\l V? STRAINS FROM THE STRAND. STRAINS FROM THE STRAND. TRIFLES IN VERSE. KV HENRY S. LEIGH. AUTHOR OF "CAROLS OF COCKAYNE," "A TOWN GARLAND," ETC. LONDON : TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE ST., STRAND, 1SS2. CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE TRESS. TO EDWIN CANTON, F.R.C.S. These gihjjtttes arc gteiicaixi BY HIS GRATEFUL PATIENT, THE AUTHOR. PREFACE. This little volume consists, like my former collections, of short pieces which have already made their appearance in various periodicals. Had these verses come before the world, in their present form, a quarter of a century ago, I might confidently have recommended them to the perusal of that now extinct being, the " nice young man for a small tea-party." To any of its readers who are in the habit of composing simple airs, and singing them at the pianoforte, the book may even yet be of some service. One merit, at least, I can claim for it — Variety. H. S. L. Strand, 18S2. CONTENTS. PAGE MY BIRTHPLACE I TO A ROSE • 3 AN OLD STAGER. MY LAST NIGHTMARE 6 A GERMAN BAND .... . 8 MODERN ARCADY .... IO A GHOST WANTED ! . . 12 PUTTING IT OFF .... *4 EARLY IMPRESSIONS .... 16 CRESCENDO 18 WAITING FOR AN ANSWER . 20 A " GUSHER " 22 GOING TO SLEEP 24 GETTING UP 26 A SIGH FROM THE STALLS . 28 CHEERFUL! 3° A LOST HOUR 32 AT MY TOILET 34 LONELY 36 A TRUE PATRIOT 33 THE CONVALESCENT COCKNEY 40 AN AWFUL WARNING 42 A PROPOSAL 44 THE BELLE OF THE ARCADE 46 A HAPPY FAMILY 48 CONTENTS. TO MY HOUSEMAID. A CRY OF ANGUISH NOT MUCH STANZAS (ON READING " I'd BE A BUTTERFLY ") AN ANSWER. TO MY MOTHER-IN-LAW HERE WE ARE AGAIN ! HYMEN IN NUEIBUS . BALLAD MY ELEMENT HOPELESS ! . WHAT CARE I ? OPTIMISM . A LITTLE MUSIC. A LITTLE CRAZY A BIOGRAPHY A PERFECT ANCHORITE A CONSTANT READER . THE DOOMED ONE THE CARES OF A CONDUCTOR ALL ON ONE SIDE LIVING IN HOPE NO THOROUGHFARE . ANYTHING FOR A CHANGE MY NEIGHBOURS MY EDUCATION . VAIN REGRETS . ONLY FANCY THE BILIOUS BACCHANAL SOUVENIRS OVER FORTY RHYMES (?) 5° 52 53 55 57 59 61 63 65 67 68 70 72 74 76 73 81 33 85 86 S8 90 92 94 96 97 99 101 103 J °5 CONTENTS. xi PAGE THE CRY OF THE CAPTIVE 107 HALF-WAY 109 THE PENITENT .... no MY TREASURES. .... 112 MY CARTE — A FEVERISH DREAM 114 'TWAS NOT SO LONG AGO . Il6 A MILD COMPLIMENT Il8 OUR KITTEN .... 119 ADVERTISEMENTS .... 120 THE BIOGRAPHY OF BR1GGS 122 SUSPIRIA ! 124 AN INFIDEL .... 125 SECOND THOUGHTS .... 127 AND YET ! . I2S A NOBLE CALLING .... 129 A PHILISTINE 13 1 OLD AND NEW .... *33 QUALIFYING 135 DRAWBACKS .... 137 NOT QUITE .... 138 PEGGY DEAR ! A PASTORAL POEM I40 OPEN TO CONVICTION 142 NO GOOD WISHING . . 144 A RECANTATION I46 SOLOMON IN THE SOUTH . I48 A DILEMMA .... 149 LEADING QUESTIONS . IS' TO MY DARLING .... 153 TIRED ! 154 STRIKING NOVELTIES I56 Xll FAINT PRAISE . BIRTHDAY LINES A WHIM OF MINE LOVE IN ABSENCE TREASURY-DAY . TWO LINES AMATORY VERSES TO MY MUSE . EVENINGS AT HOME MY CAREER DE PROFUNDIS . CONTENTS. J'AGE 153 160 IC2 164 166 168 170 171 173 175 177 STRAINS FROM THE STRAND. MY BIRTHPLACE. A ogni uccello' Suo nido e bello. TNTIL my earthly race be run The spot shall I remember — Each year from January One Till Thirty-one December. A shrine to me the house will be (To whomsoe'er they let it) ; Whatever changes it may see, I'll never more forget it. No fields were nigh to greet the eye With buttercup or daisy. No lowing herds wound slowly by, Luxuriously lazy. No sign was near of pebbly brook, That loves to brawl or babble ; Where patient swains with rod and hook In Waltonising dabble. STRAINS FROM THE STRAND. In search of either hill or vale' The eye would vainly wander, And vainly seek a dell or dale Where bards could stray and ponder. No crocus ever hailed the spring, No rose adorned the summer. We never heard the cuckoo sing, To charm the wrapt new-comer. The cabs, the 'buses, and the cars Went quickly by, and gaily. (I hear, within my heart of hearts, Their pleasing clatter daily). From hour to hour, from chime to chime, The place was never quiet. So Noise became to me in time A necessary diet. A calm and quiet country life May have its pretty features ; But I would watch the stir and strife Among my fellow-creatures. Ay, straightway to my heart appeals The hum of many voices, And in the whirl of many wheels My Cockney soul rejoices. 'Tis not so many miles away — The street that I was born in. (I pass the windows ev'ry day That brought my natal morn in). No street in ours or any land I e'er can rank above it. Then wonder not I sing the Strand, And marvel not I love it. TO A ROSE. OVELY child of sunny summer— "*-"* Pinn'd adroitly on my breast — Whence art thou a prized new-comer? How art thou my bosom-guest ? Nursling of the sultry weather, Born of sunlight and the show'rs, Wherefore meet we thus together In this busy world of ours ? Speak ! away with hesitation ! Tell me all about you now. (In familiar conversation We dismiss the "thee" and "thou.") Tell me, I repeat, the story Of the days you deemed so bright, Ere you came to cast a glory On this button-hole to-night. Ne'er was I a blind believer In the charms of country life. Dearer much to me the fever Of our city's hum and strife. Yet your pastoral confessions Might be welcome to mine ear. Breathe your innocent impressions While the breath is left you, dear. 13 2 STRAINS FROM THE STRAND. Brought on earth to perish only — Blooming only to decay — Were you not, I ask you, lonely, Living lots of miles away ? Friends you had, who all adored you, Full of gay and giddy chat ; Still their tittle-tattle bored you, And their jokes fell very flat. Was it not a dull employment, Idly waving on your stalk? Would it not have been enjoyment Getting off to take a walk ? Not for all the gems or metals All the mines on earth can give, With an earwig in my petals E'en an instant could I live. Clover, buttercups, or daisies (Hidden far from vulgar view), Though they reap not half your praises, Lead a better life than you. Daisies, buttercups, or clover — Hermits of the hills or vales — Never, when their time is over, Come to die in swallow-tails. Yet one comfort you may cherish, Though it will not last you long ; Happy flow'r, 'tis yours to perish 'Mid the tumult of the throng. Hark ! although my gold repeater Marks the advent of the morn — Mirthful song in rugged metre Gaily on the breeze is borne. TO A ROSE. You and I have been together, Dining up at Eaton Square. Pretty creature, tell me whether All was not " quite utter " there. Meats were never more delicious, Wines with ours could never vie. Well as anyone could wish us Have we feasted, you and I. To the Op'ra next I took you, Just in time to catch an act. (Tis not oft the poet, look you, Could have done it — that's a fact.) Then to cards and conversation At the club we settled down. There's a round of dissipation ! Aren't you glad you came to town ? AN OLD STAGER. MY LAST NIGHTMARE. TVT O matter where — no matter when — that matters not a bit. ■*~ ^ They played a comedy, meth ought ; and I was in the pit. I won the front — the middle seat — by struggling for it hard, When lo ! a stranger darted in, contiguous to the bard. I found my neighbour affable : he made a few remarks On commerce and on politics, the weather and the parks. 