imes a week I pay the fare,
But know not when I last sat down;
It almost looks as if there were
Too many people in the town.

I know not where they all may dwell;
I know my lease is up in May;
I know I said, "Oh, very well,
I'll take a house down Dorking way;"
I scoured the spacious countryside,
I found no residence to spare,
And it is not to be denied
There are too many people there.

They say the birth-rate's sadly low;
They say the death-rate tends to soar;
So how we manage I don't know
To go on growing more and more;
Let statistology prefer
To think the race is nice and small,
But how do all these crowds occur,
And who the dickens are they all?

Where do they come from? Where on earth
In olden days did they reside,
When there was really lots of birth
And hardly anybody died?
Where had this multitude its lair?
Some pleasant spot, I make no doubt;
I only wish they'd go back there
And leave me room to move about;

And leave some little house for me
In any shire, in any town,
Or, otherwise, myself must flee
And build a dug-out in a down;
If none may settle on the land,
Yet might one settle underground
(Provided people understand
They must not come and dig all round).

There will I dwell (alone) till death
And soothe my crowd-corroded soul;
And, when I breathe my latest breath,
Let no man move me from my hole;
Let but a little earth be cast,
And someone write above the tomb:
"_Here had the poet peace at last;
Here only had he elbow-room._"

A.P.H.

* * * * *

THE SWEET-SHOP.

It was a mean street somewhere in the wilderness of Fulham. How I
got there I don't exactly know; all that I am clear about is that I
was trying, on insufficient data, to make a short cut. Twilight was
falling, there was a slight drizzle of rain and I told myself that I
had stumbled on the drabbest bit of all London.

Here and there, breaking the monotony of dark house-fronts, were
little isolated shops, which gave a touch of colour to the drabness. I
paused before one of them, through whose small and dim window a light
shed a melancholy beam upon the pavement. Nothing seemed to be sold
there, for the window was occupied by empty glass jars, bearing
such labels as "peppermint rock," "pear drops" and "bull's-eyes."
Apparently the shop had sold out.

I was on