MLS SOB OTE he Eves

“¢ And the woman who lives here has no aim and no outlook in life,” mused
I priggishly. ‘She is a unit with never a cipher at her back to give her value.
Were she to die to-morrow the world would be none the poorer. It is the old
fable of the butterfly who sat in the rose’s heart all summer and starved in the
winter.”

“Ts Miss Fry at home?” I inquired of the maid who interrupted my
moralizing.

“Yes,maam. Walk in, please.”

“ But she has company,” as the tinkle of a guitar and a babble of singing
proceeded from the library.

“QO, no, ma’am; no more than common. There’s no invited party.”

We reached the inner door just as the music ceased, and a wilder clamor of
small voices arose. ‘“‘ Please, Miss Butterfly, now sing ‘ Said I, said I.’”

The hostess did not observe me, and I drew back into the comparative
obscurity of the hall to watch the animated interior. Miss Fry, in a sheeny
satin the color of a robin’s egg, with costly laces drooping over her chest and.
wrists, sat upon a low ottoman, guitar in hand, the center of a troop of children.
A smart twang of the strings silenced the hubbub, and the song began in a voice
that reminded one of a thin trickle of syrup, “just on the turn” toward sharp-~
ness. The children shrilled out the chorus after each line, every mouth
stretched to its utmost. Miss Betty told me afterward that she had “ heard
the ditty ever since she was a child, or had picked it up somewhere — just so.
She never knew how she learned anything.”

‘A little old man came riding by, “An acorn fell as from the sky;
(Said I, said I,) (Said I, said I,)

* My dear old man, your horse will die,’ ‘Ah! why did you not stay on high?’
(Said I, said I.) (Said I, said I.)

‘And if he dies I’ll tan his skin,’ ‘Why, if I had, you surely see,’
(Said he, said he,) (Said he, said he,)

‘ And if he lives I'll ride him again,’ ‘That I could never be a tree,’
(Said he, said he.) - (Said he, said he.)

‘“‘A little bird came hop! hop! hop! ‘*An ugly worm crept on the ground;
(Said I, said I,) (Said I, said I,)

‘My pretty bird, your feathers drop,’ ‘Poor thing! to death you’re surely bound,’
(Said I, said I.) (Said I, said I.)

‘Oh! I shall only keep the best,’ ‘ But I was only born to die,’
(Said he, said he,) (Said he, said he,)

‘And with the rest I’ll line my nest.’ ‘Or I'd not be a butterfly,’
(Said he, said he.) (Said he, said he.) ”

A fire of logs blazed high in the chimney, flickering whenever the shrill
chorus burst forth. The children, of whom there must have been twenty, sat
and lay upon an immense tiger-skin spread in the full glow of the flames. Four
or five had crept as close to the hostess as they could get, crushing the satin
folds with infantine heedlessness.