Only a baby footfall light,
Making a dark world glad and bright,
Sweeter music than greatest art
Ever made, to a mother's heart!
Ah, that was twenty years away—
But though she blushed as a bride to-day,
To somebody, smiling her joy-tears through,
She still seemed the wearer of this wee shoe!
Only a little outworn shoe,
Tied with a ribbon that once was blue!
[IAN'S SACRIFICE.]
A Complete Story by Alick Munro.
Illustrations by Ralph Peacock.
It was a piece of insular facetiousness on my part which discovered him; for one of the articles of every Briton's faith is that so long as he speaks in English he can safely say what he likes to these foreign beggars. Therefore, as this particular Portuguese had nipped my ticket every morning for over a week, with never more than a murmured "Com licença, senhor," when he avoided my outstretched legs, I thought our acquaintance had lasted long enough to warrant my chaffing him—in English, of course.
"Morning, Pedro!" I remarked, cheerfully, as I handed him my ticket; "I'm quite getting to like the look of your ugly face, d'you know?"
The ticket-man gave me a quick glance.