'Twas only when an act was o'er he threw the mask aside, Produced his hobby, tout-a-coup, and swiftly got astride. "You don't remember Harley, sir? Of course; but never mind. A quaint performer Harley was ; unequalled of his kind. Grotesque in ev'ry feature, sir ; grotesque in ev'ry limb. Law bless me, what a Dogberry the drama lost in Him ! I'm not the man to go about and swear the present age Has nobody presentable to place upon the stage. No, not at all ; quite otherwise — but still we must allow, In spite of all our funny men, we've not a Harley now. " And Farren — there's another name, no easy one to match. What style, sir ! That's the sort of thing you youngsters never catch. The grace, the charm, the elegance — the everything, I mean ! We lost Sir Peter Teazle, sir, when Farren left the scene. AN OLD STAGER. 7 Perhaps — to go from high to low — you may remember Wright ? ' Not old enough ? ' Exactly so. I only said you might. Not always over-delicate, but so intensely droll. He nearly suffocated one — he did, upon my soul ! "By Jove, sir, they were jolly times, the old Adelphi days : Paul Bedford, Wright, Miss Woolgar, shone in one colossal blaze ; Leigh Murray, and a Mr. Smith — a Smith initialled O — The chartered representative of residents below. They had the Keeley couple, too ; both always to the fore. Sure such a pair was never seen — and will be never more. Ah, what a woman, Mrs. K.! — You've parents, I suppose, Who saw her play Jack Sheppard, sir, when Paul sang * Jolly Nose?' "I never saw Macready, sir; but I remember Brooke. I've seen the model British tar portrayed by ' Tippy ' Cooke. I recollect the fairy times, the bright Lyceum days, When Planche brought us back again the genii and the fays. I recollect — but surely, sir, you scarcely can expect A chronological account of all I recollect. Besides, you're growing sleepy, sir ; I noticed that before. I've wasted more than time enough. I shan't waste any more ! " A GERMAN BAND. OUDER, Karl! we cannot hear thee. Blaze away, my - L - ' lively Fritz. Try, my Max, to blow thy bugle into little tiny bits. Franz, my friend, how very rarely such a lonely spot you find ! Heinrich, let the spirit move thee. Gottlieb, thou art all behind. Here no traffic intercepts ye : here no constables intrude. Could ye play more unmolested in a sylvan solitude ? Craven, Salisbury, and Cecil — quiet streets beside the Strand — Every possible allurement offer to a German Band. Dreamy flageolet, beguile me, till my cares are cast aside. Far away to blest Utopia bear me, strident ophicleide. Bring me aid and bring me solace ; help me build the lofty rhyme. (Let the carping critic find ye not in tune and not in time.) Flute, on soft and sunny ripples bear away my vain regret, While my soul to rapture kindles o'er the blithesome clarionet. Better judges may pronounce ye cracked, and bruised, and second-hand ; Still ye seem to suit each other, blended in a German Band. Can we chide your many blunders, or deride your many faults ? Not at all, my friends Teutonic. Let us hear another waltz. (Just a little sharp, your cornet ; still your piccolo is flat. When we take the two together, who can cavil much at that ?) A GERMAN BAND. 9 Any pretty strain to take me up the Danube or the Rhine. Strauss, or Lanner, or Labitzky ; all the three are pets of mine. Raff and Brahms are too aesthetic. Wagner's works are very grand ; Yet his music would appal me, rendered by a German Band. Tell me whence ye hail, my brothers. Name the towns that gave ye birth. Say what lucky spots ye favoured when ye kindly came on earth. Max, methinks Bavaria bore thee. Karl, thou hast a Saxon air. Fritz and Franz, your countenances might have come from anytvhere ? Gottlieb is a Brandenburger, yellow-haired, with eyes of blue. Hans possesses a complexion Hanoverian in its hue. Fate's fraternity hath bound ye, children of the Fatherland. Stay and make your homes among us, light and lively German Band! Yet perchance ye feel a yearning for your Deutschland ever dear. Britain — though the waves obey her — makes a mess of lager- beer. Weak are we in kirsch and kiimmel — not so very good at schnapps ; While we cannot reach the sausage Allemania boasts, perhaps. Still our island has a story. We are brave and we are free. Brave enough to bear the torment of your presence, as ye see. Free as air in all our doings — or I scarce could understand Why we tolerate the torture which is called a German Band. MODERN ARCADY. T"\EAR DAPHNE, let the busy throng Pursue their countless avocations ; And Greed and Pleasure speed along, Intent on varied occupations. Suppose we leave the world awhile — Its hollow joys and empty labours — To chat in free and easy style About the folks we own for neighbours. Beneath yon elm-tree come and sit, Where not a soul can hear or see us ; What sylvan solitude so fit For Daphne and for Melibceus ? Here gently sighs the summer breeze, The dewdrops on the daisy glisten ; We both may say whate'er we please, For nobody is near to listen. The changeful Corydon, they say, No longer woos the tender Phyllis ; 'Twas only just the other day He took a stroll with Amaryllis. The last would be the better match ; She still is young, and quite the lady. Miss P. could scarce be called a " catch Her antecedents, too, are shady. MODERN ARC AD Y. u High play appears a costly sin, And last October or November Amyntas had the brokers in (Which month it was I don't remember). To play ecartc at your club, Or whist, perhaps, is very jolly ; But laying ponies on the rub Is little short of utter folly. Fair Delia, who could never touch A tiny glass of cherry-brandy, Now sips — and likes it very much — Whene'er she finds a bottle handy. When cherries pall — as cherries do — The nymph will care no more about them ; But manage in a week or two, To take her brandy neat without them. Young Strephon's was a deal too rash To prove at all a happy marriage ; Though he and Chloe cut a dash, And go about, and keep a carriage. 