Abroad

by Unknown

THE FIRST MORNING IN FRANCE.

Here they see a pretty sight,
Sunny sky and landscape bright:
Fishing-boats move up and down,
With their sails all red and brown.
Some to land are drawing near,
O'er the water still and clear,
Full of fish as they can be,
Caught last night in open sea.
On the pavement down below,
Fishwives hurry to and fro,
Calling out their fish to sell—
"What a noisy lot," says Nell,
"What a clap—clap—clap—they make
With their shoes each step they take.
Wooden shoes, I do declare,
And oh! what funny caps they wear!"
After breakfast all went out
To view the streets, and walk about
The ancient city-walls, so strong,
Where waved the English flag for long.
Toy shops too they went to see,
Spread with toys so temptingly:
Dolls of every kind were there,
With eyes that shut and real hair—
And, in a brightly-coloured row,
Doll-fisherfolk like these below.
Prices marked, as if to say,
"Come and buy us, quick, to-day!"
One for Mabel, one for Rose,
Two for Bertie I suppose,
Father bought.—Then all once more
Set off travelling as before.

To Rouen next they went, that very day,	Dennis bought chocolate to make a feast—
And heard strange places called out by the way,	They had three dinners in the train, at least.
Where bells kept tinkling while the train delayed:	At Rouen here they are at last, though late—
At Amiens ten minutes quite they stayed.	The bedroom clock there shows 'tis after eight!

Mabel looks tired—she lies back in her chair
Beside the wood fire burning brightly there.
Rose says—"Good-night!"—to Bertie fast asleep,
While her own eyes can scarcely open keep.
Next morning, through the quaint old streets of Rouen
They went to see the old church of Saint Ouen,
With eager feet, and chatting as they walked,
About the ancient Town, together talked.

	Said Dennis, first, "This city bold Belonged to us In days of old." Said Nellie, "Here Prince Arthur wept— By cruel John A prisoner kept. Here Joan of Arc Was tried and burned, When fickle fate Against her turned." Said Rose, "Oh dear! It makes me sad To think what trouble People had Who lived once in This very town, Where we walk gaily Up and down."

Now they have come into the entrance wide Of great St. Ouen's Church; see, side by side, Dennis and Nellie going on before: The others watch yon beggar at the door— Poor blind Pierre; he always waits just so, Listening for those who come and those who go. He tells his beads, and hopes all day that some May think of him, 'mongst those who chance to come. Though he can't see, he is so quick to hear, He knows a long, long time ere one draws near, And shakes the coppers in his well-worn tin— "Click, click," it goes—see, Bertie's gift drops in. 'Tis his one sou that Bertie gives away— It might have bought him sweets this very day. When through St. Ouen's Church they'd been at last, Along its aisles and down its transept passed, They went to the Cathedral, there to see The tomb of Rolf, first Duke of Normandy. But Mabel said, "Why should we English care About that Rolf they say was buried there?" Then she ran on, not waiting for reply— My little reader, can you tell her why?

Now they have come into the entrance wide

Of great St. Ouen's Church; see, side by side,

Dennis and Nellie going on before:

The others watch yon beggar at the door—

Poor blind Pierre; he always waits just so,

Listening for those who come and those who go.

He tells his beads, and hopes all day that some

May think of him, 'mongst those who chance to come.

Though he can't see, he is so quick to hear,

He knows a long, long time ere one draws near,

And shakes the coppers in his well-worn tin—

"Click, click," it goes—see, Bertie's gift drops in.

'Tis his one sou that Bertie gives away—

It might have bought him sweets this very day.

When through St. Ouen's Church they'd been at last,

Along its aisles and down its transept passed,

They went to the Cathedral, there to see

The tomb of Rolf, first Duke of Normandy.

But Mabel said, "Why should we English care

About that Rolf they say was buried there?"

Then she ran on, not waiting for reply—

My little reader, can you tell her why?

	The Cathedral was cold, With its dim solemn aisles, But outside our friends found The sun waiting, with smiles, To show them their way, So hither they came Along an old street With a hard French name. And still walking onward, Through streets we can't see, At length reached the Crèche Of "Sœur Rosalie"— Where poor women's children Are kept all day through, Amused, taught, and tended, And all for one sou.

