And their little mouths go wide open At some of the brilliant sights That little darlings may see in the road Of Edgware on Saturday nights. The eldest’s name is Susannah; She was four years old last May. And Mary-Jane, the youngest, Is just three years old to-day. And I know all about their cat, and Their father and mother too, And “Pigshead,” their only brother, Who got his head jammed in the flue. And _they_ know several particulars Of a similar sort of me, For we went up and down together For over an hour, we three. And Susannah walked beside me, As became the wiser and older, Fast to one finger, but Mary-Jane Sat solemnly up on my shoulder. And we bought some sweets, and a monkey That climbed up a stick “quite nice.” And then last we adjourned for refreshments, And the ladies had each an ice. And Susannah’s ice was a pink one, And she sucked it up so quick, But Mary-Jane silently proffered Her ice to me for a lick. And then we went home to mother, And we found her upon the floor, And father was trying to balance His shoulders against the door. And Susannah said “O” and “Please, sir, We’ll go in ourselves, sir!” And We kissed one another and parted, And they stole in hand in hand. And it’s O for my two little darlings I never shall see again, Though I stand for the whole night watching And crying here in the rain! II. “HERE AND THERE.” IN THE PIT. “CHANT OF THE FIREMEN.” “This is the steamer’s pit. The ovens like dragons of fire Glare thro’ their close-lidded eyes With restless hungry desire. “Down from the tropic night Rushes the funnelled air; Our heads expand and fall in; Our hearts thump huge as despair. “’Tis we make the bright hot blood Of this throbbing inanimate thing; And our life is no less the fuel Than the coal we shovel and fling. “And lest of this we be proud Or anything but meek, We are well cursed and paid— Ten shillings a week!” _Round_, _round_, _round in its tunnel_ _The shaft turns pitiless strong_, _While lost souls cry out in the darkness_: “_How long_, _O Lord_, _how long_?” A MAHOMMADAN SHIP FIREMAN. Up from the oven pit, The hell where poor men toil, At the sunset hour he comes Clean-clothed, washed from soil. On the fo’c’s’le head he kneels, His face to the hallowed West. He prays, and bows and prays. Does he pray for death and rest? TO INDIA.