WHY OUR NURSEMAIDS LIKE KENSINGTON GARDENS.
holding up to his face a pot of porter almost as big as the young potifer himself.
“Vill you now, Bigun, or vont you?” Spitfire said; “if you’re thursty, vy dont you say so and squench it, old boy?”
“Dont ago on makin fun of me—I can’t abear chaffin,” was the reply of Mr. Jeames, and tears actually stood in his fine eyes, as he looked at the porter and the screeching little imp before him.
Spitfire (real name unknown) gave him some of the drink: I am happy to say Jeames’s face wove quite a different look when it rose gasping out of the porter; and I judge of his dispositions from the above trivial incident.
The last boy in the sketch, 6, need scarcely be particularized. Doctor’s boy; was a charity boy; stripes evidently added on to a pair of the doctor’s clothes of last year—Miss Clapperclaw pointed this out to me with a giggle.—Nothing escapes that old woman.
As we were walking in Kensington Gardens she pointed me out Mrs. Braggs nursery-maid, who sings so loud at church, engaged with a Life Guardsman, whom she was trying to convert probably. My virtuous friend rose indignant at the sight.
“That’s why these minxes like Kensington Gardens,” she cried. “Look at the woman: she leaves the baby on the grass, for the giant to trample upon; and that little wretch of a Hastings Bragg is riding on the monster’s cane.”