r snow the hardest that ever was known, no inclemency of weather
keeps her from her morning round, and in the dull cold of London frosts
and the yellow obscurity of London fogs, she appears in the streets,
uttering her familiar cry, "Me-oh! me-oh!" which is her way of calling
milk.

Pretty kitchen-maids come up the area steps with their pitchers to meet
her, and detain her with much gossip. The one in the picture, whose arms
are comfortably folded under her white apron, may be telling her that
the mistress's baby is sick, and that the doctor despairs of its life.
She may even be saying to her: "The only thing it can swallow, poor
little dear, is a little milk and arrowroot, and the doctor says unless
it can have this it must die." A great deal of the London milk is
adulterated, and, perhaps, this honest-looking milk-woman knows that
water has been added to hers. May be, she has babies of her own, and
then her heart must be sore when she realizes that the little sick one
upstairs may perish through her employer's greed for undue profits.

[Illustration: AT THE AREA GATE.]

To-morrow, she may find the blinds drawn close down at that house, and
the maid-of-all-work red-eyed and tearful; then she will turn away,
bitterly feeling the pressure of her yoke on her shoulders, although,
from her looks, she herself appears to be incapable of dishonesty; she
is, and more than that, kindly, cheery, and industrious. Her cans are
polished to the brilliancy of burnished silver, and betoken the most
scrupulous cleanliness. Many breakfast-tables depend upon her for that
rich cream which emits a delicious flavor from her cans, in the sharp
morning air. "Me-oh! me-oh!" We turn over in bed when we hear her, and
know that it is time to get up.

[Illustration]

ALICE'S SUPPER.

Far down in the valley the wheat grows deep,
And the reapers are making the cradles sweep;
And this is the song that I hear them sing,
While cheery and loud their voices ring:
"'Tis the finest wheat that ever did grow,
And it is for Alice's supper--ho! ho!"

[Illustration]

Far down by the river the old mill stands,
And the miller is rubbing his dusty old hands;
And these are the words of the miller's lay,
As he watches the mill-stones grinding away:
"'Tis the finest flour that money can buy,
And it is for Alice's supper--hi! hi!"

[Illustration]

Down-stairs in the kitchen the fire doth glow,
And cook is a-kneadin