he symphony
being in every case interrupted by long-drawn groans from the
disappointed ones, and shrieks of glee from those who had chosen it. "On
the Mississippi" was the winner of the evening; it was encored five
times; and a hot second was "I do Kinder Feel I'm in Love."

When their demands had been exhausted I had a rest, and some coffee,
while Iris, a wicked little girl of eleven, told the story of Joan of
Arc. Other girls followed her, each telling her own pet story. Their
skill in this direction was a thing to marvel at. The audience was a
joy, with half-raised heads, wide eyes, open mouths, every nerve of them
hanging on the reciter's words. Indeed, I, too, found that one of the
tale-tellers had "got" me with her story of Andersen's "Little Match
Girl."

On their asking another song, I told them the "creepy-creepy" story of
Mark Twain's--the one about "Who's got my Golden Arm," where, if you
have worked it up properly, you get a shriek of horror on the last word.
I got it. A shriek of horror? It nearly pierced the drums of the ear.
Then they all huddled together in a big bunch, each embracing the other,
and begged me to tell it again; so, while they clung tightly together
for safety, I told it again, but instead of a shriek I got a hysterical
laugh which lasted for nearly a minute before they disentangled
themselves. Then I gave them Charles Pond's recital about the
dog-hospital, and the famous "Cohen at the Telephone."

At half-past nine they were collected into bunches, and dispatched home
under the guidance of the bigger girls. They paused at the door to
scream messages to me, to chant bits of the choruses we had sung, to
dance with loud, defiant feet on the hollow floor, and one little girl
gave me a pearl button from her pinafore as a keepsake, and hoped I
would come again. Then she kissed me Good-Night, and ran off amid jeers
from the boys.

At ten o'clock I helped my hostess in the clearing away of the cakes and
coffee-cups, and, half an hour later we were out in the clamorous wilds
of Shepherd's Bush.

A FRENCH NIGHT

OLD COMPTON STREET

_OLD COMPTON STREET_

_Through London rain her people flow,
And Pleasure trafficks to and fro.
A gemmy splendour fills the town,
And robes her in a spangled gown
Through which no sorry wound may show._

_But with the dusk my fancies go
To that grey street I used to know,
Where Love once brought his he