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.