Cap and Gown A Treasury of College Verse

~Love Laughs.~

"Love laughs at locksmiths," laughs ho! ho!

Still Thisbe steals to meet a beau,

Naught recks of bolt and bar and night,

And father's frown and word despite.

As in the days of long ago,

In southern heat and northern snow

Still twangs the archer's potent bow,

And as his flying arrows smite,

Love laughs.

Trinity Tablet.

~Where Cupid Dwells.~

Way over the seas, is a far, far land,

Where skies are blue and gold;

Where ripples break on a silver sand,

And sunbeams ne'er grow old;

There's a dale where Cupid dwells, they say,

And 'tis there that he rests from his frolic play.

Oh, there's many a lass and many a swain

That knows of his shafts made there;

For Cupid spares naught of a deep heart-pain.

Though love be all his care.

And I think he should make a reflection or two,

When he rests over there from his play. Don't you?

ROBERT L. MUNGER. Yale Courant.

~To Ruby Lips.~

Two ruby lips are hers; a pair

Of eyes a cynic to ensnare,

A tinted cheek, a perfect nose,

A throat as white as winter's snows,

And o'er her brow bright golden hair.

But, though she's everything that's fair,

My captured fancy's focused where

A saucy smile suffuses those

Two ruby lips.

Why longer wait their sweets to share?

We're safe behind the portière.

A moment, then, that no one knows-

Ah! now she's flown, couleur de rose,

With, one might hint (but who would dare?)

Too ruby lips.

H.A. RICHMOND. The Tech.

~A Gift.~

My friend holds careless in his palm

A glittering stone.

He does not know a jewel rare

Is all his own.

But in its flashing lights I see

A diamond shine,

And though he holds it in his hand,

The gem is mine.

ELIZABETH REEVE CUTTER. Smith College Monthly.

~Jacqueminot.~

Are you filled with wonder, Jacqueminot,

Do you think me mad that I kiss you so?

If a rose could only its thoughts express,

I'd find you mocking, I more than guess;

And yet if you vow me a fond old fool,

Just think if your own fine pulse was cool

When you lay in her tresses an hour ago,

Jacqueminot.

This pale, proud girl, you must understand,

Held all my fate in her small white hand,

And when I asked her to be my bride,

She wanted a day to think-decide;

And I asked, if her answer were no, she'd wear

A Marshal Niel to the ball in her hair,

But if 'twere yes, she would tell me so

By a Jacqueminot.

My heart found heaven, I had seen my sign,

And after the dance I knew her mine,

And I plucked you out of her warm, soft hair,

As her stately pride stood trembling there,

And I felt in the dark for her lips to kiss,

And I pressed them close to my own like this,

And I held her cheek to my own cheek-so,

Jacqueminot!

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

~Don't You Wish You Knew!~

Glancing in the moonlight,

Gliding in the dark,

Down the river slowly,

Floats our dainty bark.

Sweetly sound two voices,

Shadows hide the view;

Heard the rushes something?

Don't you wish you knew!

Gently sigh the zephyrs,

Shine the stars above,

Eyes of brighter lustre

Speak of lasting love.

Quickly pass the hours,

Glides the bark canoe;

Heard the rushes something?

Don't you wish you knew!

A.H.B. Brunonian.

~Prom-Roses.~

Only a bunch of roses fair,

A duster of pink and white,

Roses that nod to the music low,

The flowers she wore that night.

She tenderly lifts each drooping head

That gracefully tosses there,

And the dainty flowers, nestling close,

Smile back at the maiden fair.

"How beautiful they are," she said,

As she pressed them to her cheek,

"Why, the opened petals almost seem

As if they were trying to speak."

I wonder why she cannot hear

The song that the flowers sing,

I wonder if she knows or cares

For the message the roses bring.

JAMES P. SAWYER. Yale Record.

~A Lyric.~

Beneath the lilac-tree,

With its breathing blooms of white,

You waved a parting kiss to me

In the deepening amber light.

Your face is always near,

Your tender eyes of brown.

I see your form in dreams; I hear

The whisper of your gown.

Once more the lilac-tree

With twilight dew is wet;

But, oh, I would that you might be

Alive to love me yet.

EDWARD M. HULME. The Palo Alto.

Pallas

You say there's a sameness in my style,

You long for the savor of something new,

You tell me that love is not worth while,

You wish for verse that is strong and true.

Well, I will leave the choice to you-

Prose or poetry, short or long,

Only we'll let this be the cue-

Love is excluded from the song.

