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It was not pride-the false, cheap pride the little peolle wear; It was the gracious elegance that high-born courtiers know. He had the manners of the French-yet English blood 'was there; His pace was somewhat ponderous, and beautifully slow. Beyond us was a sunlit tot.zn-1his was the king's highway. "And may we give your Majesty a friendly lift" we said. "I mueh prefer my garden walk. Dear commoners, good day"' He answered like the king he was-and bowed his kingly head. We never saw that royal form in any later ride; No doubt he loitered far behind, on roadways of his own. We loved his walk, but even more we loved his simple pride- In some remote and vanished time he sat upon a throne. 3ut now-oh, happier far his lot!-the freedom of the earth, And not the petty politics of some declining land I think of him when spring comes back-this nan of happy birth, Who walks that road in Acadie, With a scepter in his hand!