The most intense resort in Highbrow Green (Where only those who _do_ things may be seen) Is known as Crookedwych—a sweet retreat, Serene and sunny, quite unlike a _street_. Herein is “Daisymead,” the Brownes’ abode, Where Jones encountered highbrows à la mode. Jones was a very harmless sort of man, Not made on any esoteric plan, And when he struck this sanctuary of art Poor Jones felt quite unequal to his part. Art maidens with short hair and naked toes Deprived him of his hat. They wore old rose And sang about their “little turtle dove” And asked him if he’d “sow the seeds of love?” (They were the Misses Browne). “I’ve come to call....” “Then follow, to the house-place, sir,” they cried, “And make you featly welcome. Ma’s inside.” He followed. Ma received him in the hall. “I’m seventeen come Sunday, fol-de-lol,” She trilled untruly, pouring out the tea From leadless teapot into leadless cups. Then, “fol-de-lol-de-fol-de-diddle-dee,” —Handing nut tabloids to the waiting pups. And more, about the “wraggle gipsies, O.” Jones murmured, “Pray excuse me. I must go. I think I am unwell ... the walk too much. Proteid? No thank you. No, I never touch Food before dinner ... I can find the door.” He found it and he fled. Ah, never more! _Benevolence_ Mrs. Murgatroyd Martin thinks only of doing good: That is all that she lives for—to succour the _poor_, _poor_, poor. She wants them to lead nobler lives (that is understood): To the world of Culture she opens them wide a door. She tells them of Pater and Pankhurst, of Tagore and Wilde; Of “Man-made-laws” and the virtues of proteid peas; Of Folk-Song, and Art and of sterilised milk for the child; Of the joys of the Morris Dance, and of poetry teas. And when the vile husbands get tipsy, on Saturday nights, She goes round next morning and gives them a piece of her mind, And rouses the downtrodden wives—and when this leads to fights And black eyes, and bad language, she says: “But I meant to be kind!” _Mr. Reginald Hyphen_ (_St. James’s Street_) Mr. Reginald Hyphen is terribly “one of us;” He was born with a mouth just made for a silver spoon, And he’s always “dwedfully late” when he comes to dine. The thought of the Middle Classes makes him swoon, And he never will dance unless he is sure of the wine— And O, it was such an affair, when he took a ’bus! And yet he’s not only a butterfly, carefully smart, He _thinks_ a great deal, and has a devotion to Art. He has read some Meredith, too—“Rather neat in its way”— And perhaps, if he’s time, he will “do something like it—some day.” _She-Devil_ (_Davies Street_) White arms, Love, you have, and thin fingers with glittering nails, And the soft blue smoke curls up from your parted mouth! The delicate rose of your cheeks never varies nor pales, And your frocks and your furs are perfection—devourer of youth!