Style, that 'ere, for a boot-black,—

Made the fellers laugh;

Jack and me had to take it,

But we don't mind no chaff.

Trouble!—not much, you bet, boss!

Sometimes, when biz is slack,

I don't know how I'd manage

If 't wa'n't for little Jack.

You jest once orter hear him:

He says we needn't care

How rough luck is down here, sir,

If some day we git up there.

All done now,—how's that, sir?

Shines like a pair of lamps.

Mornin'!—Give it to Jack, sir,

He looks after the stamps.

LES ENFANTS PERDUS.

What has become of the children all?

How have the darlings vanished?

Fashion's pied piper, with magical air,

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