Explore "The Boltons, 22" by Eugene Field on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
WHEN winter nights are grewsome, and the heavy, yellow fog / Gives to Piccadilly semblance of a dank, malarious bog; / When a demon, with companion in similitude of bell, / Goes round informing people he has crumpets for to sell; / When a weird, asthmatic minstrel haunts your door for hours along, / Until you've paid him tu'pence for the thing he calls a song, -- / When, in short, the world's against you, and you'd give that world, and more, / To lay your weary heart at rest upon your native shore, / There's happily one saving thing for you and yours to do: / Go call on Isaac Henderson, The Boltons, 22.
The place is all so cheery and so warm I love to spend / My evenings in communion with the genial host, my friend.