one of their children what he thought of London,
he might say: 'I've seen the Zoo, of course, and Madame Tussaud's, and
I've been to Maskelyne's Mysteries and the Hippodrome, and they're all
jolly, especially the Zoo; but those things generally happen in the
holidays: we don't have such fun every day.' A boy or a girl of this
sort has really a much duller time than one who lives in the country.
London is so big, so huge, that he sees only a wee bit of it.

London is the capital town of England, as everyone knows. In Dick
Whittington's time it was not very big, but it has grown and grown,
until it is seventeen miles in one direction and twelve in another. You
know what a mile is, perhaps; well, try to imagine seventeen miles one
after another, end to end, on and on, all streets of houses, with here
and there a park, very carefully kept, not in the least like a country
park. And all these streets and streets of houses are not very
interesting, and in many of them the houses are all alike, built of
dull-coloured stone or red brick, or else they are covered with plaster.

There is a great part of London where people only go to work, and from
which they come away again at nights. In the mornings hundreds and
hundreds of men pour into this part as fast as the trains can bring
them, and go to their offices, which are in great buildings, many
different offices being in one building; and the streets are filled with
men hurrying this way and that, always in a hurry. There is no one
standing about or idling. Omnibuses and carts and cabs are all mixed up
together in the roadway, until you would think it was impossible for
them ever to be disentangled again. And now and then some bold man on a
bicycle dares to ride right into the middle of it all, between the
wheels and under the horses' noses, and how he ever gets through without
being crushed up as flat as a paper-knife is a wonder!

At nights, when the men have done their day's work, they are in as much
of a hurry to get out of this part of London, which is called the City,
as they were to get into it in the morning. They go by cabs and
omnibuses and trains back to their homes and their children, and the
City is left still and silent, with just a quiet cat flitting across the
street, and making a frightened jump when the big policeman turns his
lantern on to her.

The children of rich people seldom see this part of London. Perhaps
their father goes there every day, and they he