III.—THE WATCHMAN'S ADVENTURE
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H, here's a pair of goloshes," said the watchman, "which no doubt belong to the lieutenant who lives up there. They are lying close to the door." The worthy man would willingly have rung, and delivered them, for there was still a light in the upper story; but, not wishing to disturb the sleep of the people in the house, he let them rest.
"These sort of things must keep one nice and warm," said he. "They are of such soft leather." They fitted his feet exactly. "What an odd world this is!" mused he: "now there's a fellow who might lie in his warm bed, yet, hang me if he does. There walks up and down the room! That's a happy fellow for you! He has neither wife nor children, and goes into company every evening. How I wish I were he; I should then be a happy man indeed."
No sooner had he spoken this wish than the magic of the goloshes, which he had put on, took effect, and the watchman merged into the lieutenant. He now stood up there in his room, holding a piece of pink note-paper between his fingers, on which was penned a poem written by the lieutenant himself—for who has not had a lyrical fit once in their lives? And then, if one writes down one's thoughts, they of course flow in poetry. The following verses were written on the paper:—
"Were I but rich!" I often sighed
In boyhood's days, and thought with pride,
If rich I'd be a soldier brave,
With sword and snowy plumes that wave—
A soldier's colours now I have,
But richer never shall I be,
Alas, poor me!
I mind me once, in early youth,
A little maiden kissed my mouth.
For rich was I in fairy lore.
Though still—alas! in gold so poor;
But she by money set no store—
My wealth all lay in youthful glee,
Alas, poor me!
"Were I but rich!" is still my prayer—
The child has grown a woman fair.
Good, beautiful, and true as gold.
Oh! might I but my heart unfold,
Or she but read the tale untold;
But I must ever silent be—
Alas, poor me!
Oh! were I rich in peace and rest.
Not paper should my woes attest.
May she I love but read this leaf.
And learn my youthful joys were brief,
And moist with tears this tale of grief,
For dark my future still must be,
Alas, poor me!
One writes such verses as these when one is in love; but a rational man does not print them. Lieutenant, love, and poverty form a triangle, or, perhaps, rather the half of the broken die of
