THE LORD OF THE LEVIATHANS.
There harbours somewhere in our midst to-day
A visionary whom I long to meet;
He shuns publicity, and yet his sway
Is felt in many a teeming London street,
From staid Stoke Newington to sylvan Sheen,
From gay Mile End to high-browed Golder's Green.
'Tis he who planned the routes for motor-bi,
Who set them in the way that they should go,
That Maida Vale might wot of Peckham Rye,
That Walham Green might fraternise with Bow,
For him a Norwood bus stormed Notting Hill,
'Erb at the helm, Augustus at the till.
"Tooting is fair," he mused, "but what of Kew?
Shall Cricklewood and Balham be forgot?"
Mindful of regions Barking never knew,
He linked them up with that idyllic spot;,
And then, his wild imaginings to crown,
He ran a bus from Barnes to Camden Town.
Dreamer of dreams! above the city's strife
I picture him, in some lone eyrie pent,
What time the crash and roar of London's life
Drone deep-mouthed up in sullen music blent,
And, hearkening, he weaves with lonely glee
A wondrous web of bus-routes yet to be.
Farmer's Wife (to visitor). "Now, Johnny, will you go and collect the eggs, and don't take the china ones. I suppose you know what they're for?"
Johnny. "Oh, yes; they're for a pattern to show 'em how to make the others."