I'll sing of some old cathedral pile,

Where, as we sit in a carved oak pew,

The sunlight illumines nave and aisle,

And peace seems thrilling us through and through.

No? you don't think that will do?

How would you like a busy throng,

A battle, Elizabeth's retinue?

But love is excluded from the song.

A journey, a voyage, a tropic isle,

The hush of the forest, the ocean blue,

A lament for all that is false and vile,

A paean for all that is good and true.

Pompadour's fan, or Louis's queue,

Mournful or merry, right or wrong.

Subjects, you'll find, are not so few,

But love is excluded from the song.

Oh! for a song of yourself you sue!

Do you think you can trap me? You are wrong.

Sing of your eyes and your smile and-Pooh!

Love is excluded from the song.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator.

~How I Love Her.~

Dear, I'll tell you how I love you-

Not by singing sweetly of you-

Oh, I love you far too much,

For the daintiest rhyme's light touch;

No, it needs no language signs,

It's written here between the lines,

How I love you! You will see

If you look there, loving me.

C.B. NEWTON. Nassau Literary Monthly.

~Polly.~

She fluttered gaily down the hill-

That merry, dimpled lass-

She hurried singing down the hill,

And then she loitered by the mill,

And saw the bubbles pass,

Made double in the glass

Of the mirror of the water, greeny still.

She heard a sparrow pertly cry,

She smelt the new-mown hay,

She felt the sunshine in the sky,

As lightly she went skipping by,

A-down the sunny way-

'Twas like a holiday,

The keen, expectant sparkle in her eye.

And Cupid's wings were on her feet,

As nimbly she ran down;

And Cupid's wings were on her feet:

For pretty Polly went to meet

Her lover in the town.

She wore that lilac gown

That made him say-oh, nothing to repeat!

CHARLES W. SHOPE. Harvard Advocate.

~Under the Rose.~

Last night the blush rose clustered,-

To-day the rough wind blows

In showers her broken petals;

Last night,-yet no one knows,-

I kissed thee, sweetheart, sweetheart,

Under the rose!

Last night my fond hope blossomed,-

To-day December snows

Drift deep and cold above it;

To-day,-ah! no one knows,-

My heart breaks, sweetheart, sweetheart,

Under the rose!

CATHERINE Y. GLEN. Mount Holyoke.

[Illustration: MT. HOLYOKE GIRL.]

~A Bit of Human Nature.~

'Tis only a pair of woman's eyes,

So long-lashed, soft, and brown,

Half hiding the light that in them lies,

As dreamily looking down.

'Tis only the dainty curve of a lip,

Half full, half clear defined,

And the shell-like pink of a finger-tip,

And a figure half reclined.

'Tis only a coil of rich, dark hair,

With sunlight sifted through,

And a truant curl just here and there,

And a knot of ribbon blue.

'Tis only the wave of a feather fan,

That ruffles the creamy lace,

Loose gathered about the bosom fair,

By rhinestones held in place.

'Tis only the toe of a high-heeled shoe,

With the glimpse of a color above-

A stocking tinted a faint sky-blue,

The shade that lovers love.

'Tis only a woman-a woman, that's all,

And, as only a woman can,

Bringing a heart to her beck and call

By waving her feather fan.

'Tis only a woman, and I-'twere best

To forget that waving fan.

She only a woman-you know the rest?

But I am only a man.

CHARLES WASHINGTON COLEMAN. Virginia University Magazine.

~Her Little Glove.~

Her little glove, I dare aver,

Would set your pulses all astir;

It hides a something safe from sight

So soft and warm, so small and white,

A cynic would turn flatterer!

Could Pegasus have better spur?

'Twould almost cause a saint to err-

A Puritan to grow polite-

Her little glove.

'Twill satisfy a connoisseur,

This dainty thing of lavender;

And when it clasps her fingers tight

I think-I wonder if it's right-

That somehow-well-I wish I were

Her little glove.

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. Wesleyan Verse.

~Skating Hath Charms.~

So cold was the night,

And her cheeks were cold, too,

Though it wasn't quite right,

So cold was the night,

And so sad was her plight,

That I-well, wouldn't you?

So cold was the night,

And her cheeks were cold, too.

H.H. Amherst Literary Monthly.

~The Portrait.~

Pearls and patches, powder and paint,

This was her grandmother years ago.

Gown and coiffure so strange and quaint,

Features just lacking the prim of the saint,

From the mischievous dimple that lurks below;

High-heeled slippers and satin bow,

Red lips mocking the heart's constraint,

Free from passion, devoid of taint-

This was her grandmother years ago.

