A London Fog in June.— London lit with gas at ten o’clock on a June morning is a spectacle of modern invention, I came up from sunshine and my bed of crumpled rose-leaves in the country last Thursday morning, and as I neared Waterloo I ran into a dense black fog, varigated with streaks of yellow and red. People were staring at it open mouthed, and there was quite a run on Mother Shipton’s works at the bookstall. , The nervous who had’nt made their ; wills and, torn up their old love-letters, were anxious to know if 1880 or 1881 was the date fixed for the big smash. When snow falls heavily arid black fogs wrap the metropolis in June, it is pretty certain something-must be wrong. November, March, December, and April seem to have got mixed up with midsummer, and the clerk of the weather is evidently quite incompetent id separate them again. I
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