III. HAWKER

Far out of bounds he's figured — in a race

Of West-End traffic pitching to his loss.

But if you'd see him in his proper place,

Making the browns for bub and grub and doss,

Go East among the merchants and their men,

And where the press is noisiest, and the tides

Of trade run highest and widest, there and then

You shall behold him, edging with equal strides

Along the kerb; hawking in either hand

Some artful nothing made of twine and tin,

Cardboard and foil and bits of rubber band:

Some penn'orth of wit-in-fact that, with a grin,

The careful City marvels at, and buys

For nurselings in the Suburbs to despise!