full motion, the seats well filled, and up and down the asphalt walk, old and young are enjoying themselves. When the band plays the place is packed. “I’ve calculated as many as nine hundred at one time,” says the old guardian, who is proud of the place, “and as for the children, you often can’t see the ground for them.” Yes, this open space of four and a quarter acres is really appreciated. It is difficult for those in easier circumstances to realise what a difference that little patch of green, those few bright flowers, make to the neighbourhood, or the social effect of the summer evenings, when the band and the pleasant trees offer a counter-attraction to the public-house. For some twelve years this little Park has been enjoyed. Formed by the vestry, and kept up by the Royal Borough of Kensington, it greatly pleases, although it scarce can be called beautiful. The centre is given over to the children, and the boys have ample room, and the girls and infants keep their twenty-four swings in constant motion. A path twists round the irregular plot, and most of the way is bordered by those London-loving plants, the iris, and the usual groups of smutty bushes. Along the front runs a wide asphalt walk, well furnished with seats, a band-stand half way, and a fountain at one end. Some bedding out with gay flowers is the attraction here. A gardener and a boy keep it in order, while for about £20 a year a nurseryman supplies all the necessary bedding-out plants. The old guardian sweeps the scraps of paper up and sees the children are not too riotous at the swings. Thus, for no great expense, widespread pleasure is conferred.