'Tis pleasant for a time, we know, To be extravagant and showy ; But I predicted long ago That he was not the man for Chloe. Then Lalage through half the town Her best has done to scatter scandals, And vainly seeks to set us down As Goths, or Visigoths, or Vandals. 'Tis well, dear Daphne, we can say No mortal ever yet has found us To spite or malice giving way, Or speaking ill of those around us. A GHOST WANTED! A SLAVE am I to Mystery, a bondsman to Romance ; My days as in a dream go by, my nights as in a trance. I haunt a magic universe exclusively mine own, And sights of earth and sounds of earth to me are barely known. Dim shapes along the busy Strand flit onward in a flood : I deem them only airy things, not formed in flesh and blood. What boots it that I deem them so ? — It makes me cry almost When I reveal this bitter fact ; — I've never seen a Ghost ! I read no trite or vulgar books, no scientific lore ; But court the supernatural that thrills me to the core. The pulseless novels of the hour to children I resign ; Let " Frankenstein," " Zanoni," and " Le Juif Errant" be nine. The tales of Mr. Maturin by heart I nearly know, And those of Wilkie Collins and of Edgar Allen Poe ; Monk Lewis, Mrs. Radcliffe, and their fellows by the host : — My labour's only thrown away ; — I've never seen a Ghost ! The course of diet I pursue is frightfully unfit For man, for woman, or for child ; — that's why I follow it. One apparition — only one — was all my end and aim ; But, though I waited night by night, no apparition came. A GHOST WANTED/ 13 On chops and sausages of pork what suppers have I made ! What ghastly heaps of apple-pie, to lure the kindly shade ! Welsh rarebits have I revelled in, on thickly-buttered toast ; — But, though they cost me agonies, I've never seen a Ghost ! I know 'tis rarely they appear 'mid London's giddy din, But seek the ivied manor house or haunt the lonely inn ; And on the stroke of twelve o'clock — "the very witching time " — Reveal some deeply-hidden hoard or nigh-forgotten crime. But I have braved the lonely inn, the ivied manor house, And suffered but a single fright : — methinks 'twas but a mouse. I vainly sought around my bed for shapes in ev'ry post ; nothing of the kind ; — I've never seen a Ghost ! But, nonsense Why east and west upon my quest unhaunted should I go ? Some people see them ev'ry night — at least they tell me so. (I've often heard my grandmamma describe a ghost she had — A lovely one, with saucer eyes, that sent her nearly mad.) Alas ! my efforts all are lost ; my life is thrown away. I've little now to brag about upon my dying day. Whatever few advantages are left for me to boast, One blot will cancel all of them ; — I've never seen a Ghost ! PUTTING IT OFF. TN Wintertime I first began ■*■ To court you, Annie dear ; And breathed, as lovers only can, Soft nothings in that ear. I dreamed about you half the night, I wooed you half the day. In sunny hopes, in visions bright, The Winter passed away. 'Twas in the Springtime, Annie dear, You swore to be my bride. "The latter days of March were here, The hour was eventide. You begged a very brief delay — A month, or little more, But, ere you named the happy day, The Spring, alas, was o'er ! In Summertime I bravely dared, Dear Annie, to suggest That, if we thought of getting paired, That season was the best. What bliss to hail the merry morn That made you all my own ! But while I lingered, still forlorn, I found the Summer flown. PUTTING IT OFF. 15 September brings the Autumn here, The leaves begin to fall. Full soon upon the landscape drear Will Winter spread its pall. In gloom I sit, with solemn phiz, A moody single man, Whose only consolation is That you're a spinster, Anne ! EARLY IMPRESSIONS. T COMMENCED my education as a boy of under five, - 1 * With a bright imagination, and a fancy all alive. What a stare was on my visage, as I listened while my nurse Would indulge me with her narratives, in prose or pretty verse ! I am grown a little older — and a little bigger too, And I know, perhaps, a little more than children ever do ; But I daily feel a longing to become a boy again, And with open ears to marvel at the tales of Emma Jane. She was good in Humpty Dumpty, and she gave me such a shock With a story which assured me that a mouse ran up a clock ; She could sing a song of sixpence in so natural a way, That the four-and-twenty blackbirds I can hear again to-day. Then an urchin in a corner plucked a treasure from a pie, And announced the act of prowess by a laudatory cry ; While the lion beat the unicorn with all his might and mane, Till he drove him to the suburbs, as I heard from Emma Jane. She was great about Aladdin, and his Genius of the Lamp, And his wild magician uncle, whom I thought an utter scamp. Then the palace I remember, so exceptionally grand, Which was built a little quicker than the Law Courts in the Strand. EARLY IMPRESSIONS. i 7 Cinderella with her slipper was a darling and a duck, And I had a way of wishing twelve o'clock had never struck. Evermore in her adventures a delight shall I retain, Quite as fresh as when they thrilled me from the lips of Emma Jane. Ali Baba haunts my slumbers ; even yet my bosom heaves When I ponder on the turpitudes that stained the Forty Thieves. But I gloated on the triumphs of the giant-killing Jack, With a bounding in my bosom, but a shudder down my back. How minutely have I followed the career of Puss in Boots ! How my ringlets by Red Riding Hood were stirred among the roots ! What a joy it was to linger (half in pleasure, half in pain) On the legends everlasting of my faithful Emma Jane. In the schools of many masters have I studied many things, And exhausted Hume and Smollett on the line of British kings. Of our Tudors and Plantagenets what crammers have been told, And of Saxons and of Normans in the foggy days of old. Hume and Smollett were too credulous ; I would not give a straw For the folks who try to write about events they never saw. When they ask me to believe them, they appeal to me in vain, But my faith is never-dying in my dear old Emma Jane. (Published, with the author's music, by Mr. Josei-h Williams, 24, Berners Street). CRESCENDO. n^URN, Angelina, turn to hear ■*■ My very last appeal. You scarce appreciate, I fear, The passion that I feel. To love me long might be a task Too painful to essay, So, Lina, try — 'tis all I ask — To love me for a day. I have my merits, after all — Those merits don't forget ; My brain, perchance, is pretty small, But might be smaller yet. Two foreign tongues in chatty style I fluently can speak ; Then strive, my Lina, strive awhile To love me for a week. In banishment my life would be The dreariest of blanks ; Your hapless Edwin could you see A private in the ranks ? Yet I will join — and this I swear— The Fighting Onety-Ont/i, Unless, my Lina, you prepare To love me for a month. CRESCENDO. 