When the brain gets dry as an empty nut, When the reason stands on its squarest toes, When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut,"-- There is place and enough for the pains of prose; But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows, And the young year draws to the "golden prime," And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,-- Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme! In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut, In a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes," In a starched procession of "If" and "But,"-- There is place and enough for the pains of prose; But whenever a soft glance softer grows And the light hours dance to the trysting-time, And the secret is told "that no one knows,"-- Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme! ENVOY In the work-a-day world,--for its needs and woes, There is place and enough for the pains of prose; But whenever the May-bells clash and chime, Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme! THE CURÉ'S PROGRESS Monsieur The Curé down the street Comes with his kind old face,-- With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case. You may see him pass by the little "_Grande Place_," And the tiny "_Hôtel-de-Ville_"; He smiles as he goes, to the _fleuriste_ Rose, And the _pompier_ Théophile. He turns as a rule through the "_Marché_" cool, Where the noisy fishwives call; And his compliment pays to the "_belle Thérèse_," As she knits in her dusky stall. There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop, And Toto, the locksmith's niece, Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes In his tails for a _pain d'épice_. There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit Who is said to be heterodox, That will ended be with a "_Ma foi, oui!_" And a pinch from the Curé's box. There is also a word that no one heard To the furrier's daughter Lou; And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red, And a "_Bon Dieu garde M'sieu!_" But a grander way for the _Sous-Préfet_, And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne; And a mock "off-hat" to the Notary's cat, And a nod to the Sacristan:-- For ever through life the Curé goes With a smile on his kind old face-- With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair. And his green umbrella-case. "GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE" "Si vieillesse pouvait!" SCENE.--_A small neat room. In a high Voltaire chair sits a white-haired old gentleman._ M. VIEUXBOIS [_turning querulously_] Day of my life! Where _can_ she get? BABETTE! I Say! BABETTE!--BABETTE! BABETTE [_entering hurriedly_] Coming, M'sieu'! If M'sieu' speaks So loud, he won't be well for weeks! M. VIEUXBOIS Where have you been? BABETTE Why, M'sieu' knows:-- April!... Ville-d' Avray!... Ma'm'selle ROSE! M. VIEUXBOIS Ah! I am old,--and I forget. Was the place growing green, BABETTE? BABETTE