TRUST not the aged Frenchman
When he knocketh at the door,
When he tells his touching story
And boweth to the floor.
For beneath his seedy clothing
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A canvas bag he hides,
In which he puts the garments
Which your charity provides.
He dwelleth in the city,
And is not on the way
To New York or to Boston,
Whatever he may say.
And in a State St. window
Your clothing you may see,
If you trust that aged Frenchman
Who "came it" over me.
Yale Courant.
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The Princeton Nine.
