have accompanied several hundreds of children from hence to their summer treat among country fields and commons, but on those occasions the secretaries were compelled to "hand round the hat" for the supplies. Now, happy men, they have not to count the cost. They have only had to issue invitation cards for a six-o'-clock dinner to between two and three hundred children, and to send in the account to Robin. We all know how the birds flock to the crumbs, strew them where you will. How the sparrows come even to the small suburban gardens, and how fortunate are the ones which arrive first, and how it rejoices bird-fanciers to feel that they have saved many a feathered friend from starvation during the hard winter weather. And only a few crumbs have done it.

So is it here. Only a few sixpences. Just as the birds flutter to the snow-covered branches that surround your windows, and sit there in shivering expectation before your own breakfast is ready, so do the children, on this cold frosty night, swarm into Gray's Yard long before the gong sounds six. But the ticket-holders are far too excited to shiver. Hope and expectation give them warmth, in spite of their rags. It is those on the outskirts, who have received no invitations, who shiver, and exclaim as we pass, "Give us a ticket, please teacher; we ain't had nothin' to eat to-day." Whether this statement be true or false, we know that they are hungry, and hope Robin may include them all in his invitation next time. The denizens of the Square hard by this Gray's Yard, who will soon, also, be going to dinner, little think, probably, of the scene enacting so near them.

It is delightful to see how kind the police are to the little ones, and how gently they deal even with the more obstreperous who would force their way to the front, with tickets or without. "I have children of my own," says one, almost apologetically.

The doors open at last, and the children troop upstairs out of the cold, and into the large warm room, used as Ragged Church generally, but now filled with long tables covered with white cloths and edged with plates. Notice was given on the cards of invitation that the guests were requested to bring knife, fork, and spoon, and as the joyous assemblage tumble into their seats, unmindful of the law of precedence, these utensils clatter down upon the crockery with great éclat.

"Teacher, what shall I do? I haven't brought no knife and fork!" cries a little girl in tones of agony, who yet resolutely holds by the seat she is about to take.

"You must go and fetch them," we reply.

"But please, teacher, I shall lose my place; and p'raps they won't give me no dinner because I didn't bring 'em."

66 "We'll see to that. Make haste."

The promise cannot be kept, for her coveted bit of the form is usurped before she is out of the room; but she returns in no time, and finds another seat.

Meanwhile we are induced to mutter, with Lady

Macbeth, "There's blood upon that hand," for another child hustles against us with a wound just above her wrist, which is bleeding profusely. Nevertheless, she grasps her knife and fork bravely, and holds a little brother with the unmaimed hand. We make inquiries

"That big boy, there, cut it with his knife. Please, teacher, I shall lose my place," she replies, unmindful of the deep gash, which must cause her pain, and lifting her brother upon the form.

We moralise upon the fact that appetite is stronger than suffering, and insist on binding up her arm. She produces a wretched morsel of a handkerchief, but has not patience to wait while we strive to staunch the blood, and close and cover the cut.

"There's the dinner! My! There's big j'ints!" she exclaims, breaking from us, and climbing the form, just as we have partly tied the rag. But we follow to complete our work, wondering more and more at this carelessness of bodily pain so common amongst the poor. In another moment she is laughing and shouting with the rest, as the big j'ints are borne by the waiters to the top of the room, to be carved and distributed by the indefatigable teachers; no carver more vigorous than Sir Robert Carden, whose sympathies and hopes are with the young.

"We may make something of the children, but nothing of your professional tramp and casual," he says, as he ladles out the gravy.

The superintendent is compelled to mount a chair to obtain a lull for grace, which the children sing with all their hearts. The uproar soon begins again as arms and voices are uplifted for the attainment of the first available plate of meat and potatoes. It is encouraging to note that actual ragged children are the exception at the dinner. All who possibly can, have put on the wedding garment, and there is a notable effort at smartness. Still, here and there are unkempt and shoeless boys, and tattered girls. Some of the former class have not brought knife, fork, or spoon, and one whispers that he possesses none; but their neighbours give them an occasional turn at theirs, and they manage somehow.

