THE Tramp was distinctly one of the Unemployed. He had no money, no friends, no home. He had obtained some work a short while since. The labour, of course, had been unskilled, and then there had come a strike, and the Tramp and his mates had turned out with the rest. The Tramp was a little annoyed, as he had been fairly satisfied to earn bread and butter and meat, and above all, and before all, beer. But the leaders of the strike had satisfied him that it was entirely for his benefit. That as the Tramp could not work up to their standard, it was their duty to work down to his--and yet get paid at the same rate of wages belonging to the higher scale. This seemed to the Tramp pleasant enough. But while he waited, he starved; so he was not sure that the notion of the strike was so excellent after all. But then his brain might have been clearer--it had not been fed (in common with the rest of his body) for several days. So the Tramp--weary, ragged, and tanned--wandered to the spot where Labour was holding her Congress. The last meeting had been held, and the final squabble settled when he reached his destination. There were a couple of well-fed, healthy-looking men, dressed in good strong broad-cloth, standing outside the meeting-place. They regarded the Tramp with some surprise. "Surely not a Member?" said the first. "And of course not a Delegate?" hinted the second. The tramp shook his head. He knew nothing about Members and Delegates. "I thought not," said Number One. "All our Members and Delegates are quite of respectable appearance." "Got nothing to do," replied the Tramp, laconically. "Why don't you try the Colonies?" asked Number Two. "There has been an immense fall in the value of land in Australia. You would get it cheap just now. Why not emigrate? Why not acquire some land?" "I don't want land, I want food!" returned the Tramp. "Well, when we have a vacancy, you shall become one of us. We eat, drink, and talk; but we don't work. It's the best employment out." And the Tramp found it so. * * * * * 'ARRIET ON LABOUR. [Illustration] Dear POLLY,--These are pooty times, and don't you make no herror. They gives _me_ twists, though I am called the Tottenham Court Road Terror, Along of quantities of pluck, and being such a dasher; But now the papers bring hus news as spiles yer mornin' rasher. "Labour is looking up, you bet!" So sez SAM JONES, our neighbour. "I'm glad to 'ear it, SAM," sez I. "But, SAMMY, wot _is_ Labour?" SAM gives his greasy curl a twist, and looks seven ways for Sunday. Bit bosky, SAM, thick in the clear, as usual on Saint Monday. "Labour!" I sez, "Oh, shoo fly, SAM! You 'orny-'anded codgers-- _Your_ palm's as soft as putty, SAM--are reglar Artful Dodgers. Yer Labour, with a capital L, looks mighty fine in print, SAM, But _work_ with a small w--ah! I see yer takes the 'int, SAM."