“Men who suffer their wives’ photographs to be exhibited for sale in the shop-windows run the risk of being thought to get some profit by so doing, for they otherwise would hardly sanction such publicity.” Where are you going to, my pretty maid? I’m going to be Photographed, Sir, she said. May I go with you, my pretty maid? Yes, if you like it, she calmly said. What is your fortune, my pretty maid? My face is my fortune, Sir, she said. How do you live on’t, my pretty maid? By selling my photos, she promptly said. Then may I marry you, my pretty maid? If you’ve a title, perhaps――she said. _Punch._ June, 1878. “WHERE ARE YOU GOING TO, MY PRETTY MAID.” (_New Reading._) With the pail for the milk hung over her arm, Across the green fields tripped Mary; The smiles on her face gave additional charm, And caused you to call her a fairy. Now a spruce young clerk was out for a ride, And happened to come across Mary; Said he to himself, “I will make her my bride, And make her keep me with her dairy.” But altho’ she was rustic, and simple as well, As proud as a queen was our Mary; Tho’ her bonny blue eyes of mischief could tell, The sequel will show she was wary. “Where are you going to, my pretty maid?” Said this gay young spark from the neighb’ring town; “I am going a-milking, sir,” she said. A blush on her face, and her eyes cast down. “May I be your escort, my pretty maid? Nay turn not away those cheeks rosy red; To carry your pail I’ll not be afraid, And if you’ll consent, I’m willing to wed.” “What, sir, is your fortune?” cried the young maid, And around her lips a merry smile played. “My face is my fortune! my pretty maid.” “Then you’ve plenty of brass, kind sir,” she said. ―――― TRUE. Oh, where are you going, my pretty maid?” “I’m going a chestnutting, sir,” she said. And she spoke sober truth, in sooth, for lo! She had a ticket for the minstrel show. _Detroit Free Press._ July 24, 1886. (Chestnuts――Americanism for stale jokes.) ―――― Where are you going to my pretty maid? “I’m going to publish, sir,” she said. Perhaps you’ve a fortune, my pretty maid? “My verse is my fortune, sir,” she said. Then you’d better not try it, my pretty maid, There’s an item for printing, and when it is paid, There’s “commission on sales,” oh, innocent maid! In your rural retreat have you heard of THE TRADE? Oh, _where_ are you going to, my pretty maid? ERNEST RADFORD. ―――― AN IDYLLIC DUET.