ing down over
the edge, while Liza talks to Bella; and they both put their hair in
curl-papers, and show each other any small things they have picked up in
the street. They have no need of dolls, for both Bella and Liza have
living dolls, which are often very troublesome; but they are quite used
to it, and if the live doll cries they just stop talking and rush up to
it and push it up and down, or take it out and shake it about for a few
minutes, and then put it back again and go on with their talk.
Sometimes, not often, they have a feast, and perhaps Bella brings out a
dirty bottle which she has picked up, and fills it with water at the
fountain; and Liza takes from her pocket an apple and some sticky
toffee, and perhaps one of the little ones has a bun. And then the apple
is rubbed until it shines with a dirty bit of rag called a
pocket-handkerchief, and they all sit down together in a row and share
the things; and even the baby has a hard lump of apple stuffed into its
mouth, for Liza and Bella do not mean to be unkind to their babies, for
they have mother-hearts in them.

Well, of course, there are many other sorts of children in London
besides these: there are the children of working men, who are neatly
dressed and go out on Sundays with their father and mother; there are
chauffeurs' children who live near the garage, or in the mews, where
rich people keep their motor-cars or carriages. It is not easy in London
to find rooms for cars or carriages close to the house, so a number of
stables were built together, making a long yard like a street, and the
people who lived near kept their carriages there, but there are fewer
carriages now, and often the rooms in the mews are empty or used by
outside people, while the cars are kept at some big garage a little
distance off. There are many others who are not so lucky as chauffeurs'
or coachmen's children; think of the little children who belong to the
organ-grinders, and who are taken about in a basket tied on to the
grinding organ, with the hideous noise in their ears all day. I wonder
that they can ever hear at all when they grow up. Many, very many, of
the children have no playground at all but the street, the pavement,
where people are passing all the time. They sit on the doorsteps and
breathe in the dust, and all their playthings, if they have any--and
even their food--are often thick with dust. I have seen a child rubbing
a bit of bread-and-jam up and down on the dirt