Straight and slender, gallant and tall.

Ah, how he loved her, years ago!

Just so she looked at that last dim ball,

When, in a niche of the dusk old hall,

They whispered together soft and low.

She whispered "yes," but fate answered "no:"

Some one listened and told it all,

And the horses might wait by the garden wall,

But none came to answer him, years ago.

So, standing, fresh as the rose on her breast,

Smiling down on me here below,

Never a care on her brow impressed,

Never the dream of a thought confessed

Of all the weariness and the woe,

Hearts would break were time not so slow.

Swept are life's chambers; comes the new guest.

Old love, or new love-which was the best?

For this was her grandmother years ago.

Southern Collegian.

~The Convert.~

I wrote lots of trash about Cupid,

And the telling bewitchment of curls,

And that men were excessively stupid

To be madly devoted to girls.

I remarked that true love was unstable,

As compared with position or pelf,

'Till one day I met you, little Mabel,

And learned what it felt like, myself!

Don't read all the things I have written

When I knew that my heart was my own,

But since I confess I am smitten,

Read these little verses alone.

And sincerely I trust I'll be able

To convince you, you sly little elf,

To grant me your heart, little Mabel,

And learn what it feels like yourself!

GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Literary Monthly.

~A Thief's Apology.~

I stole a kiss!-What could I do?

Before the door we stood, we two,

About to say a plain good-by;

She seemed so innocent and shy,

But what she thought, I thought I knew.

Ah, swift the blissful moments flew,

And when at last I said adieu

(Perhaps you think me bold), but I-

I stole a kiss.

The tale is told; perhaps it's true,

Perhaps it was a deed to rue;

But when that look came in her eye

I thought she wished to have me try-

I don't know how 'twould been with you-

I stole a kiss.

ROBERT PORTER ST. JOHN. Amherst Literary Monthly.

~A Ballad of Dorothy.~

It's "Dorothy! Where's Dorothy?"

From morn to even fall,

There's not a lad on Cowslip Farm

Who joins not in the call.

It's Dolly here and Dolly there,

Where can the maiden be?

No wench in all the countryside's

So fine as Dorothy.

With tucked-up gown and shining pail,

Before the day is bright,

Down dewy lanes she singing goes

Among the hawthorns white.

Perchance her roses need her care,

She tends them faithfully.

There's not a rose in all the world

As fresh and sweet as she!

With morning sunshine in her hair

A-churning Dolly stands:

Oh, happy chum, I envy it,

Held close between her hands;

And when the crescent moon hangs bright

Athwart the soft night sky,

Down shady paths we strolling go,

Just Dorothy and I.

As true of heart as sweet of face,

With gay and girlish air,

The painted belles of citydom

Are not a whit as fair.

Come Michaelmas the parish chimes

Will ring out merrily.

Who is the bride I lead to church?

Why, who but Dorothy?

ARTHUR KETCHUM. Williams Literary Monthly.

~A Cup and Saucer Episode.~

'Twas only coffee, yet we both drank deep,

I won't deny I felt intoxication;

For just to see those roguish moon-eyes peep

Over the cup, I plunged in dissipation.

She raised her cup, and I raised also mine;

She gave a look, as if "Now are you ready?"

Our eyes met o'er the rims-it seemed like wine,

So sweet, divine, bewitching, almost "heady."

So cup on cup! The salad, too, was good.

I had of that far more than my fair rations.

Yet served it merely as an interlude

Between the music of the cup flirtations.

And then to have her say 'twas all my fault!

I fairly blushed, and gazed down at my cup.

I noticed, though, she had not called the halt

Until the pot was empty, every sup.

BERT ROSS. Harvard Advocate.

~Faint Heart Ne'er Won Fair Lady.~

"The burn runs swiftly, my dainty lass,

And its foam-wreathed stones are mossy,

An I carry ye ower to yonder shore

Ye will na think me saucy?"

"I thank ye, sir, but a Scottish lass

Recks not of a little wetting.

Will ye stand aside, sir? I can na bide, sir.

The sun o' the gloamin's setting."

"Yet stay, my pretty, the stepping-stones

Are a bridge o' my are hands' making.

An ye pay no toll I maun be so bold-

The sweeter a kiss for taking."

"Farewell, ye braw young Highlander.

Tho' first ye sought to mask it:

Unceevil 'tis to steal a kiss.

But muckle waur to ask it."

CHARLES POTTER HINE. Yale Literary Magazine.

