"Alas! alas!" cried Belinda Blonde;
"Is this the end of my dreamings fond?
Is this my love, and is this my dear,
This hideous, glowering monster here?
Alas! alas!" cried Belinda fair.
She wrung her hands and she tore her hair,
Till at length, as the dolls who were witnesses say,
She fell on the ground and she fainted away.
MORAL.
Now all you dolls, both little and big,
With china crown and with curling wig,
Before you give way to affection fond,
Remember the fate of Belinda Blonde;
And unless you wish to get terrible knocks,
Don't set your heart on a Jack-in-the-box.
THE LONDON DUST-MAN
BY ALEXANDER WAINWRIGHT.
There he goes! A dusky gloom hangs over the roofs of great London City;
a similar gloom fills my room and seems to have touched all the furniture
with smoky age, and as I look down from the window into the gloomy street,
I see him coming along slowly, and crying in a voice like a plea for help
in affliction: "Dust-oh!--dust-oh!--dust-oh!--dust-oh!"
Not one of the many citizens who are passing notices him, or finds
anything strange in that plaintive cry.
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