THE BUILDER AND THE ARCHITECT.
The sun was shining on the fog,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The London day look bright—
And yet it seemed as though it were
The middle of the night.
The Builder and the Architect
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such eligible land:
"If this were only built upon,"
They said, "it would be grand!"
"Oh, Tenants, come and live with us!"
The Builder did entreat,
"And take a little villa in
This countrified retreat,
Where stand straight rows of houses,
So very new and neat!"
The elder Tenants looked at him,
But never a word said they;
The elder Tenants winked their eyes,
As though they meant to say,
"Old birds, like we, are never caught
By chaff in such a way."
But four young Tenants hurried up,
Each eager to rent one;
Their looks were pale, their faces white,
Like muffins underdone—
Which was not odd, because, you know,
They never saw the sun.
The Builder and the Architect
Went on a year or so
Building damp villas on damp ground
Conveniently low:
And still some little houses stood
Quite empty in the row.
"I cannot think," the Builder said,
"Why people should complain
Of mortar made of mud from roads,
Or roofs that let in rain,
Or sewer-gas that comes from an
Unventilated drain."
"A fair return," the Builder said,
"Two hundred, say, per cent.,
Is all the profit that I want
On anything I've spent,
Now, if you're ready, Tenants dear,
I'll take the quarter's rent."
"But not from us," the Tenants cried,
"The houses are so new,
They've made us all so very ill
We don't know what to do."
"The County Court," the Builder said,
"Is very near to you."
"I tell you what," the Builder said,
"I fear that I must seize
Your furniture, unless you pay;
So fork out, if you please."
And even he, in that damp air,
Began to cough and sneeze.
"Oh, Tenants," said the Architect,
"Just think what I have done,
Designing such æsthetic homes!"
But answer came there none—
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd perished every one.