Thalatta!  Thalatta!  Not XENOPHON’S Greeks, O benevolent Public, but
    “Nobody’s Boys,”
  Wild Arabs of London, by tenderness tamed, at the sight of the sea vent
    exuberant joys
  In vociferous shoutings!  Imagine the rapture of wrecks from the gutter
    and waifs from the slum,
  When first on their ears falls the jubilant thrill of the sky-soaring
    lark, or the wild bee’s low hum! 
  Imagine the pleasure of plunging at will into June’s leafy copses of
    hazel and lime,
  Of scudding through acres of grasses knee-high, and of snuffing the
    fragrance of clover and thyme. 
  But what is all this to the dumb-stricken wonder, swift followed by
    outbursts of full-throated glee,
  Which fancy can picture, when London’s pale outcasts from some grassy
    cliff catch first sight of the Sea!
  Thalatta!  Thalatta!  There’s many a lad who has never before had a
    glimpse of the wave;
  For these are of those who, from London’s dark wastes ’tis the aim of
    their leaders to rescue and save. 
  “Nobody’s Boys,” the lost waifs of the city, foredoomed, but for aid,
    to debasement and crime,
  Possible gallows-birds,—­they with wan faces late cleansed from the
    rookery’s hideous grime,
  Snatched from the gutter whilst boyhood bears hope with it, gathered and
    tended with vigilant care. 
  Servants of soul-thrift their volunteer champions!  Weeds of the slum,
    with fresh soil and sweet air,
  Grow into grace and fair fruitage.  These pariahs, “Southwark Boys,”
    strays from the slime-sodden east,
  FEGAN takes forth in gay troops to the meadows, in freshness of nature to
    frolic and feast,
  Climb in the woodlands and plunge in the waters, ramble and scramble
    through tangle-hedged lanes,
  Fish in the pools with youth’s primitive tackle, breathe quickening
    vigour through bosoms and brains. 
  Picture the boys “camping out” on the commons, and gipsying gaily in
    tents midst the heather,
  Armed with their canvas and blankets and boilers and pannikins well
    against hunger and weather. 
  Picture them—­CALLOT’S free brush might have managed it—­gathered in
    pow-wow around the camp-fire,
  Sun-tanned and wind-browned, in picturesque raiment, with wisp of the
    wild hop or trail of the briar
  Hat-wreathed or button-holed.  BURNS should have sung of them;
    trim-skirted Muse, with punctilious tastes,
  Were not at home with these waifs from the rookery, pastured at large
    in free Nature’s wild wastes,
  Bounding, and breathing fresh air, romping, wrestling, and disciplined
    only to cleanness and order. 
  Otherwise free as the tent-dwelling Arabs, or outlaws of Sherwood, or
    bands of the Border. 
  Picture it!  FEGAN’S pink pamphlet has pictured it.  Read it, all lovers