The next day we were betrothed, and all our friends came to eat the feast that my grandmother provided.  A school-fellow of mine, a very beautiful girl, was angry because I had a husband and not she.  She scratched my face, and the blood ran on to my dress.  Our friends congratulated us, and when they had gone my grandmother said it had been a great success.  She and I finished what was left of the feast and went to bed.  I remember that my feet were very cold, and when I fell asleep I dreamed that my betrothed’s name was Peter.  When I awoke I cried very loud, and my grandmother slapped my cheeks.

Shortly afterwards she died, and I went to live with my uncle, who was a pawnbroker in Moscow.

* * * * *

THE LONG-FACED CHUMS.

  When Alexander won the world he knew not bombs nor guns,
  His simple forms of frightfulness were quite unlike the Huns’;
  ’Twas not by barking mortars that the pushful CAESAR scored;
  He trusted close formations and the silent stabbing sword.

  When ROLAND’S rearguard turned at bay, and from the furious press
  The scuppered Paladin sent forth his famous S.O.S.,
  Scared Roncesvalles rang loud with war, as misty legends tell,
  But echo’s ear was spared the shriek and crash of bursting shell.

  So could you meet the shades of those whose prowess made Romance,
  You’d find them only puzzled by your tales of stunts in France;
  You’d have to cut the business out, and be content to chat
  Of rations, grub, and officers—­such odds and ends as that,

  Unless you chanced to entertain some true rough-rider’s ghost,
  Who galloped after HANNIBAL, or with the Parthian host,
  Some curled Assyrian prince who pranced, bareback, along a frieze—­
  Or one of RUPERT’S beaux sabreurs—­a horseman—­whom you please.

  With chosen spirits such as those your talk need never end
  If you are worthy of your spurs and count a horse your friend. 
  Just ask them “Did you clip trace-high?” or “Did you chaff your hay?”
  Or boast about the gee you ride, and they’ll have lots to say.

  Cut out the talk of battle’s din, of whizz-bangs and of crumps,
  Of bombs and gas and hand-grenades, of mines and blazing dumps;
  If you would wake their sympathy and warm their hearts indeed
  Describe a Squadron watering, and then the fuss at “Feed!”

  That lively bustle has a charm to wake a mummy’s ear
  Who, ere the Pyramids were planned, was mustered charioteer;
  And many a horseman’s spirit thrills by Lethe’s drowsy brink
  When in a strange, familiar dream his Troop comes down to drink!

* * * * *

From “The Story of the Haldane Missions":—­