THE UNCHANGING SEX.
When the battle-worn Horatius, 'midst the cheering Roman throng—
All flushed with pride and triumph as they carried him along—
Reached the polished porch of marble at the doorway of his home,
He felt himself an Emperor—the bravest man of Rome.
The people slapped him on the back and knocked his helm askew,
Then drifted back along the road to look for something new.
Then Horatius sobered down a bit—as you would do to-day—
And straightened down his tunic in a calm, collected way.
He hung his battered helmet up and wiped his sandals dry,
And set a parting in his hair—the same as you and I.
His lady kissed him carefully and looked him up and down,
And gently disengaged his arm to spare her snowy gown.
"You are a real disgrace, you know, the worst I've ever seen;
Now go and put your sword away, I know it isn't clean.
And you must change your clothes at once, you're simply wringing wet;
You've been doing something mischievous, I hope you lost your bet....
Why! you're bleeding on the carpet. Who's the brute that hurt you so?
Did you kill him? There's a darling. Serve him right for hitting low."
Then she hustled lots of water, turning back her pretty sleeves,
And she set him on the sofa (having taken off his greaves).
And bold Horatius purred aloud, the stern Horatius smiled,
And didn't seem to mind that he was treated like a child.
Though she didn't call him Emperor, or cling to him and cry,
Yet I rather think he liked it—just the same as you and I.
TWO CHILDREN.
His age was possibly nineteen, and his general appearance had decided the members of his last gunroom mess in their choice of a nickname for him. "Little Boy Blue," or "Boy" for short, would probably stick to him throughout his naval career. The name had certainly followed him to his present appointment as "third hand" of a destroyer, where the other sub-lieutenants of the flotilla were not likely to allow him to forget it. He would have made a perfect model for a Burne-Jones angel. His mother would have worded that comparison differently, being under the impression that no angel could hope to equal him: on his part, he always took most filial care not to disillusion her on such a point. At the moment, in the first flush of glory induced by the fact that he had left gunroom life for ever, and that his midshipman's patches were things of the recent past, he was making the most of a week's leave, and making the most also of the opportunity of cultivating the society of a home Attraction whom the discerning eyes of his mother may or may not have yet noticed. The Attraction was aged sixteen, extremely pretty, and, as is usual in such cases, extremely self-possessed.
The Boy, as he accompanied her along the garden path, was not feeling self-possessed at all. He had discovered from frequent experience that the only position he could retain with reference to the lady as she walked was, as he would put it, "half a cable on the starboard quarter." Knowing as he did that he was being kept thus distant by intention, he followed the broad lines of strategy which his naval training had taught him, and acted in a way which on such occasions is always right—that is, he aroused doubt and curiosity in the mind of his adversary.
The lady, who—carrying a ball of string in one hand and a bowl of peas in the other—had walked in cool silence for at least fifty yards, turned suddenly and spoke.
"I suppose this is the first time you've——What are you staring at?"