Abroad | Page 5

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.
THE WASHERWOMEN OF CAEN
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 Eug��nie,?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.
THE KNIFE-GRINDER OF CAEN.
"L'homme qui passe," in France they call
The man who thrives
By grinding knives--
Who never stays at home at all,
But always must be moving on.
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.
CHOCOLATE AND MILK.
Little Lili, whose age isn't three years quite,?Went one day with Mamma for a long country walk,?Keeping up, all the time, such a chatter and talk?Of the trees, and the flowers, and the cows, brown and white. Soon she asked for some cake, and some chocolate too,?For this was her favourite lunch every day--?"Dear child," said Mamma, "let me see--I dare say
"If I ask that nice milkmaid, and say it's for you,?Some sweet milk we can get from her pretty white cow."?"I would rather have chocolate," Lili averred.?Then Mamma said, "Dear Lili, please don't be absurd;?My darling, you cannot have chocolate now:?You know we can't get it so far from the town.--?Come and stroke the white cow,--see, her coat's soft as silk." "But, Mamma," Lili said, "if the _White_ cow gives milk,?Then chocolate surely must come from the _Brown_."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LACE MAKERS OF CAEN
In many a lowly cottage in France?The bobbins keep threading a mazy dance?The whole day long, from morning to night,?Weaving the lace so pretty and light.?How swiftly the nimble fingers twist?The threads on the pillow--not one is missed:?Each bobbin would seem to rise from its place?To meet the fingers that form the lace.?How wondrously quick the pattern shows?From the threads, as under our eyes it grows:--?How quickly follow stem, leaves, and flower,?As if under the spell of enchanter's power.?Look at old Nannette--she can scarcely see,?Yet none can make lovelier lace than she;?And her grand-daughter Julie--just seven years old,?Is learning already the bobbins to hold.?Without drawings to follow, or patterns to trace,?How can these poor cottagers fashion their lace??From the plant and the flower and unfolding fern?And the frost on the pane their patterns they learn,--?From gossamer web by the spider wove,--?From natural taste and natural love?For every form of beauty and grace,?They've learned to fashion their wonderful lace.
[Illustration]
For Paris quite an early start?They made the following day,?And out of windows every one?Kept looking, all the way.?And many a pretty road like this?The train went whizzing past,?Where gatekeeper, with flag and horn,?Stood by the gates shut fast.?That's Marie you see standing there:?Now, do you wonder why?A _woman_ has to blow the horn?Before the train goes by?--?Her husband is a lazy man,?He's in his cottage near,?He would not stir a step, although?The train will soon be here.?And Marie called him, "Paul, be quick--?Go shut the gate," she cried--?"Don't hurry me, there's time enough,"?The lazy man replied.?So Marie had to go, you see,?And take the horn, and blow.--?And every day it's just the same,?She always has to go.
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EN ROUTE
Clatter! clatter! on they go,?Past stream and gentle valley,?Until the engine wheels turn slow,?And stop at length to dally
For dinner-time full half-an-hour?Within a crowded station,?While hungry little mouths devour?The tempting cold collation
Spread in the dining-room at hand;?And then, when that is finished,?The children sally in a band,?With appetites diminished,
To look at all the folk they meet,--?The porters in blue blouses,?The white-robed priests, the nuns so neat,?The farmers and their spouses,
And all the other folk that make?A crowd in