soft-hearted, and extremely fond of drink. One night, his lady being
engaged to dinner at Nightingale House, I saw Mr. Jeames resting himself
on a bench at the "Pocklington Arms:" where, as he had no liquor before
him, he had probably exhausted his credit.

Little Spitfire, Mr. Clarence Bulbul's boy, the wickedest little varlet
that ever hung on to a cab, was "chaffing" Mr. Jeames, holding up to his
face a pot of porter almost as big as the young potifer himself.

"Vill you now, Big'un, or von't you?" Spitfire said. "If you're thirsty,
vy don't you say so and squench it, old boy?"

"Don't ago on making fun of me--I can't abear chaffin'," was the reply
of Mr. Jeames, and tears actually stood in his fine eyes as he looked at
the porter and the screeching little imp before him.

Spitfire (real name unknown) gave him some of the drink: I am happy to
say Jeames's face wore quite a different look when it rose gasping out
of the porter; and I judge of his dispositions from the above trivial
incident.

The last boy in the sketch, 6, need scarcely be particularized. Doctor's
boy; was a charity-boy; stripes evidently added on to a pair of the
doctor's clothes of last year--Miss Clapperclaw pointed this out to me
with a giggle. Nothing escapes that old woman.

As we were walking in Kensington Gardens, she pointed me out Mrs.
Bragg's nursery-maid, who sings so loud at church, engaged with a
Lifeguardsman, whom she was trying to convert probably. My virtuous
friend rose indignant at the sight.

"That's why these minxes like Kensington Gardens," she cried. "Look at
the woman: she leaves the baby on the grass, for the giant to trample
upon; and that little wretch of a Hastings Bragg is riding on the
monster's cane."

Miss C. flew up and seized the infant, waking it out of its sleep, and
causing all the gardens to echo with its squalling. "I'll teach you to
be impudent to me," she said to the nursery-maid, with whom my vivacious
old friend, I suppose, has had a difference; and she would not release
the infant until she had rung the bell of Bungalow Lodge, where she gave
it up to the footman.

The giant in scarlet had slunk down towards Knightsbridge meanwhile. The
big rogues are always crossing the Park and the Gardens, and hankering
about Our Street.

WHAT SOMETIMES HAPPENS IN OUR STREET.

It was before old Hunkington's house that the mutes were standing, as I
passed and saw this group at the door. The charity-boy wi