upon every window seat, hang in all the cornices, and stand in full platoons in every foot of spare pavement for a number of rods around the especial corner where their dinner is served. A young man (it was formerly a young girl) is appointed by the Government as feeder of the pigeons. It is not necessary to say that he is punctual with his repast--he could not live with his tumultuous boarders if he were not. As the bell strikes two, he pours the grain from-- The rest of this letter is missing, but from this time on her letters became frequent, and we are able to follow her, almost day by day. Her health by this time was much improved. She established pleasant lodgings in London, where her old friends the Sheldons and her new friends the Taylors were, and followed her lifelong habits by rising at five o’clock in the morning and getting in four and a half hours’ activity before any one else in the house appeared for breakfast. She heard Stanley, who had just returned from Africa, and, in the controversy which ensued between him and the Geographical Society, she became a warm partisan of Stanley. Antoinette Margot joined her. She, too, had lived through the war without breaking down, but, when she had nothing to do but to sit down at Carlsruhe and paint, she gave way to nervous overstrain. Mrs. Taylor found her Italian trip rather too much for her and wanted a quiet place outside of London, so they rented a summer home in the Isle of Wight and there spent some restful and health-giving weeks. For a company of nervous invalids, they appear to have had a very merry time. The following jingle was written in London in 1872 for reading at a social gathering of a few families and America’s friends, who met once a week for social intercourse over a cup of tea and light refreshments, enlivened by recitations. The family names are somewhat significant--Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, Mr. and Mrs. Bacon, Mr. and Mrs. Darling, and Mrs. Cynthia Care, a friend then absent. Mr. Taylor was the inventor of the McKean drill. Since time commenced its cycles, or the memory of man Hath record or tradition of pastoral tribe or clan, They have never failed to chronicle that men from far and near Have met to sharp or blunt their wits in liquor, wine or beer. This ancient custom, reaching back into the hoary past, Wears a dignity and prestige that rivals even caste; And bold are they who dare to meet in social gathering free, And call not to the festal board one of the classic three. But here’s a jolly company, from far across the sea, Dares tune its mirth and sharp its wit in a cup of good Bohea. We’re here from many hundred miles, where the western ocean foams, But, though a paradox it seems, we have not left our Holmes.