THE CAFE MOLINEAU.

THE Cafe Molineau is where A dainty little minx Serves God and man as best she can By serving meats and drinks. Oh, such an air the creature has, And such a pretty face! I took delight that autumn night In hanging round the place.

I know but very little French (I have not long been here); But when she spoke, her meaning broke Full sweetly on my ear. Then, too, she seemed to understand Whatever I'd to say, Though most I knew was "oony poo," "Bong zhoor," and "see voo play."

The female wit is always quick, And of all womankind 'Tis here in France that you, perchance, The keenest wits shall find; And here you'll find that subtle gift, That rare, distinctive touch, Combined with grace of form and face, That glads men overmuch.

"Our girls at home," I mused aloud, "Lack either that or this; They don't combine the arts divine As does the Gallic miss. Far be it from me to malign Our belles across the sea, And yet I'll swear none can compare With this ideal She."

And then I praised her dainty foot In very awful French, And parleyvood in guileful mood Until the saucy wench Tossed back her haughty auburn head, And froze me with disdain: "There are on me no flies," said she, "For I come from Bangor, Maine!"