proceeding was undoubtedly tortious; it was not a criminal action, though it certainly cannot be called a civil one.  I agree with my brother CHIPPY that the ratio decidendi must be, whether the Dustman, in coming to clean out an empty dust-bin, had a malus animus or no.  On all these points I hold that judgment must be for the Vestry.”  Your readers will see the importance of such clear obiter dicta.

Yours, AMATEUR LAWYER.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  PROOF POSITIVE.

“I CAN’T THINK HOW THAT IMPRESSION GOT ABOUT, LADY GWENDOLINE.  I SPEND
HALF MY TIME IN CONTRADICTING IT.  OUR NEW MEMBER IS BY NO MEANS A
SMALL MAN.  I’VE BEEN ON THE PLATFORM WITH HIM OFTEN, AND HE STANDS
FULLY AS TALL AS I DO!”]

* * * * *

THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN.

[Illustration]

  Soon on Piccadilly’s pavement solitude once more will reign;
  Soon the Park will be a desert, for the Season’s on the wane;
  In Belgravia’s lordly mansions nearly all the blinds are down,
  For “the Family is gone, Sir,”—­not a soul is left in Town.

  South to Switzerland they hurry, to explore each snowy fell;
  North to Scotland’s moors and forests, where the grouse and
          red-deer dwell;
  Carlsbad, Homburg, Trouville, Norway, soon their jaded eyes will
          view;
  For Society is speeding “to fresh woods and pastures new.”

  Everyone is gone or going,—­everyone, that is, one knows,—­
  And the “Great Elections’” Season fast is drawing to its close. 
  Never surely was a poorer; such dull dinners, so few balls,
  Such an Epsom, such an Ascot, or so many empty stalls.

  Gone the Season, with its dances, with its concerts and its fetes,
  With its weddings and divorces, with its dinners and debates;
  Gone are all its vapid pleasures, all its easy charities,
  Gone its causes celebres and scandals, gone its tears and
          tragedies.

  Weary legislators envy still more weary chaperons;—­
  Much they know the truth who deem them of Society the drones;—­
  All the maidens are ennuyees, vow they “can’t do anymore,”
  All the gilded youth are yawning—­everything’s a horrid bore.

  Hearken then, ye youths and maidens, favoured Children of the West,
  East and South and North are children, who are hungering for rest. 
  They have never seen the country, never heard the streamlet flow: 
  London pavements, London darkness, London squalor,—­these they know.

  Not for them to range the moorland, or to climb the mountain-side;
  They must linger on in London, till the grave their sorrows hide. 
  From year’s end to dreary year’s end they must pace the noisy
          street. 
  Do you hear the ceaseless echo of their weary, weary feet?