yet was maladroit, He boasted that he was beloved; perhaps he did believe it quite-- The other day, in such a place, She shrank from his embrace! The crowd now watched the dancing pair, And marked the tricksy witching fair; They rush, they whirl! But what's amiss? The bouncing soldier lad, I wis, Can never snatch disputed kiss! The dancing maid at first smiles at her self-styled lover, "Makes eyes" at him, but ne'er a word does utter; She only leaped the faster! Marcel, piqued to the quick, longed to subdue this creature, He wished to show before the crowd what love he bore her; One open kiss were sweeter far Than twenty in a corner! But, no! his legs began to fail, his head was in a trance, He reeled, he almost fell, he could no longer dance; Now he would give cockade, sabre, and silver lace, Would it were gold indeed, for her embrace! Yet while the pair were still afoot, the girl looked very gay-- Resolved never to give way! While headstrong Marcel, breathless, spent, and hot in face, He reeled and all but fell; then to the next gave place! Forth darted Pascal in the soldier's stead, They make two steps, then change, and Franconnette, Weary at last, with laughing grace, Her foot stayed and upraised her face! Tarried Pascal that kiss to set? Not he, be sure! and all the crowd His vict'ry hailed with plaudits loud. The clapping of their palms like battle-dores resounded, While Pascal stood among them quite confounded! Oh, what a picture for the soldier who so loved his queen! Him the kiss maddened! Measuring Pascal with his een, He thundered, "Peasant, you have filled my place most sly; Not so fast, churl!"--and brutally let fly With aim unerring one fierce blow, Straight in the other's eyes, doubling the insult so. Good God!2 how stings the madd'ning pain, His dearest happiness that blow must stain, Kissing and boxing--glory, shame! Light, darkness! Fire, ice! Life, death! Heaven, hell! All this was to our Pascal's soul the knell Of hope! But to be thus tormented By flagrant insult, as the soldier meant it; Now without fear he must resent it! It does not need to be a soldier nor a "Monsieur," An outrage placidly to bear. Now fiery Pascal let fly at his foe, Before he could turn round, a stunning blow; 'Twas like a thunder peal, And made the soldier reel; Trying to draw his sabre, But Pascal, seeming bigger, Gripped Marcel by the waist, and sturdily Lifted him up, and threw his surly Foe on the ground, breathless, and stunned severely. "Now then!" while Pascal looked on the hound thrown by him, "The peasant grants thee chance of living!" "Despatch him!" cried the surging crowd. "Thou art all cover'd o'er with blood!" But Pascal, in his angry fit of passion, Had hurt his wrist and fist in a most serious fashion. "No matter! All the same I pardon him! You must have pity on the beaten hound!" "No, finish him! Into morsels cut him!" The surging, violent crowd now cried around. "Back, peasants, back! Do him no harm!" Sudden exclaimed a Monsieur, speaking with alarm; The peasants moved aside, and then gave place To Montluc, glittering with golden lace; It was the Baron of Roquefort! The frightened girls, like hunted hares, At once dispers'd, flew here and there. The shepherds, but a moment after, With thrilling fife and beaming laughter, The brave and good Pascal attended on his way, Unto his humble home, as 'twere his nuptial day. But Marcel, furious, mad with rage, exclaimed, "Oh! could I stab and kill them! But I'm maimed!" Only a gesture of his lord Restrained him, hand upon his sword. Then did he grind his teeth, as he lay battered, And in a low and broken voice he muttered: "They love each other, and despise my kindness, She favours him, and she admires his fondness; Ah, well! by Marcel's patron, I'll not tarry To make them smart, and Franconnette No other husband than myself shall marry!" SECOND PART. The Enamoured Blacksmith--His Fretful Mother--The Busking Soiree--Pascal's Song--The Sorcerer of the Black Forest-- The Girl Sold to the Demon. Since Roquefort fete, one, two, three months have fled; The dancing frolic, with the harvest ended; The out- door sports are banished-- For winter comes; the air is sad and cold, it sighs Under the vaulted skies. At fall of night, none risks to walk across the fields, For each one, sad and cheerless, beelds Before the great fires blazing, Or talks of wolfish fiends3 amazing; And sorcerers--to make one shudder with affright-- That walk around the cots so wight, Or 'neath the gloomy elms, and by farmyards at night. But now at last has Christmas come, And little Jack, who beats the drum, Cries round the hamlet, with his beaming face: "Come brisken up, you maidens fair, A merry busking4 shall take place On Friday, first night of the year!" Ah! now the happy youths and maidens fair Proclaimed the drummer's words, so bright and rare. The news were carried far and near Light as a bird most fleet With wings to carry thoughts so sweet. The sun, with beaming rays, had scarcely shone Ere everywhere the joyous news had flown; At every fireside they were known, By every hearth, in converse keen, The busking was the theme. But when the Friday came, a frozen dew was raining, And by a fireless forge a mother sat complaining; And to her son, who sat thereby, She spoke at last entreatingly: "Hast thou forgot the summer day, my boy, when thou didst come All bleeding from the furious fray, to the sound of music home? How I have suffered for