Children are happy with "Sister" all day, Mothers can't nurse them—they work far away. Good Sister Rosalie, she is so kind, E'en when they're troublesome, she doesn't mind. Here in the first room the Babies we see, sitting at dejeuner round Rosalie.

Children are happy with "Sister" all day,

Mothers can't nurse them—they work far away.

Good Sister Rosalie, she is so kind,

E'en when they're troublesome, she doesn't mind.

Here in the first room the Babies we see, sitting at dejeuner round Rosalie.

Dodo is crying, he can't find his spoon—some one will find it and comfort him soon. Over yon cradle bends kind Sister Claire, Dear little Mimi is waking up there. Sister Félicité, sweetly sings she, "Up again, down again, Bébé, to me."

Dodo is crying, he can't find his spoon—some one will find it and comfort him soon.

Over yon cradle bends kind Sister Claire,

Dear little Mimi is waking up there.

Sister Félicité, sweetly sings she,

"Up again, down again, Bébé, to me."

The school-room of the Crèche is wide, The children sit there, side by side, While "Sister" hears their lessons through, And when there's no more work to do They all get up, and form a ring, And as they stand, together sing. Now hand in hand, tramp, tramp they go, Now in a line march to and fro, For with the rattle in her hand The "Sister" makes them understand When to advance and when draw back— Click-clack it goes, click-clack, click-clack. On Stéphanie now turn your eyes, She's only five, but she's so wise— She knows the alphabet all through, And, more than that, can teach it too. Just now, she moves her wand to J, And tells the children what to say. But 'tis no use to tell Ninette, For she is but a bébé yet.

The school-room of the Crèche is wide,

The children sit there, side by side,

While "Sister" hears their lessons through,

And when there's no more work to do

They all get up, and form a ring,

And as they stand, together sing.

Now hand in hand, tramp, tramp they go,

Now in a line march to and fro,

For with the rattle in her hand

The "Sister" makes them understand

When to advance and when draw back—

Click-clack it goes, click-clack, click-clack.

On Stéphanie now turn your eyes,

She's only five, but she's so wise—

She knows the alphabet all through,

And, more than that, can teach it too.

Just now, she moves her wand to J,

And tells the children what to say.

But 'tis no use to tell Ninette,

For she is but a bébé yet.

ARRIVAL AT CAEN.

Through Rouen when our friends had been,	Next up the staircase see them go,
And all its famous places seen,	With femme de chambre the way to show.
They travelled on, old Caen to see,	Father and Dennis, standing there,
Another town in Normandy.	Are asking for the bill of fare.
Arrived at Caen, the travellers here	Monsieur le Maître, who rubs his hands
Before the chief Hotel appear,	And says, "What are Monsieur's commands?"
Miss Earle, Rose, Bertie you descry—	With scrape and bow, again you see—
The rest are coming by-and-by.	The most polite of men is he.
Monsieur le Maître, with scrape and bow,
Stands ready to receive them now,
And Madame with her blandest air,
And their alert Commissionaire.

	Now that dinner is ordered, we'll just take a peep At the cooks in the kitchen—just see! what a heap Of plates are provided, and copper pans too;— They'll soon make a dinner for me and for you. French cookery's famous for flavouring rare, But of garlic I think they've enough and to spare.
	If we ask how their wonderful dishes are made, I'm afraid they won't tell us the tricks of the trade. Do they make them, I wonder, of frogs and of snails? Or are these, after all, only travellers' tales? The names are all down on the "Menu," no doubt, But the worst of it is that we can't make them out.

Here the children Came next morn, Walking by The river Orne; Near the poplars On the green, Where the Washerwives Are seen. Here they looked At old Nannette, Wringing out The garments wet; Saw how Eugénie, Her daughter, Soaked them first In running water; Watched the washers Soaping, scrubbing, With their mallets Rubbing, drubbing— Working hard With all their might, Till the clothes Were clean and white.

"L'homme qui passe," in France they call
The man who thrives THE
By grinding knives—
Who never stays at home at all, KNIFE-GRINDER
But always must be moving on. OF CAEN.
He's glad to find
Some knives to grind,
But when they're finished he'll be gone.
With dog behind to turn the wheel,
He grinds the knife
For farmer's wife,
And pauses now the edge to feel:
The dog behind him hears the sound
Of cheerful chat
On this and that,
And fears no knife is being ground.
The man makes jokes with careless smile,
He doesn't mind
The dog behind,
But goes on talking all the while.

