nkle down,
With clear blue shadows along it thrown;
_C'est ca Sainte Margerie!_

On back and bosom withouten braid,--
_Margerie!_
In crisped glory of darkling red,
Round creamy temples her hair was shed;--
_C'est ca Sainte Margerie!_

Eyes, like a dim sea, viewed from far,--
_Margerie!_
Lips that no earthly love shall mar,
More sweet that lips of mortals are;--
_C'est ca Sainte Margerie!_

The chamber walls are cracked and bare;--
_Margerie!_
Without the gossips stood astare
At men her bed away that bare;--
_C'est ca Sainte Margerie!_

Five pennies lay her hand within,--
_Margerie!_
So she her fair soul's weal might win,
Little she reck'd of dule or teen;--
_C'est ca Sainte Margerie!_

Dank straw from dunghill gathered,--
_Margerie!_
Where fragrant swine have made their bed,
Thereon her body shall be laid;--
_C'est ca Sainte Margerie!_

Three pennies to the poor in dole,--
_Margerie!_
One to the clerk her knell shall toll,
And one to masses for her soul;--
_C'est ca Sainte Margerie!_

_Unknown._

ROBERT FROST

RELATES THE DEATH OF THE TIRED MAN

There were two of us left in the berry-patch;
Bryan O'Lin and Jack had gone to Norwich.--
They called him Jack a' Nory, half in fun
And half because it seemed to anger him.--
So there we stood and let the berries go,
Talking of men we knew and had forgotten.
A sprawling, humpbacked mountain frowned on us
And blotted out a smouldering sunset cloud
That broke in fiery ashes. "Well," he said,
"Old Adam Brown is dead and gone; you'll never
See him any more. He used to wear
A long, brown coat that buttoned down before.
That's all I ever knew of him; I guess that's all
That anyone remembers. Eh?" he said,
And then, without a pause to let me answer,
He went right on.
"How about Dr. Foster?"
"Well, how _about_ him?" I managed to reply.
He glared at me for having interrupted.
And stopped to pick his words before he spoke;
Like one who turns all personal remarks
Into a general survey of the world.
Choosing his phrases with a finicky care
So they might fit some vague opinions,
Taken, third-hand, from last year's _New York Times_
And jumbled all together into a thing
He thought was his philosophy.
"Never mind;
There's more in Foster than you'd understand.
But," he continued, darkly as befor