he lanes where the groundsel and
chick-weed grow are frequented by the citizens of the laboring class,
who, although the city is quite near and its smoke blackens the leaves,
call this the country and enjoy it as such. It is a pretty sight to see
them, when they are well behaved; and should one notice the boys and
girls, many of them would be found hunting under the hawthorn
hedge-rows for chick-weed and groundsel to be taken home for the pet
birds.

But all the birds of London do not depend on the industry of their
owners for these luxuries. Some men make a trade of gathering and
selling the plants, and the picture which is opposite this page will
give the reader a good idea of how they look. Their business has one
decided advantage. It needs no capital or tools, and a strong pair of
legs and a knife are all that its followers really want. Perhaps it is
on this account that the groundsel and chick-weed sellers are all very
poor, and the raggedness of some is pitiable in the extreme, as the
picture shows. Their shoes are shockingly dilapidated, owing to their
long daily marches into the country, and the rest of their clothes are
nearly as bad.

The one that we have illustrated is a fair example, but despite his
poverty-stricken appearance, his torn, loose sleeves and useless boots,
he is not at all repulsive. His face tells of want and toil; he has
slung a shabby old basket over his shoulders, in which he carries his
load, and, with a bunch in his hand, he saunters along the street,
proclaiming his trade, "Grun-sel, grun-sel, grun-sel!" Besides the
groundsel and the chick-weed, he has small pieces of turf for sale, of
which larks are very fond.

The birds in their cages at the open windows chirp and put their pretty
little heads aside when they hear him coming; they know perfectly well
who he is and what he brings, and their twitter shapes itself into a
greeting. The old raven perched on the edge of the basket feels like a
superior being, and wonders why other birds make such a fuss over a
little green stuff, but that is only because he has coarser tastes.

JOHNNY.

BY SARGENT FLINT.

Johnny was in disgrace. "Drandma" had set him down uncomfortably hard
in his little wooden chair by the fire-place, and told him not to move
one inch right or left till she came back; she also told him to think
over how naughty he had been all day; but some way it seemed easier
just then to think of his grandma's short-comi