There appears to be an especial pleasure and benefit in fixing six o'clock as the hour for these dinners. Not only is it an aristocratic," but a cheerful thing to dine in winter by gaslight. The day's work and schooling are over, and children and teachers have the evening before them. The dining-room is not only lighted, but heated by the gas, and the illuminated texts and other adornments of the walls appear brighter than in a daylight fog. The faded flowers and ribbons of hat or bonnet look almost fresh, and the tatters are less conspicuous. Robin's poor feathers that have been ruffled all day in the cold, grow smooth in the warmth, and the numbed limbs relax. This is partly why the night classes are well attended in the winter by voluntary pupils; for in summer even the close air of London streets is more tempting than the school. Ah! winter, and, above all, Christmas, is the season for the open

handed liberality of the rich! Let us feed the robins, lest they perish.

We believe that Victor Hugo, in his home in Guernsey, originated the dinners to poor children some years ago. He was resolved to see whether a good meal once a week at least would not help to brace the bodies and stimulate the minds of the arabs by whom he was surrounded. His generous plan succeeded well, and we are following his good example. There are now frequent dinners for the little ones, either free or at nominal prices, and certainly the faces of the juvenile multitude are less pinched by want than they used to be. Let us multiply them in town and country; let us respond to the appeal for co-operation, by soliciting the authorities in every parish to pay a part of the cost. This would be a capital co-operative store, members of which would gain a grand percentage on their outlay, and no one would grumble at the monopoly.

We are startled from our reflections by a shout of "The puddens ! the puddens! There's big uns!" as the second course appears. They certainly are "big uns," and make us think of the ball of St. Paul's. Although we dine at the aristocratic evening hour, our manners are not yet perfect. The uproar

is ungenteel, the preparations for the reception of the puddings unfashionable. "Put it in your pocket," cries one; "Lick up the gravy," suggests another; and these and other means are resorted to in order to be ready for the second instalment of the feast; for we have no footmen to slip our plates away before we have emptied them. One poor ragged urchin, who has been using those "fingers made before forks" in default of steel, obeys both injunctions, and holds up his plate to us imploringly. We soon get it filled, and succeed in borrowing a spoon, which he yet scarcely knows how to use.

"Here's my plate, teacher; I've got a spoon ;" says a girl, with an air of superiority.

The hubbub is great till all are served, and has scarcely subsided before the plates are again outstretched with a cry of "More! more!" Like the ocean, our Robins will not be satisfied.

But the pathos surpasses the amusement. Human love is not instinct. Parent birds may feed and bring up their young, but family ties end there. Here, brothers and sisters are parents to the little ones, and give them food before taking their own. "She is not well-she can't eat," remarks a big girl of her tiny sister, who languidly rejects the pudding. Then she takes her on her lap and hushes her to sleep, forgetting for the moment her own appetite.

All things come to an end; so does this particular Robin dinner; but the evening does not end with it.

We are to have a transformation scene. This is initiated by a distribution of oranges, and a literal "turning of tables," for while the riotous children suck their fruit the tables vanish, and the forms that were lengthwise are placed crosswise in the room. As the apartment gradually darkens, the noise increases.

;

The order to "take your seats" is not obeyed, except it be obedience to climb upon them to survey the scene. But a threat that all who are not seated shall be expelled takes effect, and the uproarious crew subside by degrees. The vivaciousnes of your juvenile London citizen is inexhaustible. Knock him down, and he rebounds like an india-rubber ball lecture him, and he will give you word for word. The withdrawal of a curtain which has previously excited great curiosity, and the announcement that dissolving views are about to commence, are followed by vociferous cheering. This is repeated at intervals, as some specially amusing picture is presented by the showman and explained with that voice and manner adopted by your professional artist. Indeed, the laughter and varied exclamations call forth protests from the exhibitor, who declares that if the audience are not quiet, he shall be compelled to discontinue his "interesting histories."

"Here is one, of a good boy, who-" Cheers and interruptions, while the pictorial history of the pattern youth continues.

"The naughty boy who comes to a bad end" is not more politely received; and be it "the Prince of Wales" or "The Prodigal Son," the remarks are equally audible. But when the portrait of the "noble lord, the Earl of Shaftesbury," appears on the canvas, not all the authority of the City Police could restrain the enthusiam. Cheers and clapping of hands continue long after that illustrious nobleman has "dissolved"; for not a ragged child in London but knows "Our Lord Shaftesbury." At last the appealing words “If you would keep quiet, I should be obliged, for I've got a bad hoarseness, as you may hear, and can't raise my voice," take effect, and there is a temporary lull.

