any counsel to make in Ireland, That is due to the absence there of the thousand guinea brief. The earnings, however, of the bulk of the practising barristers in each country is much about the same. The ordinary junior's ordinary fee is nearly equal, although the lowest fee in England is a guinea, while half-guinea fees are not unknown in Ireland. It is to be feared that in both countries smaller fees than those permissible by the custom of the profession are surreptitiously taken by shady counsel from shady clients; though this practice is far less common in either country than it once was. The Old Bailey Bar was the chief offender in England: there is a story of a member of it being summoned before the mess for taking half a sovereign with a deck brief, who successfully defended himself by proving that he took every penny the prisoner possessed. If a retort made by Chief Baron O'Grady contains any truth, fees much smaller than half a sovereign were in his time occasionally taken at Green Street, which is the Dublin Old Bailey. A barrister practising there was, in an emergency arising through the unexpected absence of the Crown Counsel, briefed for the Crown; and he was so proud of the honour that he kept on repeating on every possible occasion, "In this case, my lord, I appear for the Crown,' At last the Chief Baron grew tired of this. "I know, I know," he said impatiently. "You usually appear for the half-crown, don't you?" THE SILVER CROOK. BY ALFRED NOYES. I was mistuk, once, for the Poape of Reame. I left the old shepherd, Bramble, by his fold. But I was late, and could not listen then, Yet, many a night, And many a league from home, out of a dream How should I paint old Bramble-the shrewd face, Brown as the wrinkled loam, the bright brown eyes, The patriarchal beard, the moleskin cap, The boots that looked like tree-stumps, the loose cloak Tanned by all weathers,-every inch of him A growth of Sussex soil. His back was bent Like wind-blown hawthorn, turning from the sea, Well content With all his world, and boastful as a child, Waiving all prelude, he picked up the thread "Tell me," I said. "Explain. I've dreamed of it."- It happened along of this old silver crook, I call it silver 'cos it shines so far. My wife can see it over at Ovingdean When I'm on Telscombe Tye. They doan't mek crooks To shape 'em. That's what they French papists knowed My crook, to carry in church. But I woan't sell 'en. White magic. Well, I rackon it did save Dick More ways than one, that night, from the old Black Ram. There was once Bramble cleared his throat, "The Devil turns round when he hears the sound One crack, I rackon, from this good orook I loaned 'em a loanst o' my crook one day They'd buy 'en to show in their church, they say; I never should find a orook so slick, And, if you talk to Drunken Dick, You'll find him spannelling round the Plough; He'd drink enough to draown a cow, And roughen a tiger's tongue. He'd drink Black Ram till his noäse turned blue, And the liddle black mice turned white. You ask 'en what my crook can do, He says, as through the fern he ran He says it took his arm that night, He shook it off and, rambling round, He heers a kin' of sneering sound Which reared upright, then said out loud When Drunken Dick is hanged.' I rackon 'twould take a barrel of ale, To mek me see the very nex' thing For first he thought 'twas elephants walked And then he saw fower ricks of straw That heaved against the sky. He saw 'em lift. He saw 'em shift. He saw 'em slowly lumbering down And, as he ran, he heer'd 'em say, 'This warld will never be bright and gay And then as Dick escaped again And squirmed the churchyard through, The cock that crowns the weather-vane Cried, 'How d'ye doodle doo?'— 'Why, how d'ye doodle doo?' says Dick, 'I know why you go round.' 'There'll be no luck,' that rooster shruck, 'Till Drunken Dick be drowned!' And then, as Diok dodged round they barns, He meets Himself, with the two black horns, 'Walcome! walcome!' old Blackamoor oried, So I think I'll have your kidneys, fried, Then Dick he loosed a tarr'ble shout, 'I rackon,' says Dick, if you're oald Nick, For those be the ringers of Arundel, ,,, |