But of a greenness!--Yes, M'sieu'! And then the sky so blue!--so blue! And when I dropped my _immortelle_, How the birds sang! [_Lifting her apron to her eyes._] This poor Ma'm'selle! M. VIEUXBOIS You're a good girl, BABETTE, but she,-- She was an angel, verily. Sometimes I think I see her yet Stand smiling by the cabinet; And once, I know, she peeped and laughed Betwixt the curtains.... Where's the draught? [_She gives him a cup._] Now I shall sleep, I think, BABETTE;-- Sing me your Norman _chansonnette_. BABETTE [_sings_] "_Once at the Angelus (Ere I was dead), Angels all glorious Came to my bed;-- Angels in blue and white, Crowned on the head._" M. VIEUXBOIS [_drowsily_] "She was an Angel" ... "Once she laughed" ... What! was I dreaming? Where's the draught? BABETTE [_showing the empty cup_] The draught, M'sieu'? M. VIEUXBOIS How I forget! I am so old! But sing, BABETTE! BABETTE [_sings_] "_One was the Friend I left Stark in the Snow; One was the Wife that died Long,--long ago; One was the Love I lost-- How could she know?_" M. VIEUXBOIS [_murmuring_] Ah PAUL! ... old PAUL! ... EULALIE, too! And ROSE ... And O! "the sky so blue!" BABETTE [_sings_] "_One had my Mother's eyes, Wistful and mild; One had my Father's face; One was a Child: All of them bent to me,-- Bent down and smiled!_" [He is asleep!] M. VIEUXBOIS [_almost inaudibly_] How I forget! I am so old! ... Good-night, BABETTE! THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN "Phyllida amo ante alias."--VIRGIL. The ladies of St. James's Go swinging to the play; Their footmen run before them With a "Stand by! Clear the way!" But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She takes her buckled shoon, When we go out a-courting Beneath the harvest moon. The ladies of St. James's Wear satin on their backs; They sit all night at _Ombre_, With candles all of wax: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She dons her russet gown, And runs to gather May-dew Before the world is down. The ladies of St. James's! They are so fine and fair, You'd think a box of essences Was broken in the air: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! The breath of heath and furze, When breezes blow at morning, Is not so fresh as hers. The ladies of St. James's! They're painted to the eyes; Their white it stays forever, Their red it never dies: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her color comes and goes; It trembles to a lily,-- It wavers like a rose,