Oh, but to "DELE" work! To "transpose" toil for rest! To "make up" life's remaining years On smiling Nature's breast! A "space" of time to join the "chase," Some "quoins" to see me through! A good "fat take" of these I want, But a few large "notes" MIGHT do. Oh, for a brief respite From toilsome pen and proof! An "out," while I might calmly seek A "double" who would share my roof; The "sort" that could "correct" my "forme," And save me from life's many traps, And round our "table" smiling "set" Sweet "fat-faced" MINIONS in "SMALL CAPS!" L. F. THOMAS. _The British and Colonial Stationer_, May, 1884. * * * * * THE BITTER CRY! "Few persons have any conception of these pestilential human rookeries where tens of thousands are crowded together amidst horrors which call to mind the middle passage of the slave ship."--[The Bitter Cry of Outcast London.] Wearily wandering into the winding Maze of the filthy and festering slums, Borne on the blast of the hurricane blinding, Suddenly into my spirit there comes Bitterest cry of the careworn and dying, Weeping and wailing of old and of young-- Wailing of women aweary and sighing. Heavenward? Hear the song that they sung: "Strive, strive, strive, With the wolf at the door, in vain, Tho' the struggle to keep alive Is worse than a hell of pain. Gin, gin, gin, Our cares we'll drown once more; 'Tis but folly to shrink from the spirit of drink, So, swig till our lives be o'er." Fiercer than fathomless cry of the weepers, Wilder than wailing of women and men, Echoing ever a voice, "O ye sleepers, Where is the harpy who owneth each den? Where are the vultures who prey on the living?" Pitiless dealers of wrong at each breath, Shedders of blood who each moment are giving Children and women and strong men to Death: "Here, here, here," Is the loud and bitter cry. "Oh, heed our sob of fear, And save us ere we die. "Rent, rent, rent, Our cares we'll drown once more, For there's nothing but gin when the bailiffs are in, And the baby's dead on the floor." G. B. BURGIN. Ashley House, High Barnet, Herts, England. * * * * * I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I REMEMBER, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! TOM HOOD. * * * * * NURSERY REMINISCENCES.