CHOCOLATE AND MILK. Little Lili, whose age isn't three years quite, Went one day with Mamma for a long country walk, Keeping up, all the time, such a chatter and talk Of the trees, and the flowers, and the cows, brown and white. Soon she asked for some cake, and some chocolate too, For this was her favourite lunch every day— "Dear child," said Mamma, "let me see—I dare say

"If I ask that nice milkmaid, and say it's for you, Some sweet milk we can get from her pretty white cow." "I would rather have chocolate," Lili averred. Then Mamma said, "Dear Lili, please don't be absurd; My darling, you cannot have chocolate now: You know we can't get it so far from the town.— Come and stroke the white cow,—see, her coat's soft as silk." "But, Mamma," Lili said, "if the White cow gives milk, Then chocolate surely must come from the Brown."

In many a lowly cottage in France The bobbins keep threading a mazy dance The whole day long, from morning to night, Weaving the lace so pretty and light. How swiftly the nimble fingers twist The threads on the pillow—not one is missed: Each bobbin would seem to rise from its place To meet the fingers that form the lace. How wondrously quick the pattern shows From the threads, as under our eyes it grows:— How quickly follow stem, leaves, and flower, As if under the spell of enchanter's power. Look at old Nannette—she can scarcely see, Yet none can make lovelier lace than she; And her grand-daughter Julie—just seven years old, Is learning already the bobbins to hold. Without drawings to follow, or patterns to trace, How can these poor cottagers fashion their lace? From the plant and the flower and unfolding fern And the frost on the pane their patterns they learn,— From gossamer web by the spider wove,— From natural taste and natural love For every form of beauty and grace, They've learned to fashion their wonderful lace.

In many a lowly cottage in France

The bobbins keep threading a mazy dance

The whole day long, from morning to night,

Weaving the lace so pretty and light.

How swiftly the nimble fingers twist

The threads on the pillow—not one is missed:

Each bobbin would seem to rise from its place

To meet the fingers that form the lace.

How wondrously quick the pattern shows

From the threads, as under our eyes it grows:—

How quickly follow stem, leaves, and flower,

As if under the spell of enchanter's power.

Look at old Nannette—she can scarcely see,

Yet none can make lovelier lace than she;

And her grand-daughter Julie—just seven years old,

Is learning already the bobbins to hold.

Without drawings to follow, or patterns to trace,

How can these poor cottagers fashion their lace?

From the plant and the flower and unfolding fern

And the frost on the pane their patterns they learn,—

From gossamer web by the spider wove,—

From natural taste and natural love

For every form of beauty and grace,

They've learned to fashion their wonderful lace.

For Paris quite an early start
They made the following day,
And out of windows every one
Kept looking, all the way.
And many a pretty road like this
The train went whizzing past,
Where gatekeeper, with flag and horn,
Stood by the gates shut fast.
That's Marie you see standing there:
Now, do you wonder why
A woman has to blow the horn
Before the train goes by?—
Her husband is a lazy man,
He's in his cottage near,
He would not stir a step, although
The train will soon be here.
And Marie called him, "Paul, be quick—
Go shut the gate," she cried—
"Don't hurry me, there's time enough,"
The lazy man replied.
So Marie had to go, you see,
And take the horn, and blow.—
And every day it's just the same,
She always has to go.

Clatter! clatter! on they go, Past stream and gentle valley, Until the engine wheels turn slow, And stop at length to dally For dinner-time full half-an-hour Spread in the dining-room at hand; Within a crowded station, And then, when that is finished, While hungry little mouths devour The children sally in a band, The tempting cold collation With appetites diminished, To look at all the folk they meet,— And all the other folk that make The engine puffs—away they fly, The porters in blue blouses, A crowd in France amusing:— And soon leave all behind them; The white-robed priests, the nuns so neat, Till hark! their places all must take, Now turn the page, and you and I The farmers and their spouses, Without a minute losing. In Paris safe will find them.

