THE BROWNIES IN ENGLAND.

If fogs were not so often spread

To keep one moving round in dread.
Last night for hours I groped astray
In streets where best I know my way;
"T is hard to go when brightest light
Is in a fog extinguished quite,

 

From door to door, from stone to stone,
To work your way by touch alone.

All native tact for nothing went
As here and there with body bent
And fingers spread, I felt about

To find some mark to help me out.
I tumbled down three cellar-stairs,
Then into holes for street repairs;

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ES
ain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     

 
 

i
Ne TEN
Wee,

Le
wArill ul oil a. Puen core

Ran twice against a watchman’s legs

Who lay asleep upon some kegs.
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