A HEATHEN MISSIONARY.

‘Tis true thy garb is coarse and quaint,
Thy locks are stiff and scrappy,

Thy lip’s sweet curves too red with paint,
And yet thou mak’st me happy.

T love thy scorn of worldly gear ;
Thy smile’s the flower of the ages.

Now foolish fret shall flee from here —
We'll both of us be sages.

Mayhap some esoteric saint,
Thy old sires cultivated
In lands and centuries far and faint,
To thee has transmigrated.
So, Jappy, lean down from thy place
With smile serene and gentle,
And preach the charm of a placid face
To at least one Occidental.
Mary McL. Watson.

 

 

A DAUGHTER OF THE PURITANS.