Paris, gay Paris! so bright and so fair, Your sun is all smiles, and there's mirth in your air. The children, though tired with their travelling, found That the first night in Paris one's sleep is not sound, For the hum of the streets makes one dream all the night Of the wonderful sights that will come with the light. The morning was fine, and—breakfast despatched— They soon made their way to the Gardens attached To the old Royal Palace, and there met a throng Of French children, and joined in their games before long. One boy lent his hoop, and gave Bertie a bun. And—talking quite fast—seemed to think it great fun With nice English girls like our Nellie to play, Though not understanding a word she might say. On leaving the Gardens, the party were seated Outside of a café, and there Papa treated Them all to fine ices and chocolate too; They could hardly tell which was the nicer—could you? Paris, gay Paris, So bright and so fair! Your sun is all smiles, And there's mirth in your air!

IN THE TUILERIES GARDENS. In the Tuileries gardens, each afternoon, A little old man comes walking along: Now watch what happens! for just as soon As they see him, the birds begin their song, And flutter about his hands and head, And perch on his shoulder quite at their ease, For he fills his pockets with crumbs of bread To feed his friends who live in the trees, And well they know he loves them so That into his pockets they sometimes go. But hark to what's going on over there! 'Tis surely a Punch-and-Judy man, Making old Judy, I do declare, Talk French as fast as ever she can! And I think, from the looks of poor Mr. P., He's getting it hot from his scolding wife; But just wait a minute, and then you'll see He'll beat her within an inch of her life. Walk in! take a seat and you'll see her beat, And a penny is all you pay for the treat.

Where shall we go to next? they still would say, And still they found new pleasures every day. At times Miss Earle took Bertie for a ride, With little Rose and Mabel side by side; And then their father took the elder two To see the picture galleries, and view Historic buildings, where they sometimes rested, And many a bit of history was suggested. They saw a wedding at the Madeleine, Then went to "Notre Dame," close by the Seine, And climbed the lofty tower, to see the view Which cannot be surpassed the whole world through. One day their father took them all to see A great museum, full as full could be Of rare old furniture, of every kind The artists of the "Middle Age" designed;— And precious things in silver and in gold, Made by the best artificers of old. Now while another way the party's eyes Are turned, "King Henry's Staircase" Bertie spies, And climbing up, with help from sister May, He calls to Dennis, when he gets half-way, "Come catch me quick!"—and then runs off, with peals Of merry laughter,—Dennis at his heels.

Where shall we go to next? they still would say,

And still they found new pleasures every day.

At times Miss Earle took Bertie for a ride,

With little Rose and Mabel side by side;

And then their father took the elder two

To see the picture galleries, and view

Historic buildings, where they sometimes rested,

And many a bit of history was suggested.

They saw a wedding at the Madeleine,

Then went to "Notre Dame," close by the Seine,

And climbed the lofty tower, to see the view

Which cannot be surpassed the whole world through.

One day their father took them all to see

A great museum, full as full could be

Of rare old furniture, of every kind

The artists of the "Middle Age" designed;—

And precious things in silver and in gold,

Made by the best artificers of old.

Now while another way the party's eyes

Are turned, "King Henry's Staircase" Bertie spies,

And climbing up, with help from sister May,

He calls to Dennis, when he gets half-way,

"Come catch me quick!"—and then runs off, with peals

Of merry laughter,—Dennis at his heels.

Bertie was first. "I've won the race," he cried; But soon upon his lips the triumph died, And Bertie back in fear to Dennis ran:— "Oh Dennis, look! I ran against that man! He shook and rattled so, and wagged his head, And gave me such a fright!" "Pooh!" Dennis said, "He will not hurt!" And then he made a bow:— Good-bye, old soldier, we must leave you now. Next afternoon, while at the Zoo', a little tale they heard Of the elephant that's there, and you shall hear it word for word.

Mumbo and Jumbo, two elephants great, From India travelled, and lived in state, In Paris the one, and in London the other: Now Mumbo and Jumbo were sister and brother. A warm invitation to Jumbo came, To cross the Atlantic and spread his fame. Said he, "I really don't want to go— But then, they're so pressing!—I can't say No!"

So away to America Jumbo went, But his sister Mumbo is quite content To stay with the children of Paris, for she Is as happy an elephant as could be: "I've a capital house, quite large and airy, Close by live the Ostrich and Dromedary, And we see our young friends every day," said she: "Oh, where is the Zoo' that would better suit me?"

A Steady steed is Mumbo, if just a trifle slow; Upon her back you couldn't well a-steeple-chasing go: But other opportunities there are to have a ride, For there's a stud of ponies, and a camel to bestride— A cart that's drawn by oxen can accommodate a few,

And if such queer conveyances don't please you at the Zoo', There are little tramway cars too, with seats on either side, Which will take you through the gardens, and through the Bois beside:— Take the ticket on the other page, and with it you may go From the lake within the garden to the gate that's called Maillot.