The girls are less noisy than the boys, and sit nursing the younger ones, or whispering to one another. But, Eve-like, they are more inquisitive. Some of them creep up to peep behind the scenes, and discover, if possible, the origin of all this "dissolution." "Where do the pictures come from, and where do they go to?" are the questions.

One more loud cheer when "her most gracious Majesty the Queen, beloved by all her subjects, old and young," appears and vanishes; and the gas is again turned up. It reveals a floor well strewn with orange-peel.

A few months ago we witnessed the presentation of prizes to the lads and lasses who had gone from this school into service. There was a goodly number who had kept their situations for periods varying from one to four years, and all were neat in appearance and well-mannered. A happy result of training such children as are now before us, and imparting to them sound religious knowledge. For at Gray's Yard religion is reckoned "the one thing needful."

And only the other Sunday we were present at a very different scene in this same room-one that "pointed the moral" in melancholy wise, and proved the importance of imprinting good principles on the

66

hearts of the young. Here was gathered a congregation such as a ragged church" only could assemble, of men and women who were either lost to self-respect, or dragged down by misfortune to the lowest possible level. Amongst them were men, once respectable, even so-called "gentlemen," brought low by vice, and yet who have souls to be saved. Three times a Sunday are unfortunates such as these invited to hear the Gospel message, and Christian men are found who will come to deliver it gladly, "without money and without price." We listened to one such, addressing them entreatingly and affectionately, and we watched the countenances of the auditors. Many were bad, others supremely miserable; but all were attentive and respectful. Now and then there was an irrepressible groan, and even a tear might be seen. Some few were regular attendants, and one poor woman came every Sunday from Lambeth to the service, because it was here she had first learnt to become a Christian. Her story was truly melancholy.

66

When the service was over, we stood at the door to watch the Sunday dole." As each poor wretch shambled out of the passage into the yard, he received about a pound of good white bread. It is acknowledged that most of them came for this; indeed, they said as much, for, in answer to our inquiry, one told us he had walked that morning from Rotherhithe, another from Kingston, a third from Hounslow, and so on. All declared themselves out of work, and it was a pitiful sight to see them standing about the yard, wearied and foot-sore, eating this their dry breakfast. Two or three were without shoes or stockings. Two, who arrived too late for the service, feared they would be refused the bread, but it was given to them. Some few withdrew as if ashamed of their position.

One of

these, who looked more respectable than the rest, said he had only earned three shillings during the past week. All declare, when pressed, that it is drink which causes their misery, and yet some have been known to sell the bread to procure it.

He

Nothing but faith in Christ's power to save to the uttermost could give the voluntary preachers and teachers courage to proceed in this work. But now and again they rescue young men, and restore them to respectability, and are assured by older hearers that they are reformed, thanks to the addresses at Gray's Yard. Only lately one came for "the bread that perishes," and found that which endures. has joined a church in the neighbourhood, and is striving to teach others to avoid the rock on which he split. If, then, the angels rejoice over one sinner that repenteth, we should rejoice over even so small a percentage saved out of the thousands of paupers, tramps, and fallen men that frequent this and other ragged churches, even though they wander from almoner to almoner, and union to union, to eke out their miserable life. These are problems which political economists cannot solve.

Perhaps such children as those before us may aid in their solution by-and-by. Robin Dinners and treats are very good things in their way, and encourage the youngsters to good conduct and sobriety. So are Band of Hope temperance meetings, fife and drum bands, and the like. But Bible classes and children's services are best of all; and let the Socialist say what he may, those succeed best who live according to God's word. Let us pray, then, that the three hundred children who now sing "God save the Queen" so lustily, may by their present training and future lives honour Him who can alone preserve either the monarch or her people, and who is "King of kings, and Lord of lords."

T

HERE lived a King in olden days, who said, "Water of life I give to all who thirst;

The worn and weary and the sin-accurst

May drink, and though they die they are not dead.” Oh, that my lagging footsteps might be led

To such a well of peace, that I might sink Upon my knees, and bending down my head,

Let every sorrow fall upon the brink! But if the well were deep? then I would shed My bitterest tears, and they should mix below With the sweet water, and the King would know That I was waiting to be comforted; And till the comfort came I would not go, For I would weep till the well should overflow. J. T. BURTON-WOLLASTON.