Now I think I've been told,--for I'm no sporting man,-- That the "knowing-ones" call this by far the best plan, "Take the lead and then keep it!"--that is if you can.-- Odille thought so too, so she set off and ran, Put her best leg before, Starting at score, As I said some lines since, from that little back door, And not being miss'd until half after four, Had what hunters call "law" for a good hour and more; Doing her best, Without stopping to rest, Like "young Lochinvar who came out of the West." "'Tis done!--I am gone!--over briar, brook, and rill! They'll be sharp lads who catch me!" said young Miss Odille. But you've all read in Æsop, or Phædrus, or Gay, How a tortoise and hare ran together one day; How the hare, making play, "Progress'd right slick away," As "them tarnation chaps" the Americans say; While the tortoise, whose figure is rather _outré_ For racing, crawl'd straight on, without let or stay, Having no post-horse duty or turnpikes to pay, Till, ere noon's ruddy ray Changed to eve's sober grey, Though her form and obesity caused some delay, Perseverance and patience brought up her lee-way, And she chased her fleet-footed "praycursor" until She o'ertook her at last;--so it fared with Odille! For although, as I said, she ran gaily at first, And showed no inclination to pause, if she durst; She at length felt opprest with the heat, and with thirst, Its usual attendant; nor was that the worst, Her shoes went down at heel; at last one of them burst. Now a gentleman smiles At a trot of ten miles; But not so the Fair; then consider the stiles, And as then ladies seldom wore things with a frill Round the ankle, these stiles sadly bother'd Odille. Still, despite all the obstacles placed in her track, She kept steadily on, though the terrible crack In her shoe made of course her progression more slack, Till she reach'd the Swartz Forest (in English the Black); I cannot divine How the boundary line Was pass'd which is somewhere there form'd by the Rhine-- Perhaps she'd the knack To float o'er on her back-- Or, perhaps, cross'd the old bridge of boats at Brisach, (Which Vauban, some years after, secured from attack By a bastion of stone which the Germans call "Wacke,") All I know is, she took not so much as a snack, Till, hungry and worn, feeling wretchedly ill, On a mountain's brow sank down the weary Odille.