a policeman getting his
photograph taken."

But speaking here of London children, reminds me of two London stories
which should not be omitted. So here:--

Two small boys walking down Tottenham Court Road, passed a tobacconist's
shop. The bigger remarked--"I say, Bill, I've got a ha-penny, and if
you've got one too, we'll have a penny smoke between us."

Bill produced his copper, and Tommy, diving into the shop, promptly
re-appeared with a penny cigar in his mouth.

The boys walked side by side for a few minutes, when the smaller mildly
said, "I say, Tom, when am I to have a puff? The weed's half mine."

"Oh, you shut up," was the business-like reply. "I'm the chairman of
this company, and you are only a shareholder. You can spit."

That is the first. The second, though less precocious, is yet more
enjoyable. Besides, we know it is true, while the other--well, it is not
above suspicion.

One day, when seeking a model, Miss Dorothy Tennant (now Mrs. H. M.
Stanley) discovered a likely subject in the shape of a crossing-sweeper;
and, while conducting him to Richmond Terrace, she met her family's old
friend, Mr. Gladstone. Greatly moved by her companion, he exclaimed:

"Who's your friend?" Then and there the crossing-sweeper, much to his
dismay, was presented to the "People's William."

On entering the Tennant mansion, the urchin was tremendously impressed
by the liveried servant who had opened the door, and, after looking back
at him several times, whispered mysteriously to his kind hostess:

"I say, miss, why does your big brother wear brass buttons?"

Always thoughtful, Miss Tennant first led her charge to the servants
hall, where she sat beside him as he played havoc with the well-filled
dishes placed before him. At the conclusion of his repast, Miss Tennant
asked the boy how he liked it.

"Proper," replied the crossing-sweeper; "yer mother do cook prime!"

London having yielded its quota, the "Second City" may be again drawn
upon.

A little boy of tender years was sitting on the doorstep of a house in
Bridgeton, there, the other morning, crying bitterly, when a girl of
about the same age accosted him, and the following conversation was
overheard:--"What are ye greetin' for, laddie?" she inquired, in
sympathetic tones. "Did onybody hit ye?" "N-n-na," sobbed the boy.
"Then, what is't ye're greetin' for?" the little damsel went on. "'Cause
my wee brither's gane to heaven," exclaimed the little fellow, bitt