And, thro' the city's tumult and the beat
Of hurrying feet,
Those whom the god loves hear
Pan's pipe, insistent, clear;
Echoes of elfin laughter, high and sweet;
Catch in the sparrows' cries
Those tinkling melodies
That sing where brooklets meet,
And the wood's glamour colours the grey street.
=A LOCAL FOOD-CONTROLLER.=
"No partner for you this evening, Sir," said the Inspector. "Mr.
Tibbits has just telephoned through that he has rheumatism badly
again."
I know Tibbits' rheumatism. I also know he plays off his heat in the
club billiard handicap to-night. I can imagine him writhing round
the table. Still I remember the first rule of the force--under no
circumstances give another policeman away.
"You'll have to take Dartmouth Street by yourself, Sir," continues the
Inspector.
"What's it like?"
"Bit of a street market. All right--just tact and keep them moving."
I reach Dartmouth Street. It is a thronged smelly thoroughfare. I pass
along modestly, hoping that every one will ignore me.
But a gentleman who is selling fish detects me and calls "'Ere, Boss,
move this ole geezer on.
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