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any oounsel to make in Ireland, a sovereign with a dook brief, That is due to the absence who successfully defended himthere of the thousand guinea self by proving that he took brief. The earnings, however, every penny the prisoner posof the bulk of the practising sessed. If a retort made by barristers in each country is Chief Baron O'Grady contains muoh about the same. The any truth, fees much smaller ordinary junior's ordinary fee than half a sovereign were in is nearly equal, although the his time oocasionally taken at lowest fee in England is a Green Street, which is the guinea, while half-guinea fees Dublin Old Bailey. A barare not unknown in Ireland. rister practising there was, in It is to be feared that in both an emergenoy arising through countries smaller fees than the unexpected absence of the those permissible by the oustom Crown Counsel, briefed for the of the profession are surrep- Crown; and he was so proud titiously taken
by shady of the honour that he kept on counsel from shady clients; repeating on every possible though this practice is far less occasion, “In this case, my common in either oountry than lord, I appear for the Crown," it once was. The Old Bailey At last the Chief Baron grew Bar was the obief offender in tired of this. "I know, I England: there is a story of a know," he said impatiently. member of it being summoned “You usually appear for the before the mess for taking half half-orown, don't you ?”
THE SILVER CROOK.
BY ALFRED NOYES.
I was mistuk, once, for the Poape of Roame. ...
Bramble was fond, you'll judge, of his own tales,
Yet, many a night,
Now, five years later, while the larks went up
How should I paint old Bramble—the shrewd face,
Waiving all prelude, he picked up the thread
“Explain. I've dreamed of it.”-
• 'I woan't go slow. You'll ketob 'un if I do.' You see, he meks a tedious mort of money From these here ballad books, an' I wer'n't goin' To let these Lunnon ohuokle-heads suck my brains. I med it to thet ancient tune you liked, The Brown Girl. 'Member it?"
Bramble cleared his throat, Spat at & bee, leaned forward on his crook, Fixed his brown eyes upon a distant spire, Solemnly swelled his lungs, onoe, twice, and thrice; Then, like an old brown thrush, began to sing :
“ The Davil turns round when he hears the sound
Of bells in a Suggex foald.
Would make old Scratch leave hoald.
For the liddle folk helped 'em then.
From Ditohling to Fairlight Glen.
I loaned 'em a loanst o' my crook one day
To carry in Arundel.
But goald woan't mek me sell.
I never should find a orook so sliok,
So silver in the sun;
He'll tell you what it's done,
You'll find him spannelling round the Plough;
And, Lord! when Diok was young, He'd drink enough to draown & oow,
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 oan do,
An' what he see'd that night.
He says, as through the fern he ran
('Twas Pharisees' fern, gay I), A wild potatur, as big as a man,
Arose and winked its eye.
And waggled its big brown head,
Till Drunken Dick be dead.
Ho shook it off and, rambling round,
Among the goalden gorse,
Pro-ciddin' from & horse,
(While Dick said, “I'll be danged !'), His parients will be tedious proud
When Drunken Dick is hanged.'
I raokon 'twould take a barrel of ale,
Betwix' my dinner and tea,
That Drunken Diok did see;
Behind him on the Tye,
That heaved against the sky,
He saw 'em lift. He saw 'om shift.
He saw gurt beards arise.
A honderd times his size ;
Whenever his head he turned,
Till Drunken Dick be burned.'
And then as Diok escaped again
And squirmed the churchyard through, The cook that orowns the weather-vane
Cried, 'How d'ye doodle doo?'•Why, how d'ye doodle doo?' says Diok,
I know why you go round.' 'There'll be no luck,' that rooster sbruck,
• Till Drunken Dick be drowned ''
And then, as Diok dodged round they barus,
And med for the white chalk ocast,
And oyes 'twud mek you roast.
"'Tis muttonless day in hell,
Then Dick he loosed a tarr'ble shout,
And the Devil stopped dead to look; And the sheep-bells rang, and the moon came out,
And it shone on my silver crook. 'I raokon,' says Diok, “if you're oald Nick,
You'd batter be soramblin' home; For those be the ringers of Arundel,
And that is the Poape of Roame.'”