you, through the morning papers' medium, A crying scandal and a public pest; I designate you, on the other hand, A bulwark of the land.
For should the Huns, in final desperation, On our South-Eastern shore dash madly down, 'Tis true they might entrain at Dover station, But when, ah, when would they arrive in town? Or would they perish, hungry, lost, and spent, Somewhere in wildest Kent?
* * * * *
(With acknowledgments to Mr. G. R. Sims.)
Being a few Foretastes of the Great Feast to follow.
Peering backward into the gulf of time as I sit in my grandfather's chair and listen to the tick of my grandfather's clock I see a smaller but more picturesque London, in which I shot snipe in Battersea Fields, and the hoot of the owl in the Green Park was not yet drowned by the hoot of the motor-car--a London of chop-houses, peg-top trousers and Dundreary whiskers....
I remember the Derby of Caractacus and the Oaks of Boadicea. Once more I see "Eclipse fir
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