"Oh, where do you buy your
And where do you buy your hose?
And where do you buy your shoes, lady?
And where your underclothes?
"Hats, shoes, and stockings, everything
A lady’s heart requires,
Quality good, and prices low,
We are the largest buyers!
“The stock we bought on
Is fading fast away,
To-morrow it may be too late—
Oh, come and buy to-day!"_
Mr. Fairfax fairly trumpeted approval. “If they’re all as good as that,” he said; “you must have more money. Yes, you must. Well, well,—we’ll see, we’ll see!” And when the “Bon Marche Ballads” actually appeared, the generous creature insisted on adding another fifty pounds to the cheque.
As many were afterwards of opinion that Henry never again did such good work as these nonsense rhymes, written thus for a frolic,—and one hundred and fifty pounds,—and as copies of the “Bon Marche Ballads” are now exceedingly scarce, it may possibly be of interest to quote two or three more of its preposterous numbers. This is a lyric illustrative of cheese, for the provision department:—
“Are you fond
Do you sometimes sigh
For a really good
“Try our one-and-ten,
Tasted once, it never can
Be again forgotten_!”
Here is “a Ballad of Baby’s Toys:”—
“Oh, give me
a toy” the baby said—
The babe of three months old,—
Oh, what shall I buy my little babee,
With silver and with gold?”
“I would you buy
a trumpet fine,
And a rocking-horse for me,
And a bucket and a spade, mother,
To dig beside the sea.”
“But where shall
I buy these pretty things?”
The mother’s heart inquires.
“Oh, go to Owens!” cried the babe;
“They are the largest buyers."_
The subject of our last selection is “Melton Mowbray,” which bore beneath its title due apologies to Mr. Swinburne:—
"Strange pie, that
is almost a passion,
O passion immoral, for pie!
Unknown are the ways that they fashion,
Unknown and unseen of the eye,
The pie that is marbled and mottled,
The pie that digests with a sigh:
For all is not Bass that is bottled,
And all is not pork that is pie."
Of all the goodness else that Henry and Angel were to owe in future days to Mr. Fairfax, there is not room in this book to write. But that matters little, for is it not written in the Book of Love?
STILL ANOTHER CALLER
One afternoon the step coming along the corridor was almost light enough to be Angel’s, though a lover’s ear told him that hers it was not. Once more that feminine rustle, the very whisper of romantic mystery; again the little feminine knock.