run aground,
As such young men are apt to do;
His creditors swore and his mistress frowned,
His breeches pockets held ne'er a _sou_,
His boots were getting out at the toes,
His hat was seedy, and so were his clothes,
And, as he wandered the city around,
He could not think of a single friend
Slow to dun and prompt to lend,
Whose purse he thought he could venture to sound;
In such extremities friends are few;
At least I think so, friend, don't you?

At length, on the brink of a grim despair,
He happened to think of a quaint old fellow,
A comical customer, rusty and slow,
But who used to be an elegant beau,
In dress and manner quite _comme il faut_;
And who, because he happened to know
How to play on the violoncello,
Which he'd learned for fun long time ago,
Before his finances got so low,
Had obtained a place in an orchestra choir,
And played that beautiful instrument there;
And to him monsieur determined to go;
And so,
Up to the top of a rickety stair,
To a little attic cold and bare,
He stumbled, and found the artist there.
He told his tale; how his former pride
Was crushed and humbled into the dust;
He swore he had thought of suicide,
But the charcoal venders wouldn't trust;
He had no profession or trade or art,
Money or food, and perish he must;
And then like a blacksmith's forge he sighed,
A sigh that touched the fiddler's heart.
'Cheer up, _mon cher_, and never mind;
You're the very man I was trying to find.
You know at the grand Theatre Francais
The leading violoncello I play,
And my salary is two francs a day.
There's a vacant place; if you are inclined
To take the same, you'll find 'twill pay.'

DIDIER looked up in a vast amaze:
'Why, I can't do so, you very well know,
For I never fiddled in my born days.'
'_Qu'a cela ne tienne_,' his friend replied,
'Don't be too certain,--you never have tried;
You ought to give your abilities scope;
There is an anxiety most of us feel,
We may be out of time or tune,
Leave off too late, or begin too soon,
May pitch too sharp, or perhaps too flat;
So here is a cake of excellent soap,
The old, original, pure Castile,
Just rosin your bow with that.'

He took his seat in an orchestra chair,
'Twould have made you stare
Had you been there
To see his knowing and c