ittle Bunker's Buildings, Berkeley Square (for it must
out--that was the place in which Mr. Crump's inn was situated),
he paused for a moment at the threshold of the little house of
entertainment, and listened, with beating heart, to the sound of
delicious music that a well-known voice was uttering within.

The moon was playing in silvery brightness down the gutter of the humble
street. A "helper," rubbing down one of Lady Smigsmag's carriage-horses,
even paused in his whistle to listen to the strain. Mr. Tressle's man,
who had been professionally occupied, ceased his tap-tap upon the coffin
which he was getting in readiness. The greengrocer (there is always a
greengrocer in those narrow streets, and he goes out in white Berlin
gloves as a supernumerary footman) was standing charmed at his little
green gate; the cobbler (there is always a cobbler too) was drunk, as
usual, of evenings, but, with unusual subordination, never sang except
when the refrain of the ditty arrived, when he hiccupped it forth with
tipsy loyalty; and Eglantine leaned against the chequers painted on
the door-side under the name of Crump, and looked at the red illumined
curtain of the bar, and the vast well-known shadow of Mrs. Crump's
turban within. Now and again the shadow of that worthy matron's hand
would be seen to grasp the shadow of a bottle; then the shadow of a
cup would rise towards the turban, and still the strain proceeded.
Eglantine, I say, took out his yellow bandanna, and brushed the beady
drops from his brow, and laid the contents of his white kids on his
heart, and sighed with ecstatic sympathy. The song began,--

"Come to the greenwood tree, [1]
Come where the dark woods be,
Dearest, O come with me!
Let us rove--O my love--O my love!
O my-y love!

(Drunken Cobbler without)
O my-y love!"

"Beast!" says Eglantine.

"Come--'tis the moonlight hour,
Dew is on leaf and flower,
Come to the linden bower,
Let us rove--O my love--O my love!
Let us ro-o-ove, lurlurliety; yes, we'll rove, lurlurliety,
Through the gro-o-ove, lurlurliety--lurlurli-e-i-e-i-e-i!

(Cobbler, as usual)--
Let us ro-o-ove," etc.

"YOU here?" says another individual, coming clinking up the street, in
a military-cut dress-coat, the buttons whereof shone very bright in the
moonlight. "YOU here, Eglanti