THE SWANS. "Ho! pretty swans, Do you know, in our Zoo' The swans of old England Are just like you?" "Don't tell me!" Said a cross old bird; "I know better, The thing's quite absurd. "Their figures, I'm sure, Are not worth a glance: If you want to see style, You must come to France." With a scornful whisk The swan turned tail, Spread its wings to the breeze, And was off full-sail. "Ho! pretty swan, Do you know, in our Zoo' The swans are not half So conceited as you?"

	THE BOULEVARDS Look at Mère Victorine At her stall in the street, With the lily and rose, And the white marguerite, She makes pretty bouquéts The whole of the day: There are buyers in plenty Who pass by that way. Little Basil and Amélie, Watching her, stand: Up to Mère Victorine Basil stretches his hand, "Can't you spare me," says he, "A morsel of green, Or one sweet little flower, Good Mère Victorine?" "If you come for a flower, Pray where is your sou?" Answers Mère Victorine, "I can't give one to you— Such flowers as mine Are for selling, you know; You must go to the country, Where wild flowers grow."

A DAY AT VERSAILLES. At Versailles, as perhaps you have heard, Countless pictures of fights Form the chief of the sights: Could so many great battles have ever occurred?

At Versailles, as perhaps you have heard,

Countless pictures of fights

Form the chief of the sights:

Could so many great battles have ever occurred?

No wonder our children the gardens preferred:— For the fountains were really so pretty a sight, That Bertie declared—and I think he was right— It was better to play Like the fountains all day, Than such terrible battles to fight.

No wonder our children the gardens preferred:— For the fountains were really so pretty a sight, That Bertie declared—and I think he was right— It was better to play Like the fountains all day, Than such terrible battles to fight.

	Round this pretty fountain here Sparrows gather all the year; In its sparkling waters dip, From its basin freely sip, Round about their fountain play, Safe and happy all the day;— Little "innocents" are they. That is Antoine, bread in hand; See him by his mother stand: Saucy little birdies spy Antoine's bread, and at it fly, Trying each to get a share, Frightening little Antoine there. Antoine does not wish to share, Thinks the bread is all his right, Just to suit his appetite. Mother says, "Be kind, my son, There is more when this is done; Bread enough for thee at home:— Let the pretty sparrows come; Give them each a little crumb." Here our little family Near the fountain too, we see, Walking through the open space To the covered market-place.

Here from morning till night they are selling and buying, And from morning till night their market wares crying: All around you will find there is food of each kind; There are flesh, fowl, and fish here for every dish. The fish-market you see on the opposite page: On this stall that is nearest, the shell-fish appear; But were I to begin, it would take me an age To tell you the names of the fish you find here. See! there's puss looking out for what she can get, And that little boy who is laughing is Paul,— The girl with the lobster is sister Lisette, And he's watching to see if it nips her at all. Madame Blaise, there, tells Nellie her mussels are good, But Nellie smiles sweetly and goes on her way, And I venture to doubt if she quite understood All the funny French things Madame Blaise had to say. Other parts of the market contain butchers meat, And poultry, and fruit, and salads, and greens, And here, if you want them, quite young, fresh and sweet, Are the haricóts verts which we know as "French beans." For, from morning till night here they're selling and buying, And from morning till night their market wares crying.

Here from morning till night they are selling and buying,

And from morning till night their market wares crying:

All around you will find there is food of each kind;

There are flesh, fowl, and fish here for every dish.

The fish-market you see on the opposite page:

On this stall that is nearest, the shell-fish appear;

But were I to begin, it would take me an age

To tell you the names of the fish you find here.

See! there's puss looking out for what she can get,

And that little boy who is laughing is Paul,—

The girl with the lobster is sister Lisette,

And he's watching to see if it nips her at all.

Madame Blaise, there, tells Nellie her mussels are good,

But Nellie smiles sweetly and goes on her way,

And I venture to doubt if she quite understood

All the funny French things Madame Blaise had to say.

Other parts of the market contain butchers meat,

And poultry, and fruit, and salads, and greens,

And here, if you want them, quite young, fresh and sweet,

Are the haricóts verts which we know as "French beans."

