After this merely parenthetic observation, we come to 4, one of her ladyship’s large men, Mr. Jeames--a gentleman of vast stature and proportions, who is almost nose to nose with us as we pass her ladyship’s door on the outside of the omnibus. I think Jeames has a contempt for a man whom he witnesses in that position. I have fancied something like that feeling showed itself (as far as it may in a well-bred gentleman accustomed to society) in his behaviour, while waiting behind my chair at dinner. But I take Jeames to be, like most giants, good-natured, lazy, stupid, soft-hearted, and extremely fond of drink. One night, his lady being engaged to dinner at Nightingale House, I saw Mr. Jeames resting himself on a bench at the Pocklington Arms: where, as he had no liquor before him, he had probably exhausted his credit. Little Spitfire, Mr. Clarence Bulbul’s boy, the wickedest little varlet that ever hung on to a cab, was “chaffing” Mr. Jeames, [Illustration: WHY OUR NURSEMAIDS LIKE KENSINGTON GARDENS.] holding up to his face a pot of porter almost as big as the young potifer himself. “Vill you now, Bigun, or vont you?” Spitfire said; “if you’re thursty, vy dont you say so and squench it, old boy?” “Dont ago on makin fun of me--I can’t abear chaffin,” was the reply of Mr. Jeames, and tears actually stood in his fine eyes, as he looked at the porter and the screeching little imp before him. Spitfire (real name unknown) gave him some of the drink: I am happy to say Jeames’s face wove quite a different look when it rose gasping out of the porter; and I judge of his dispositions from the above trivial incident. The last boy in the sketch, 6, need scarcely be particularized. Doctor’s boy; was a charity boy; stripes evidently added on to a pair of the doctor’s clothes of last year--Miss Clapperclaw pointed this out to me with a giggle.--Nothing escapes that old woman. As we were walking in Kensington Gardens she pointed me out Mrs. Braggs nursery-maid, who sings so loud at church, engaged with a Life Guardsman, whom she was trying to convert probably. My virtuous friend rose indignant at the sight. “That’s why these minxes like Kensington Gardens,” she cried. “Look at the woman: she leaves the baby on the grass, for the giant to trample upon; and that little wretch of a Hastings Bragg is riding on the monster’s cane.” Miss C. flew up and seized the infant, waking it out of its sleep, and causing all the gardens to echo with its squalling. “I’ll teach you to be impudent to me,” she said to the nursery-maid, with whom my vivacious old friend, I suppose, has had a difference; and she would not release the infant until she had rung the bell of Bungalow Lodge, where she gave it up to the footman. The giant in scarlet had slunk down toward Knightsbridge meanwhile. The big rogues are always crossing the Park and the Gardens, and hankering about Our Street. [Illustration: A STREET CEREMONY.] WHAT SOMETIMES HAPPENS IN OUR STREET.