d the minuet long ago;
Now she sits there rocking, rocking,
Always knitting grandpa's stocking--
Every girl was taught to knit long ago--
But her figure is so neat,
And her ways so staid and sweet,
I can almost see her now,
Bending to her partner's bow, long ago.

Grandma says our modern jumping,
Rushing, whirling, dashing, bumping,
Would have shocked the gentle people long ago.
No, they moved with stately grace,
Everything in proper place,
Gliding slowly forward, then
Slowly courtesying back again.

Modern ways are quite alarming, grandma says,
But boys were charming--
Girls and boys I mean, of course--long ago,
Sweetly modest, bravely shy!
What if all of us should try just to feel
Like those who met in the stately minuet, long ago.
With the minuet in fashion,
Who could fly into a passion?
All would wear the calm they wore long ago,
And if in years to come, perchance,
I tell my grandchild of our dance,
I should really like to say,
We did it in some such way, long ago.

_Mary Mapes Dodge._

The Vagabonds

We are two travellers, Roger and I.
Roger's my dog--Come here, you scamp!
Jump for the gentleman--mind your eye!
Over the table--look out for the lamp!--
The rogue is growing a little old;
Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,
And slept outdoors when nights were cold,
And ate, and drank--and starved together.

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you:
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow,
The paw he holds up there has been frozen),
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle,
(This outdoor business is bad for strings),
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,
And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank you, Sir, I never drink.
Roger and I are exceedingly moral.
Aren't we, Roger? see him wink.
Well, something hot then, we won't quarrel.
He's thirsty, too--see him nod his head?
What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk;
He understands every word that's said,
And he knows good milk from water and chalk.

The truth is, Sir, now I reflect,
I've been so sadly given to grog,
I wonder I've not lost the respect
(Here's to you, Sir!) even of my dog.
But he sticks by through thick and thin;
And this old coat with its empty pockets
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,
He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living
Would do it, and prove, through every disaster,
So fo