19 Yet wherefore shall I tempt my fate, And brave the battle-field ? That heart will soften soon or late, And only longs to yield. Fair lady, to my tender lay Incline one willing ear ; Attempt, my Lina, whilst you may, To love me for a year. You blush, you sigh. Ah, happy day ! My prayer, I know, is heard ; No longer turn that head away, But breathe one little word. Yes, yes, my Lina, be my own — My queen, my bride, my wife ; Renounce the world for me alone, And love me all your life. c 2 %^?r^ WAITING FOR AN ANSWER. WHERE are now my sprightly fancies That were once in easy call, Building up untold romances Out of bricks however small ? Sad they left me here behind them When they melted into air ; Echo, tell me where to find them ! Echo answers only, " Where ? " Why repines my soul within me For a time too dear to last ? Why will ne'er my spirit win me From these broodings o'er the past ? Cease, my tears ! I cannot stop them ; Cannot seek their source to dry. Echo, tell me why I drop them ! Echo answers only, "Why?" When will Joy and Peace together- Pitying this eternal strife — Cast a ray of soft spring weather O'er the autumn of my life ? Hope (like any wild bee humming) Murmurs, " Care would quit you then" Echo, tell me when 'tis coming ! Echo answers only, " When ? " WAITING FOR AN ANSWER. 21 How can aught of earth allure me, Aught provoke my hollow smile ; Boasting of its power to cure me Of my wretchedness awhile ? "What is Mirth ? I ne'er could woo it As I woo Despondence now. Echo, tell me how to do it ! Echo answers only, " How ? " Nymph, you surely wish to mock me — Such replies are none at all ; I declare you rather shock me With a joke so very small. Better 'twere to leave me lonely In the darkness of despair, If you mean to answer only " How " and " why " and " when " and " where." ef^-^^f 3 ^ A "GUSHER." T WOULD not be a leaf to die ; ■*• Nor yet a rose to fade away ; Nor yet the gaudy butterfly, That only sees one summer day. No ; let my placid years extend As far, we'll say, as ninety-five ; Then calmly will I greet my end. It's very nice to be alive. My fellow-men I love to meet. Yes ; every day that glides along, In busy square or noisy street, I seek their sympathetic throng ; And while for pleasure, wealth, or fame, They pant and struggle, push and strive, I slily watch the giddy game. 'Tis jolly fun to be alive. A tree or flow'r, a hill or vale, A babbling brook or shady lane, In after hours will never fail To bring their beauty back again. How sweetly calm a country walk ! How calmly sweet a country drive ! Hush, gloomy cynic, cease your talk ! 'Tis joy intense to be alive. A "GUSHER." To-day the smoke, the dust, the din ; To-morrow peace and sunny skies. I neither know nor care a pin Where most of earthly pleasure lies ; But this I know : I mean to live As long as I can well contrive. My wild and wayward wish forgive ; 'Tis life to me to be alive ! GOING TO SLEEP. T ET the taper be brought me ! I'll saunter to rest. - L-/ It is twelve by St. Mary-le-Strand. By my day's heavy labour no longer opprest, My relief and repose are at hand. I can slumber supine in ten minutes or less — After silently closing my door, And locating the manifold parts of my dress In a mountainous heap on the floor. What a blessing to bask in this Eden, and muse (Amid sheets of a pure snowy white), Where no toils and no troubles can come to confuse Placid sentiments born of the night ! To reflect, in a mild, metaphysical vein, While the stars from yon firmament peep ! But the chimes of Saint Mary's are at it again — It is one ! Let me get me to sleep. There's a magic in sleep. It has quaintly been said That it " wraps a man up like a cloak." (Which is one of the truest remarks that I've read, Though 'twas probably meant as a joke). GOING TO SLEEP. 25 And the sweet Swan of Avon, in Henry the Fourth, Hath some similes equally new. There's a clang, there's a clamour ! The wind's in the north, And Saint Mary proclaims that it's two ! "Were I stung by my conscience, or bodily pain — The neuralgia, perchance, or the gout — The unpleasant occurrence would amply explain All my writhings and rollings about. But, though tranquil in spirits and scatheless in frame, Not a chance of one wink do I see. There's another dread summons—by Jove, what a shame ! Who'd have thought it ? That clock has gone three ! There's a charm about brooding on figures, I think ; Yes, I heard of it ages ago. Into dreams of delight you unwittingly sink "When you've counted a million or so. I will try it. " One, two ; " yes, it soothes you, no doubt But I've come to eight hundred and more ; And the bells of Saint Mary's are still crying out, And the hour that they mention is four! Though that remedy failed I can find other means My long vigil to cheer and beguile ; I will sum up in order the kings and the queens That have reigned o'er this tight little isle. There was William the First — I can surely contrive- To remember the next on the roll. But, no matter — Saint Mary insists that it's five! I'll get up and go out for a stroll. GETTING UP. IT AVE you brought my boots, Jemima ? Leave them at my ■*■ -*■ chamber-door. Does the water boil, Jemima ? Place it also on the floor. Eight o'clock already, is it ? How's the weather • pretty fine ? Eight is tolerably early ; I can get away by nine. Still I feel a little sleepy, though I came to bed at one. Put the bacon on, Jemima ; see the eggs are nicely done ! I'll be down in twenty minutes — or, if possible, in less ; I shall not be long, Jemima, when I once begin to dress. She is gone, the brisk Jemima ; she is gone, and little thinks How the sluggard yearns to capture yet another