ward road," returned Lavinia, shaking her head over her own backslidings.
"No: it's the second step. We ate calves' brains for dinner, and what I'm sure were frogs' legs with mushrooms. You know we vowed we wouldn't touch their horrid messes, but I really begin to like them," confessed Mat, who had pronounced every dish at dinner "De-licious!"
"Ha! I will write a poem!" cried Amanda, and leaping from the sofa she grasped her pen, flung open her portfolio, and in a few brief moments produced these inspired stanzas.
THE DOWNWARD ROAD.
Two Yankee maids of simple mien,
And earnest, high endeavor,
Come sailing to the land of France,
To escape the winter weather.
When first they reached that vicious shore
They scorned the native ways,
Refused to eat the native grub,
Or ride in native shays.
"Oh, for the puddings of our home!
Oh, for some simple food!
These horrid, greasy, unknown things,
How can you think them good?"
Thus to Amanda did they say,
An uncomplaining maid,