AN ENEMY MAY BE SERVED, EVEN THROUGH MISTAKE, WITH PROFIT.

I was walking down the sidewalk, When up, with flying mane, Two iron-black steeds came spurning The ground in wild disdain; I caught them in an instant, And held them by the rein.

It seems the man had fainted In his elegant coupé; I saw his face a moment, And then I turned away, Wishing my steps had led me Through other streets that day.

Some one who saw the rescue Afterward told him my name. For the first in many a season, Beneath our roof he came. I said I was deserving Little of praise or blame.

It was my uncle's face in the carriage; He made regret of the past; No more of my love or wishes Would he be the iconoclast; On a gala night at his mansion We should learn to be friends at last.