_Thalatta! Thalatta_! Not XENOPHON'S Greeks, O benevolent Public, but "Nobody's Boys," Wild Arabs of London, by tenderness tamed, at the sight of the sea vent exuberant joys In vociferous shoutings! Imagine the rapture of wrecks from the gutter and waifs from the slum, When first on their ears falls the jubilant thrill of the sky-soaring lark, or the wild bee's low hum! Imagine the pleasure of plunging at will into June's leafy copses of hazel and lime, Of scudding through acres of grasses knee-high, and of snuffing the fragrance of clover and thyme. But what is all this to the dumb-stricken wonder, swift followed by outbursts of full-throated glee, Which fancy can picture, when London's pale outcasts from some grassy cliff catch first sight of the Sea! _Thalatta! Thalatta_! There's many a lad who has never before had a glimpse of the wave; For these are of those who, from London's dark wastes 'tis the aim of their leaders to rescue and save. "Nobody's Boys," the lost waifs of the city, foredoomed, but for aid, to debasement and crime, Possible gallows-birds,--they with wan faces late cleansed from the rookery's hideous grime, Snatched from the gutter whilst boyhood bears hope with it, gathered and tended with vigilant care. Servants of soul-thrift their volunteer champions! Weeds of the slum, with fresh soil and sweet air, Grow into grace and fair fruitage. These pariahs, "Southwark Boys," strays from the slime-sodden east, FEGAN takes forth in gay troops to the meadows, in freshness of nature to frolic and feast, Climb in the woodlands and plunge in the waters, ramble and scramble through tangle-hedged lanes, Fish in the pools with youth's primitive tackle, breathe quickening vigour through bosoms and brains. Picture the boys "camping out" on the commons, and gipsying gaily in tents midst the heather, Armed with their canvas and blankets and boilers and pannikins well against hunger and weather. Picture them--CALLOT'S free brush might have managed it--gathered in pow-wow around the camp-fire, Sun-tanned and wind-browned, in picturesque raiment, with wisp of the wild hop or trail of the briar Hat-wreathed or button-holed. BURNS should have sung of them; trim-skirted Muse, with punctilious tastes, Were not at home with these waifs from the rookery, pastured at large in free Nature's wild wastes, Bounding, and breathing fresh air, romping, wrestling, and disciplined only to cleanness and order. Otherwise free as the tent-dwelling Arabs, or outlaws of Sherwood, or bands of the Border. Picture it! FEGAN'S pink pamphlet _has_ pictured it. Read it, all lovers of Nature and youth, All who have care for the wrecks of humanity, all who are moved by the spirit of ruth. Ere Spring returns, far Canadian homesteads will house their contingents of "Nobody's Boys."