forty winks. Since the bard is human only — not an early village cock — Why should he salute the morning at the hour of eight o'clock? Stiffled be the voice of Duty; Prudence, prythee cease to chide ; While I turn me softly, gently, round upon my other side. Sleep, resume thy downy empire ; reassert thy sable reign ! Morpheus, why desert a fellow? Bring those poppies here again ! What's the matter now, Jemima ? Nine o'clock ? It cannot be! Hast prepared the eggs, the bacon, and the matutinal tea ? Take away the jug, Jemima. Go, replenish it anon ; Since the charm of its caloric must be very nearly gone. GETTING UP. 27 She has left me. Let me linger till she re-appears again. Let my lazy thoughts meander in a free and easy vein. After Sleep's profounder solace, naught refreshes like the doze. Should I tumble off, no matter : she will wake me, I suppose. Bless me, is it you, Jemima? Mercy on us, what a knock ! Can it be— I can't believe it— actually ten o'clock ? I will out of bed and shave me. Fetch me warmer water up ! Let the tea be strong, Jemima. I shall only want a cup. Stop a minute ! I remember some appointment, by-the-way. 'Twould have brought me mints of money : 'twas for ten o'clock to-day. Let me drown my disappointment, Slumber, in thy seventh heaven ! You may go away, Jemima. Come and call me at eleven ! A SIGH FROM THE STALLS. A S oft as I saunter at eve to the play •l* (Where I saunter as oft as I please) They present me a pass, in their affable way, To inhabit the stalls at mine ease. Now and then — in the waits — with a brow overcast In regretful abstraction I sit, Looking back to the days — or the nights — of my past, When I paid second-price to the pit. Sometimes — thither bound by my duties, of course — I behold a new comedy played. When the wags and the critics have mustered in force It is quite an impressive parade. But they hint, one and all, that the dialogue drags, And they tell me 'tis wanting in wit. I was not in the world of your critics and wags When I paid second-price to the pit. Mine oar at the galleys of Commerce I tugged From a Monday till Saturday came. (Though a slave I was happy : 'twas long e're I hugged Any dreams of ambition or fame.) And I ever felt seized on the Saturday night With my weekly theatrical fit, I was filled — I was thrilled — with a throb of delight When I paid second-price to the pit. A SIGH FROM THE STALLS. One fact I remember — the saddest of facts ! — In a tragedy such as Macbeth, I could only enjoy its two ultimate acts, And be in at the murderer's death. Did I ever complain of a matter so small ? Did I ever object? — Not a bit. 'Twas a favour, thought I, to see any at all, When I paid second-price to the pit. I feel that when youth and its pleasures depart It is useless, or worse, to repine ; To bewail the glad years when a freshness of heart And a lightness of spirit were mine. Yet, my reader, you must not account it a crime — When those years through my mem'ry may flit — If I dawdle in rhyme o'er the far-away time When I paid second-price to the pit. CHEERFUL! f~~* O, bid the rain from yonder cloud ^-* In dense and steady streams descend. Request the thunder, fiercely loud, The welkin with its roar to rend. Across yon dreary vault above, Go bid the lightning-flashes play. The conflict of the storm I love ; I would not, if I could, be gay. Then bring me books of tragic tone, Eclipsing Edgar Allen Poe ; That I may read them all alone, By one dull taper sinking low. Grim, ghastly tales of woe and crime Shall share my loneliness to-day ; E'en thus will I beguile my time — I would not, if I could, be gay. Or let my bell's incessant clang Harsh creditors in crowds proclaim, While madly at my knocker bang Dread bores with Legion for their name. Let angry duns on oath declare They mean to sue unless I pay, While idiots talk me to despair ; I would not, if I could, be gay. CHEERFUL I 31 Then let my frame be direly racked With aches and pains full sore to bear ; — With all the maladies, in fact, To which our human flesh is heir. Let fell Neuralgia mount her throne, And Gout assert its dreaded sway, While cramps extort the sigh or groan ; I would not, if I could, be gay. There are who find their only joys In wine or jests, in dance or song. I say to Laughter, " Hold your noise !" I cry to Gladness, " Get along ! " I wish to spend my stay on earth In quite my own peculiar way. Let youth and folly cling to mirth ; I would not, if I could, be gay. mi m 1 r ■■ ii 11 n i j ii * " ■ ■ — C a »i a ii ii i ii ii h i " " if n n if it A LOST HOUR. T EFT alone with my paper, my pens, and my ink, * — ' In my slippers and work-a-day coat, I'm in lyrical vein — and the public, I think, Would be charmed could it read what I wrote. Yet my Pegasus falters and slackens its pace, While my thoughts with my eyes run astray. Both my thoughts and my eyes are intent on the face Of that pretty girl over the way. To yon casement or lattice — whiche'er it may be — Once a minute my glances I raise ('Tis an opposite window, betwixt you and me, That unceasingly rivets my gaze.) And she sits there and reads a new novel, no doubt, Or a highly sensational play ; While I dream at my desk and look lazily out At that pretty girl over the way. What a sweet pair of eyes ! What a soft sunny smile ! What a splendour of bonny brown hair ! A Saint Antony swiftly those lips would beguile ; A Saint Kevin those cheeks would ensnare. Not a painter could hope with his colours to trace — Not a bard with his verse to portray The unspeakable charm and ineffable grace Of that pretty girl over the way. A LOST HOUR. Yet I dare not indulge in such visions, alas ! I've a troublesome task to fulfil ; And the merciless minutes too rapidly pass, And keep drying the ink in my quill. I resolved on beginning my rhymes long ago ; I repent of this idle delay. Not another sly peep will I deign to bestow On that pretty girl over the way. Nay, I cannot be comic by hook or by crook ■ And should strive to be solemn in vain. I am fit but for one thing on earth ; 'tis to look At those exquisite features again. With my heart on the opposite side of the street, Not a line shall escape me to-day — Save the present poor stanzas I cast at the feet Of that pretty girl over the way. l) AT MY TOILET. I'M to meet my Matilda to-night At a dance up in Mornington Crescent ; My heart's overflowing, yet light, And my spirits are quite effervescent. I long to be looking my best When I first catch the eye of my dearest ; Oh ! let me be daintily drest — Though my wardrobe is one of the queerest. My Matilda confides, I believe, In the depth of my soul's adoration ; Yet, possibly, pa may conceive That a clerk's is a mean avocation. Pooh, pooh ! I possess common sense, Am industrious, honest, and saving. (Time flies — but I could not commence Till I got my hot water for shaving.) I may win from the charmer, perchance, A reply, should I plead pretty boldly; A whisper, no doubt, or a glance Given slily but not given coldly. AT MY TOILET. 