For, from morning till night here they're selling and buying,

And from morning till night their market wares crying.

Rose and Bertie have a ride; Mabel, walking at their side, Carries both the dolls, and so By the Luxembourg they go.	IN THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS.
Over in that Palace soon— For the clock is marking noon— The "Senate" will together come (Like our "House of Lords" at home).	Hear that woman, "Who will buy Windmill, ball, or butterfly"— Josephine and Phillipe, see, Eager as they both can be.
	Charles before her, silent stands, With no money in his hands, No more sous—he spent them all On that big inflated ball.
		Be content, my little friend, Money spent you cannot spend; With your good St. Bernard play, Buy more toys another day.

Here all the day long, Are race-horses for hire, That never go wrong. And besides, never tire. Here all the day long, Are race-horses for hire.

Who will come for a ride? Horses, lions, all ready! Bear or tiger astride, You shall sit safe and steady. Who will come for a ride? Lions, horses, all ready!

Round and round they canter slow—soon they fast and faster go; Look at Louis, all in white, Gaspard, almost out of sight, Rose and Mabel side by side;—Bertie watching while they ride. Dennis waits till they have done,—much too big to join the fun; Brother Paul, with serious air, minds his little sister Claire, Thinking if he had a sou, she should have some pleasure too.

Now, with regret, they've said Good-bye to Paris bright and gay; To Calais they are drawing nigh—you see them on their way. To travel thus, all through the night, at first they thought was fun. But by degrees they grew less bright, as hours passed one by one. Then Nellie to her sisters said, "Let's have an extra rug. And make-believe we're home in bed, and cuddle close and snug, And try, until the night has passed, which can most quiet keep." Then all were tucked up warm and fast, and soon fell sound asleep.

The happy time abroad, again in dreams is all gone o'er— Again in Paris, as it seems, they watch the crowd once more. The "Elysian Fields," beneath the trees, are peopled with a throng Of loveliest dolls, which at their ease converse, or ride along; And wondrous "Easter Eggs" in nests, abundant lie around, And "April Fish" with golden vests and silver coats, abound! Such fleeting fancies Dreamland lends to pass the time away Until the railway journey ends, just at the break of day.

PORTE DE LA MER, CALAIS.

The last place where they stopped abroad was Calais, which, you know,

Belonged to England once—though that was many a year ago:

It has a beautiful old Tower, all weatherworn and brown,

And here's the Sea-Gate, opening from the walls that guard the town.

But now Farewell to Merry France! the vessel ready waits

To take our party back again across the Dover Straits.

HOMEWARD BOUND.

Hurrah! we're afloat, and away speeds the boat as fast as its paddles can go,
With the wind on its back, and a broad foaming track behind it, as white as the snow.
On board, every eye is strained to descry the white cliffs of our own native land,
And brightly they gleam, as onward we steam, till at length they are close at hand.
The sun shines with glee on the rippling sea, and the pennant strung high on the mast.
But at length it sinks down behind the grey town, and tells us the day is nigh past.
See, there is the port, and near it a fort, and the strong old Castle of Dover—
We're close to the shore—just five minutes more, and the Channel Crossing is over.
Then all safe and sound upon English ground, we bid farewell to the sea—
Jump into the train, and start off again as fast as the engine can flee.
We run up to town, and thence travel down to the home in the country, at night;
Then, I'm sorry to say, dear Nellie and May, Rose, Dennis, and Bertie bright,
We must leave in their home till next holidays come, when, let all of us hope, it may chance
That our trip will, next Spring, be as pleasant a thing as our swallow-flight over to France.

· Bon Rétour · Now that at last we're safely back again, And as upon the railway bridge the train Is stayed some moments, let us say Good-bye, And ask if you've enjoyed the trip, and try To think that soon again we're sure to meet, On country road or in the crowded street, And ere we part, still linger for a while, Viewing this tranquil scene with pensive smile,— The evening glow, the river's falling tide, Saint Paul's familiar dome and London's pride.

Now that at last we're safely back again, And as upon the railway bridge the train Is stayed some moments, let us say Good-bye, And ask if you've enjoyed the trip, and try To think that soon again we're sure to meet, On country road or in the crowded street, And ere we part, still linger for a while, Viewing this tranquil scene with pensive smile,— The evening glow, the river's falling tide, Saint Paul's familiar dome and London's pride.

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