d stir the bitter bile of STEWART HEADLAM.
When Justice, School-Board ruling simply "sits on,"
School-Boards become a mere annexe of--Bedlam!
Nine children! Husband out of work! No boots!
And do you really think that _these_ are reasons
For fine-remission? This strikes at the roots
Of Law, which ought to rule us at all seasons.
Oh, how shall KITSON educate the "kids,"
Or how shall HEADLAM discipline the mothers,
If you, instead of doing what Law bids,
Pay the poor creatures' fines and raise up bothers?
Law, Sir, is Law, even to Magistrates,
Not a mere chopping-block for maudlin charity.
Fining the impecunious doubtless grates
On feelings such as yours; there's some disparity
'Twixt School-Board Draconism, and regard
For parents penniless, and children bootless;
But pedagogues--ask HEADLAM--must be hard,
Or pedagogy's purposes are fruitless.
Poor creatures? Humph! Compassion's mighty fine;
A gentle feeling, who would wish to shock it?
But husbands out of work with children nine,
Should pay their fines themselves--not from _your_ pocket.

* * * * *

KEPT IN TOWN.-A LAMENT.

[Illustration]

The Season's ended; in the Park the vehicles are far and few,
And down the lately-crowded Row one horseman canters on a screw
By stacks of unperceptive chairs; the turf is burnt, the leaves are
brown, stagnant sultriness prevails--the very air's gone out of town!

Belgravia's drawn her blinds, and let her window-boxes run to seed;
Street-urchins play in porticoes--no powdered menial there to heed;
Now fainter grows the lumbering roll of luggage-cumbered omnibus:
Bayswater's children all are off upon their annual exodus.

On every hoarding posters flaunt the charms of peak, and loch, and sea,
To madden those unfortunates who have to stay in town--like me!
Gone are the inconsiderate friends who tell one airily, "They're off!"
And ask "what _you_ propose to do--yacht, shoot, or fish, or walk,
or golf?"

On many a door which opened wide in welcome but the other day,
The knocker basks in calm repose--conscious "the family's away."
I scan the windows--half in hope I may some friendly face detect--
To meet their blank brown-papered stare, depressing as the cut direct!

I pass the house where She is not, to feel an unfamiliar chill;
That door is disenchanted now, that number powerless to thrill!