Max turns round and winks so pretty,
Little, sharp round eyes;
Beppo sings a jolly ditty,
Quite to our surprise.
Then we mount, and off we go, up and down the mall,
Never do they careless trip, never make a fall.
Once, a princess royal
Wanted little Max;
How to part those friends so loyal,
Her little brain she racks.
She would give her gold and silver, in a little purse,
Then throw in for measure good, her scolding English nurse!
Then she cried, and chattered
All her pretty French,
And her little feet she pattered,
On the rustic bench.
“My papa is king,” she said, “and I’d have you know,
I shall have the donkey, and to prison shall you go.”
How their tiny feet would scamper,
Up the valley blue,
Carrying each his generous hamper,
And his rider, too.
Sure of foot, they’d clamber round the mountain spur
Where the foot-sore tourist scarcely dared to stir.
In this bright, sunshiny weather,
I remember with a sigh,
We no more can play together,
Beppo, Max and I.
Never dearer friends exist, in this world below,
Than I made in Switzerland, just a year ago.
PANSIES. As I walked in my garden to-day, I saw a family sweet. Many wee faces looked up, From their cool and shady retreat. Some had blue eyes and golden curls, Some dark eyes and raven locks, Some were dressed in velvets so rare, And some wore quaint, gay frocks. I asked these babies so dear, To come and live ever with me! Then laughing so gaily they said; “We are Pansies, don’t you see?” MRS. L. L. SLOANAKER. |