* * * * * THE WALKING ENGLISHWOMAN ON THE ALPS. [Illustration] You who look, at home, so charming-- Angel, goddess, nothing less-- Do you know you're quite alarming In that dress? Such a garb should be forbidden; Where's the grace an artist loves? Think of dainty fingers hidden In those gloves! Gloves! A housemaid would not wear them, Shapeless, brown and rough as sacks, Thick! And yet you often tear them With that axe! Worst of all, unblacked, unshiny-- Greet them with derisive boots-- Clumsy, huge! For feet so tiny! Oh, those boots! * * * * * THE ENGLISHMAN IN PARIS. [Illustration] O "Englishman in Paris," do not think That I refer to your amusing book; I write of those who do not care "a tinker's cuss" for look! Not you who dress in Paris as at home, Because the Frenchman is as good as you, Top-hat, frock-coat--in fact do all in Rome As Rome would do. But you, attired in such eccentric ways, Who travelled here with tickets which you took Perhaps from enterprising Mr. GAZE, Or Mr. COOK. And from some stupid, slow, suburban spot, Or prim provincial parish, come arrayed In clothes which your own gardener would not Wear for his trade. Oh why offend the Frenchman's cultured sight With such a 'ARRY'S outin' sort of air? Do you consider knickerbockers quite The thing to wear? The Frenchman, just as sensible as we, Calls "toppers" hateful, horrid, heavy, hot; In Paris, as in London, still you see The chimney-pot. A linen collar hygiene abhors. And yet he wears it. You don't care a rap; You sport your flannel-shirt, and, out of doors, Your tourist cap. Magnificent contempt for foreign lands! "Frog-eating Frenchy dress!" you say, and smile, "He imitates, but never understands True London style." Unconquered Briton, you are right no doubt! Descendant of the woad-clad ones, that's true! And yet he never imitates a lout, A cad, like you. * * * * *