We all know about tea-drinking in England. It is not a very picturesque or interesting occasion, at best. To the traditional Englishman's mind it means simply a quiet evening at home, attended by the papers, and serious conversations in which the head of the house deals out political and domestic wisdom until ten o'clock. During the day, tea-taking begins with breakfast and rounds up on the fashionable thoroughfares in the afternoon. Here one may see the Britishers at their best and worst. These places are called "tea-shops," and in them one may acquire the latest hand-shake, the freshest tea and gossip, see the newest modes and millinery, meet and greet the whirl of the world. An interesting study of types, in contrasts and conditions of society, worth the price of a whole chest of choice tea. We are pretty prosaic tea-drinkers in America. Is it because there is not enough "touch and go" about the drink, or that we are too busy to settle down to the quiet, comfort, and thoughtful tea-ways of our contemporaries? Wait until a few things are settled; when our kitchen queens do not leave us in the "gray of the morning," and all of our daughters have obtained diplomas in the art and science of gastronomy. However made or taken, tea at best or worst is a glorious drink. As a stimulant for the tired traveller and weary worker it is unique in its restful, retiring, soothing, and caressing qualities. _THE TEA-TABLE_ Tho' all unknown to Greek and Roman song, The paler hyson and the dark souchong, Tho' black nor green the warbled praises share Of knightly troubadour or gay trouvère, Yet deem not thou, an alien quite to numbers, That friend to prattle and that foe to slumbers, Which Kian-Long, imperial poet, praised So high that, cent per cent, its price was raised; Which Pope himself would sometimes condescend To place commodious at a couplet's end; Which the sweet Bard of Olney did not spurn, Who loved the music of the "hissing urn." . . . For the dear comforts of domestic tea Are sung too well to stand in need of me By Cowper and the Bard of Rimini; Besides, I hold it as a special grace When such a theme is old and commonplace. The cheering lustre of the new-stirr'd fire, The mother's summons to the dozing sire, The whispers audible that oft intrude On the forced silence of the younger brood, The seniors' converse, seldom over new, Where quiet dwells and strange events are few, The blooming daughter's ever-ready smile, So full of meaning and so void of guile. And all the little mighty things that cheer The closing day from quiet year to year, I leave to those whom benignant fate Or merit destines to the wedded state. . . .