for this slow-moving provincial spring. Let us to the town to
meet the spring--for:

They've taken all the spring from the country to the town--
Like the butter and the eggs, and the milk from the cow;
And if you want a primrose, you write to London now,
And if you need a nightingale, well,--Whiteley sends it down.

THE GREAT MERRY-GO-ROUND

In an age curious of new pleasures, the merry-go-round seems still to
maintain its ancient popularity. I was the other day the delighted,
indeed the fascinated, spectator of one in full swing in an old
Thames-side town. It was a very superior example, with a central musical
engine of extraordinary splendour, and horses that actually curveted, as
they swirled maddeningly round to the strains of 'The Man that Broke the
Bank at Monte Carlo.' How I longed to join the wild riders! But though I
am a brave man, I confess that to ride a merry-go-round in front of a
laughter-loving Cockney public is more than I can dare. I had to content
myself with watching the faces of the riders. I noticed particularly one
bright-eyed little girl, whose whole passionate young soul seemed to be
on fire with ecstasy, and for whom it was not difficult to prophesy
trouble when time should bring her within reach of more dangerous
excitements. Then there was a stolid little boy, dull and unmoved in
expression, as though he were in church. Life, one felt sure, would be
safe enough, and stupid enough, for him; the world would have no music
to stir or draw him. The fifes would go down the street with a sweet
sound of marching feet, and the eyes of other men would brighten and
their blood be all glancing spears and streaming banners, but he would
remain behind his counter; from the strange hill beyond the town the
dear, unholy music, so lovely in the ears of other men and maids, would
call to him in vain, and morning and evening the stars would sing above
his draper's shop, but he never hear a word.

What particularly struck me was the number of quite grown-up, even
elderly, people who came and had their pennyworth of horse-exercise. Now
it was a grave young workman quietly smoking his pipe as he revolved;
now it was a stout middle-aged woman returning from marketing, on whom
the Zulu music and the whirling horses laid their irresistible spells.
Unless ye become as little children!

Is the Kingdom of Heaven really at hand? For, indeed, men and women, and
perhaps particularly literary men an