Abroad

by Unknown

	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.