London Town — Inside the Classic

There was hardly a mouthful for each!

From the ducks and the swans on the lake, to next page-- A much quieter scene--you may pass: Though Westminster Cloisters are hoary with age, Yet green is their velvety grass, And cheerily bright are their gables and peaks, As they glow in the westering sun: 'Tis some house in the Cloisters yon schoolboy seeks-- Don't you wonder, now, which is the one?

In all the land A pile so grand Is scarcely found As this. Around Its old grey walls The shadow falls Of bygone years, And so one fears To raise one's tone, When one is shown Some ancient tomb, Half hid in gloom. Beneath such stones There rest the bones Of monarchs bold, Whose story's told For you and me In history.

From kings of men We wander; then We're quickly brought To kings of thought, For poets lie Interred hard by. Here, too, repose The bones of those Who fought the foe Long, long ago. Brave knights were they; And in the fray They kept from shame The English name, And proved in fight Great Britain's might. Where they are laid Their rest is made As sweet as prayer By music rare: Over their head The sleeping dead Can daily hear The anthem clear Floating along Like angel's song, Until it dies Like angel's sighs.

On the way to the British Museum

Not far from the British Museum there stands An apple stall, painted bright green, Whence a penny may buy from the stall-keeper's hands Three apples, all rosy and clean.

Now the girls of St. George's great Charity School Very often are passing that way, For their governors wise make this very good rule-- They must go for a walk every day.

How wistful the glances they cast as they pass, How they long for an apple to eat; But their pockets are quite without pennies, alas! To purchase so dainty a treat.

These maidens have cheeks that are rosy and sweet As the choicest of fruit on the stall, And the very next time that we meet in this street, I'll buy apples enough for them all.

Goodness gracious! What a noise Baby Bunting's bent on making; It is quite enough to set All the heads around him aching. Still we're sure that Baby has Many griefs if we could see 'em, For with other babes he's come Miles and miles to the Museum. Baby Bunting thought, of course, When he said good bye to mother, That he'd pass in through the gates With big sister and big brother. But poor Baby finds, alas, That his little hopes have flitted, For the nasty notice says "Babes in arms are not admitted."

In the British Museum

If you want to see all sorts of wonderful things, Stuffed crocodiles, mammoths, and sloths, Hairy ducks with four feet, and fishes with wings, Fat beetles, and strange spotted moths;

And enormous winged bulls with long beards, carved in stone, Dug up from Assyria's sand, And old blackened mummies as dry as a bone, Discovered in Egypt's lone land,

And beautiful statues from Greece and from Rome, And other fine things without end,-- You will find you can see half the world here at home, If a day in this place you will spend.

The Underground Railway

Who is this in the Weighing Chair? Why, little Dot, I do declare! Three stone five! "So much as that?" Calls out Miss Dot; "then I _must_ be fat!"

On this and the opposite page you see Dot's mother, and brother, and sisters three. They wait for an underground train to come And carry them swiftly back to their home.

Wonderful trains! From morn till night, Clattering through tunnels without daylight, Hither and thither they run, up and down, Beneath the streets of London Town.

Many prefer these trains instead Of the cabs and "Busses" overhead, For they run much faster than horses can. Miss Dot's papa is a busy man,

And goes to the City every day By the "Underground,"--the quickest way: And One Hundred Millions of people, 'tis found, Are carried each year by the "Underground."

The Zoological Gardens