35 (These old patent-leathers have cracked In a most inexcusable manner. Would any one credit the fact That they cost seventeen and a tanner ?) There be hearts that are trafficked for gold, Where affection at zero is reckoned. Shall one like Matilda's be sold?— (There's a brace-button flown in a second !) Why should not the worship of pelf By Morality's laws be forbidden ? (My studs, which I left on the shelf, Have been either walked off with or hidden.) My career I would gladly devote The career of Matilda to sharing. (I wish that my swallow-tailed coat Were a shade better fitted for wearing). Her father, I fear, like a churl, Only looks at the cents and the dollars. (I've waited an hour for that girl To come back from the wash with my collars.) It is pouring ! I cannot well ride, As my pockets I've scarcely one rap in. I look none the better, beside, For this wound on my chin from the Mappin. I'll give up the dance, I protest, And my efforts at brilliant adorning : By gaslight I'm not at my best, Though I look very nice in the morning. d 2 LONELY. MY cherished lyre, I sweep again With digits wan thy thrilling chords ; I seek the joy akin to pain, The bliss that only woe affords. I love betimes to sit and brood (While drops the tear from either eye) In silence and in solitude — I cannot state precisely why ! In youth, when all the skies were clear, When life was like a sunny dream, How pleasant was the task to steer My gallant bark adown the stream ! But storms, alas ! have gathered round ; No more the helm obeys me now ; My fickle shallop ran aground — I cannot guess exactly how ! Too happy time ! ere Love's eclipse Had bowed my form and bleached my hair, Her azure eyes and ruby lips Were all my hope and all my care ! But ruby lips and azure eyes Were doomed alike to be untrue ; Another came to snatch my prize — I cannot quite remember who I LONELY. 37 True Friendship hath a flame sincere, That even Time can rarely cool ; And friends are ever doubly dear Who date from days of grammar school. Ah, Smith ! couldst thou ignore the claims Of early ties to such a pitch ? You've swindled me, or called me names — I cannot swear distinctly which! Lost, lost the hopes that once were mine ; Far ilown is ev'ry fond belief; I rather love to sit and pine Beside my lyre in lonely grief. Here, swanlike, let me singing die. The poet's final home prepare ; And, when I leave you, let me lie — I cannot fix this minute where! A TRUE PATRIOT. T T OW bright the skies of Albion are, ■*■ -*■ That beamed upon my birth ! To me they seem serener far Than any skies on earth. How sweet their soft and sunny smile As, radiant in their glee, They float above the favoured isle That sways the stormy sea ! Rule, Britannia, rule the waves : Britons never will be slaves ! The homes that harbour English heads Are castles, each and all ; No foe the Anglo-Saxon dreads While housed in castle hall. But should your freeman fail to pay The taxes or the rent, He will at once near Holloway To durance vile be sent. Rule, Britannia, rule the waves : Britons never will be slaves ! I own a fondly faithful wife, And eke a lively boy ; But things occur in wedded life That yield me little joy. A TRUE PATRIOT. 59 My spouse is crying half the day, My baby half the night (And yet the married state, they say, Is one of calm delight). Rule, Britannia, rule the waves : Britons never will be slaves ! One day /% ^g^^^^^^g^ jT J^y^-^ ?£&GimW®JBm ^J3j|^ T&.sSi$i&QUC*--ty ..— ■>~'~ITV?lfia[ fi£ BIRTHDAY LINES. "CORTY-FOUR, as I'm a sinner ! ■*■ What was once my raven hair — Getting grayer, growing thinner — Drives me daily to despair. Spring has flown — how quickly flew it ! With its brief and sunny smile. Should I bid the Fates renew it ? Kay, 'tis hardly worth my while. Emma Jane — but let me smother Ev'ry symptom of my pain ! — Threw me over for another ; — Widowed now is Emma Jane. Rather wealthy she is reckoned, Rich enough to live in style ; Shall I try to be her second ? Nay, 'tis hardly worth my while. When my life was gay and gladsome, Harry Smith, my bosom friend, Wanted cash — and when I had some, I was never loth to lend. He's a thief— or little better ; Conduct such as that is vile. Shall I send a dunning letter ? Nay, 'tis hardly worth my while. BIRTHDAY LINES. 161 Long ago my one ambition Was to earn a poet's name, And secure a proud position In contemporary fame. Ranking high among the leaders I would quit the rank and file. Shall I try to catch my readers ?— Nay, 'tis hardly worth my while. M A WHIM OF MINE. A PROOF of morbid intellect ^*- You'll fancy that you find In this confession, or detect Malignity of mind. I don't profess a moral tone, But brave my reader's ire. This peccadillo let me own — I love to see a fire ! They fill me with a fierce delight — - The clangour and the cry — When engines in the dead of night Go helter-skelter by. Uprising in a hasty way I don my worst attire, And follow — fleetly as I may — I love to see a fire ! How sweet the crowding and the crush, The tumult and the din ! How grand the momentary hush When roofs come tumbling in ! What rapture when the third-floor back Flames like a fun'ral pyre ! — When beam and rafter hiss and crack ! — I love to see a fire ! A WHIM OF MINE. 163 A dozen vulgar folks or so May perish in the flames, But what of that ? I neither know Their ages nor their names. What kind of people they may be 'Tis useless to inquire ; The sight has been a treat for me\- I love to see a fire ! M 2 LOVE IN ABSENCE. AH, yes, devoutly I believe That " absence makes the heart grow fonder." For home the banished one will grieve, In foreign countries over yonder. His thoughts will oft unbidden stray To seek the lowly little village Whereat his father, day by day, Devotes the happy hours to tillage. The lover — on a distant shore By fate compelled awhile to languish — Will send epistles, o'er and o'er, In terms expressive of his anguish. For Time, in slow but steady flight, Will fan the flame of recollection ; And thoughts by day and dreams by night Revive the embers of affection. Long prostrate on my bed of pain, To every earthly joy a stranger, At last I greet the world again, A convalescent " out of danger," My work, neglected for a time, Is made by absence all the sweeter ; With glee I spin the pleasant rhyme, And weave the free-and-easy metre. LOVE IN ABSENCE. 