_Girl_. Indeed.

_Mother_. And was there nothing you would save?

_Girl_. Everything I could give I gave.

_Mother_. To the last t.i.ttle?

_Girl_. Even to that.

_Mother_. Freely?

_Girl_. My heart went pit-a-pat At giving up ... ah me! ah me!

I cry so I can hardly see ...

All the fond looks and words that past, And all the kisses, to the last.

_Walter Savage Landor._

III

LOVE AND COURTSHIP

NOUREDDIN, THE SON OF THE SHAH

There once was a Shah had a second son Who was very unlike his elder one, For he went about on his own affairs, And scorned the mosque and the daily prayers; When his sire frowned fierce, then he cried, "Ha, ha!"

Noureddin, the son of the Shah.

But worst of all of the pranks he played Was to fall in love with a Christian maid,-- An Armenian maid who wore no veil, Nor behind a lattice grew thin and pale; At his sire's dark threats laughed the youth, "Ha, ha!"

Noureddin, the son of the Shah.

"I will shut him close in an iron cage,"

The monarch said, in a fuming rage; But the prince slipped out by a postern door, And away to the mountains his loved one bore; Loud his glee rang back on the winds, "Ha, ha!"

Noureddin, the son of the Shah.

And still in the town of Teheran, When a youth and a maid adopt this plan,-- All frowns and threats with a laugh defy, And away from the mosques to the mountains fly,-- Folk meet and greet with a gay "_Ha, ha!"

Noureddin, the son of the Shah_.

_Clinton Scollard._

THE USUAL WAY

There was once a little man, and his rod and line he took, For he said, "I'll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook."

And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day, And they met--in the usual way.

Then he sat him down beside her, and an hour or two went by, But still upon the gra.s.sy brink his rod and line did lie; "I thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd be fishing all the day!"

And he was--in the usual way.

So he gravely took his rod in hand, and threw the line about, But the fish perceived distinctly that he was not looking out; And he said, "Sweetheart, I love you!" but she said she could not stay: But she did--in the usual way.

Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh, As they watched the silver ripples, like the moments, running by; "We must say good-by," she whispered, by the alders old and gray, And they did--in the usual way.

And day by day beside the stream they wandered to and fro, And day by day the fishes swam securely down below; Till this little story ended, as such little stories may, Very much--in the usual way.

And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo?

Do they never fret and quarrel as other couples do?

Does he cherish her and love her? Does she honor and obey?

Well--they do--in the usual way.

_Frederic E. Weatherly._

THE WAY TO ARCADY

Oh, _what's the way to Arcady, To Arcady, to Arcady; Oh, what's the way to Arcady, Where all the leaves are merry_?

Oh, what's the way to Arcady?

The spring is rustling in the tree-- The tree the wind is blowing through-- It sets the blossoms flickering white.

I knew not skies could burn so blue Nor any breezes blow so light.

They blow an old-time way for me, Across the world to Arcady.

Oh, what's the way to Arcady?

Sir Poet, with the rusty coat, Quit mocking of the song-bird's note.

How have you heart for any tune, You with the wayworn russet shoon?

Your scrip, a-swinging by your side, Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide.

I'll brim it well with pieces red, If you will tell the way to tread.

_Oh, I am bound for Arcady, And if you but keep pace with me You tread the way to Arcady._

And where away lies Arcady, And how long yet may the journey be?

_Ah, that_ (quoth he) _I do not know_-- _Across the clover and the snow_-- _Across the frost, across the flowers_-- _Through summer seconds and winter hours_ _I've trod the way my whole life long_, _And know not now where it may be_; _My guide is but the stir to song_, _That tells me I cannot go wrong_, _Or clear or dark the pathway be_ _Upon the road to Arcady_.

But how shall I do who cannot sing?

I was wont to sing, once on a time-- There is never an echo now to ring Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme.

_'Tis strange you cannot sing_ (quoth he), _The folk all sing in Arcady_.

But how may he find Arcady Who hath not youth nor melody?

_What, know you not, old man_ (quoth he)-- _Your hair is white, your face is wise_-- _That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes_ _Who hopes to see fair Arcady_?