165 What clever folks the doctors are ! My own to-day distinctly stated That I may smoke a mild cigar, When I am quite recuperated. Methinks a choice Intimidad Will suit my palate very nicely. Since I a lonely whiff have had It seems a century precisely. He vaguely hints at bitter ale ; Ah me ! how I should love a bottle Of Allsopp's or of Bass's pale, To irrigate my thirsty throttle ! The very sight of malt, perchance, Would spur my tired imagination, And cause my Pegasus to prance With long-abandoned animation. In all your life you never penned A truer line, my Haynes, my Bayly ! Whichever way my wants may tend, The wisdom of it haunts me daily. My wants may oft be unsupplied, But still upon your words I ponder ; And feel it ne'er can be denied That "absence makes the heart grow fonder." wh, Pk^AjB ?lj$m£§ I At *S ^^* -,-/ BvV*^ ^^JflS S7j» %&gSk 43 r. "™5 ^ ^Sfc-T* TREASURY-DAY. /~^N a search for new pleasures afar we may roam, But the dearest are nearest at hand. What a source of enjoyment awaits me at home In my Saturday stroll through the Strand ! You may bear me to scenes that are brilliant and bright, Among folks that are gleesome and gay ; But you scarcely can show me as welcome a sight As the Strand upon Treasury-Day. There is mirth in the breezes and mirth in the skies, And the children of Thespis are glad. While he hurries to grasp his hebdomadal prize Can the mime or the mummer be sad ? See, the gait is defiant, the visage serene, As he strides like a wolf to the prey. Sunny hope — sunny faith — in their triumph are seen In the Strand upon Treasury-Day. And the nymphs of the chorus are here in their might, And the nymphs of the ballet beside. Though the spoils for the week may be shamefully slight, They accept them with innocent pride. 'Tis a shame, such a grossly inadequate price For such talent and beauty to pay ; Still they seem very happy and look very nice In the Strand upon Treasury^-Day. TREASURY-DAY. 167 If you strayed with me, reader, up Wellington Street, And its neighbouring street, christened Bow, A disconsolate crew in the latter you'd meet, Pacing idly the flags to and fro. Let us pity them, reader, while passing along, The poor players with nothing to play. Not for them the delights of yon salaried throng In the Strand upon Treasury-Day. I've a faith in the Drama. Some folks may complain That the Drama declines now and then ; And that actors are jealous and fretful and vain Like the rest of the children of men. Well, I'm not over-young— though perhaps very green ! And I think I may venture to say There is nought but good nature and smiles to be seen In the Strand upon Treasury-Day. TWO LINES. YEARS ago I trolled a ditty, Rather brief but very gay, "Which was neither wise nor witty, Though it haunts me till to-day. When in pleasure — when in pain- Still I chant my old refrain : " Tol-de-riddy ! fal-de-ral ! Tout cela m'est bien egal ! " Life is either worse or better ; Both extremes are on the list. Why morosely turn a fretter ? Come and be an optimist. Whatsoe'er your lot may be, Blithely carol, friend, with me : "Tol-de-riddy ! fal-de-ral ! Tout cela m'est bien egal ! " Yonder sun in glory glowing Care and sorrow keeps aloof ; Does it rain or is it snowing? I've my trusty waterproof. Let the day be foul or fair, Hear me hum the sprightly air : " Tol-de-riddy ! fal-de-ral ! lout cela ?n'est bien egal ! " TWO L1XES. 169 Not one hour is like another ; Stormy nights bring shiny morns. Bravely tread your path, my brother, O'er the roses and the thorns. Wisely make the best of all, Sing with me whate'er befall : "Tol-de-riddy ! fal-de-ral ! Tout cela 111 est Men egal ! " T5 AMATORY VERSES. "V/'OURS are eyes, my Mary Ann, *- Bright as is the sky above you ; Blest would be the happy man Liking you enough to love you. If his lucky lot were mine, Life would be a blank without you. I could dwindle, peak, and pine, Had I cared the least about you. Nay, I'll never pine or peak, Never will I stoop to dwindle; I believe — the truth to speak— Mary Ann, that you're a swindle. Still, it would have been absurd Even for an hour to doubt vou. Or to wrong you by a word, Had I cared the least about you. AdL^ TO MY MUSE. IV /T USE, you see the sunny weather? -L*-*- Look ; we have the summer here Let's go out of town together j Don't be lazy, there's a dear ! Just a country ramble only, Somewhere not so very far ; Street and square are sad and lonely. What a Cockney girl you are ! London is Utopia, Missis, In the winter — in the spring ; But on such a day as this is, Town becomes another thing. Ever blithely, ever gaily, And in raptures ever new, Have I sung its grandeur daily — Thanks, my tender Muse, to you I Fresh from London and its praises, I may steal one song, it seems, For the buttercups, the daisies, And the meadows and the streams. Will the gentle reader credit Our bucolics second-hand ? We will try, and yet I dread it — We were safer in the Strand. 172 STRAINS FROM THE STRAND. Out of London I'm a baby ; This attempt is very rash ; I shall make some error, maybe, 'Twixt the elm-tree and the ash. I'v e no other Muse to call on • True are you, so true remain. Put your bonnet and your shawl on, Quick ! — or we shall miss the train. EVENINGS AT HOME. WHAT enjoyments await us, my own little wife, On a cheery though cold winter eve ! — There be charms in the calmly sedate married life That the bachelor cannot conceive. There are cards — there is chess — there is music, you know Say the word, my love — what shall it be ? (While you make up your mind let us banish below The remains of the toast and the tea.) I concur with you, dearest ; a song would be best. Could you give me The Mistletoe Bough ? 'Tis a trifle old-fashioned, it must be confess'd, But I think I should relish it now. All your new-fangled lyrics I cannot endure ; But I do love a ballad like that; By-the-way, what a nuisance it is, to be sure, That you sing so confoundly flat ! Nay, it strikes me, my darling, you're scarce in the vein To indulge me by warbling to-night ; Let us fly to the board and the chessmen again, As a source of unfailing delight. I'm a novice, I grant it ; and only can play In the strictly conventional grooves ; — Yet I'm far above you, dear, I safely can say, For I think that you just " know the moves." 174 STRAINS FROM THE STRAND. Let us put up the chess, love, and pull out the cards To play whist one is always inclined. (Double-dummy is equal in many regards To the four-handed rubber, you'll find.) Once again I must warn you of one little thing That you rarely remember, I fear ; — You should seldom, if ever, lead off with a king When the ace is against you, my dear. What a pity ! — The music was not a success — (Tis the fault of our Collard, no doubt) ; We could hardly contrive to get on with our chess (What on earth was your bishop about ?) There's a sameness in whist when one cannot but get The two trebles and also the rub. Never mind : let us wait for to-morrow, my pet. Come and kiss me. I'm off to the club ! MY CAREER. T'M a student of character — thafs my career — -*- For my field I've the mighty metropolis here. From her streets and her alleys, her squares and her slums. All the food for my genial philosophy comes. From the outskirts of Peckham to Highgate I stray, And from Brompton to Bermondsey day after day. In its turn to each point of the compass I roam : — ■ All Cockayne is the student of character's home. From aloft on the knifeboard I calmly survey The full torrent of life as it sweeps on its way ; — Though 'tis oft I prefer next the driver to perch, Where a gold-mine of character crowns my research. In the railway that buries its course underground There are treasures of wild eccentricity found; While the steamers that waft me from Greenwich to Kew Give me types ever varied and frequently new. When my journey lies eastward I now and then stop To procure in the City my steak or my chop. What a bountiful feast for my labours I find ! — What a chance for acutely observing my kind ! While I see fellow-creatures absorbed in their food, On their probable characteristics I brood ; I distinguish a virtue or pounce on a fault From their treatment of mustard — of pepper — of salt. 1 76 STRAINS FROM THE STRAND. In the Temple of Thespis — I mean, at the play — I get ample materials cast in my way. It is rarely in vain that I silently sit. Looking round for my prize from the front of the pit, I conversed with a character, once on a time, Who remembered old Farren when just in his prime ; And a weird-looking fossil once bored me to death With his talk about Siddons as Lady Macbeth. Thus I gladly and gaily fulfil my career — Whether nightly or daily, or distant or near ; And the life of our London incessantly yields A delight never known to the dwellers in fields. Of his hills and his vales let the bumpkin be proud ; I adore the Great City, her shops and her crowd. Let your daisies and buttercups bloom where they will ; This is home to the student of character still. DE PROFUNDIS. ^IS well to court the Comic Muse, And build the light and lively rhyme. For friends to smile as they peruse My verse for just a little time. Good souls, they greet my frolic lay Where'er the jovial feast be spread. They laugh to hear me sing to-day — But will they laugh when I am dead ? I love to ply the jester's art, And hold that all the ills on earth, When rightly viewed, may well impart A theme for merriment and mirth. Not over-cynical the vein That helps to bring me daily bread ; But will the bantlings of my brain Make any laugh when I am dead ? Methinks 'twould be a happy thing To say Non oumis moriar, And leave my lines for some to sing When I am flown to realms afar. But better bards will soon arise To play the songster in my stead ; So, friends, do all that in you lies To laugh gaily when I am dead. THE END. CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS. TINSLEY BROTHERS' ANNO UNCEMENTS. New and Important Work by the Author of ' ' The Life of George IV. " The Lives of the Royal Dukes and Princesses of the Family of George the Third. By PERCY FITZGERALD, M.A., Author of "The Life of George the Fourth," "A New History of the English Stage," &c. In 2 vols., demy 8vo, 30s. New Work by the Author of " Berlin under the New Empire." Illustrated with Sixteen I Vhole-page Engravings. The Peril of Paris. By HENRY VIZETELLY, Author of " Berlin under the New Empire," &c. In 2 vols., demy 8vo, 30s. MR. DU VAL'S TRAVELS in SOUTHERN AFRICA. With numerous Illustrations. With a Show through Southern Africa, and Personal Reminiscences of the Transvaal War. By CHARLES DU VAL, late of the Carbineers, Attache to the Staff of Garrison Commandant, and Editor of the A T ews of the Camp during the investment of Pretoria. New Volume of Poems by the Author of "Carols of Cockayne." Strains from the Strand. By HENRY S. LEIGH, Author of "Carols of Cockayne," &c. A New Edition, in 3 vols., of t lie Popular Novel, Proper Pride. The Times says of "Proper Pride": "An exceedingly clever story. ... It abounds, moreover, in telling situations, seme of them admirably comic, while others are touching ; and it :s thoroughly original." TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, Catherine Stree 1 , Strand. TINSLEY BROTHERS' ANNOUNCEMENTS-^''"'^- TINSLEYS' CHRISTMAS ANNUAL for 1882. A Complete Story by Richard Dowling. Last Christmas Eve. By RICHARD DOWLING, Author of " High Water Mark," " My Darling's Ransom," "Sweet Inisfail," &c. Illustrated by Harry Furniss. Mr. Richard Dowling' s New Romance, in 3 vols., crown 8vo, Sweet Inisfail. By RICHARD DOWLING, Author of "The Mystery of Killard," " The Weird Sisters," &c. Mr. IV. B. Guinec's New Story of Social and Parliamentary Life. Talbot's Folly. By W. B. GUINEE. 3 vols. Miss Jean Middlemass's New Novel, in 3 vols. , crown 8vo, Patty's Partner. By JEAN MIDDLEMASS, Author of " Dandy," "Sackcloth and Broadcloth," " Wild Georgie," &c. Mr. Pask 's New Novel, in 3 vols. , crown 8vo, Quatre Bras : a Story of 1815. By ARTHUR T. PASK, Author of "Cat and Mouse," &c. Miss Annabel Greys New Novel, in 3 vols., crown 8vo, 'Twixt Shade and Shine. By ANNABEL GREY, Author of "A Romance of Regent Street," "Margaret Dunbar," &c. TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, Catherine Street, Strand. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES PR Leigh - U883 L52Us Strains from the strand u : PR 3 L52i-s