~A Foreign Tongue.~

When lovers talk, they talk a foreign tongue,

Their words are not like ours,

But full of meanings like the throb of flowers

Yet in the earth, unborn. I think the snow

Feels the mysterious passage and the flow

Of inarticulate streams that surge below.

And it is easy learning for the young;

When lovers talk, they talk a foreign tongue.

ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH. Smith College Monthly.

~Ye Gold-Headed Cane.~

It stands in the corner yet, stately and tall,

With a top that once shone like the sun.

It whispers of muster-field, playhouse, and ball,

Of gallantries, courtship, and fun.

It is hardly the stick for the dude of to-day,

He would swear it was deucedly plain,

But the halos of memory crown its decay-

My grandfather's gold-headed cane.

It could tell how a face in a circling calash

Grew red as the poppies she wore,

When a dandy stepped up with a swagger and dash.

And escorted her home to her door.

How the beaux cried with jealousy, "Jove! what a buck!"

As they glared at the fortunate swain,

And the wand which appeared to have fetched him his luck-

My grandfather's gold-headed cane.

It could tell of the rides in the grand yellow gig,

When, from under a broad scuttle hat,

The eyes of fair Polly were lustrous and big,

And-but no! would it dare tell of that?

Ah me! by those wiles that bespoke the coquette

How many a suitor was slain!

There was one, though, who conquered the foe when they met

With the gleam of his gold-headed cane.

Oh, the odors of lavender, lilac, and musk!

They scent these old halls even yet;

I can still see the dancers as down through the dusk

They glide in the grave minuet.

The small satin slippers, my grandmamma's pride,

Long, long in the chest have they lain;

Let us shake out the camphor and place them beside

My grandfather's gold-headed cane.

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

~Hours.~

Matchless, melting eyes of brown,

This is but a cheerless town;

You should beam 'neath warmer skies,

Matchless, melting, dark brown eyes.

Yours should be a land of flowers,

Perfumed air and sunny hours;

Eastern fires within you rise,

Matchless, melting, dark brown eyes.

Eyes of beauty, eyes of light,

Burning mystically bright,

Prithee here no longer stay,

You will burn my heart away.

W. Hamilton Literary Monthly.

~A Fickle Heart.~

A fickle heart! Let subtler poets sing

Of changeless love and all that kind of thing,

Of hearts in which a passion never dies-

My heart's as fickle as the summer skies

Across whose face the changing cloud-forms wing.

Unfailing loves unfailing troubles bring.

I love to touch on Cupid's harp each string,

Though each unto my questioning touch replies

A fickle heart.

So, 'twixt some thirty loves I'm wavering,

To each the same unstable vows I fling,

Reading the first glad gleam of love's surprise

In thirty pair of brown and azure eyes,

Finding in all the same thought answering;

A fickle heart.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator.

~My Lady goes to the Play.~

With the link-boys running on before

To light her on her way,

A-lounging in her sedan goes

Belinda to the play.

In patch and powder, puff and frill,

From satin shoe to hair,

Of all the maids in London town

I wot there's none so fair!

From Mayfair down along the Strand

To Covent Garden's light,

Where Master David Garrick acts

In a new r?le to-night,

The swinging sedan takes its way,

And with expectant air

Belinda fans, and wonders who

To-night there will be there.

Sir Charles, perhaps, or, happy thought,

Flushing thro' her powder,

He might come in-beneath her stays

She feels her heart beat louder.

The place, at last! The flunkies set

Their dainty burden down,

"Lud, what a crowd!" My Lady frowns

And gathers up her gown.

ENVOY.

Alack for human loveliness

And for its little span!

Where's Belinda? Here, quite fresh,

Are still her gown and fan!

ARTHUR KETCHUM. Williams Literary Monthly.

~Confession and Avoidance.~

They say that you're a flirt at best,

And warn me to beware: your glances

Would make, they say, a treach'rous test

By which to gauge a fellow's chances.

And yet-I love you so! a throng

Of passions bid me speak to-day.

Ah! darling, tell me they are wrong!

Are you as heartless as they say?

Am I? well, so I have been told,

Though never yet have I confessed it;

But you, sir, seem so very bold

That I-well, I admit you've guessed it.

Alas! 'tis true I'm heartless; yes,

They're right, but only right in part;

The reason, dear, is-can't you guess?

Because-because you have my heart.

JOHN ALAN HAMILTON. Cornell Magazine.

~Clarissa Laughs.~

Clarissa laughs. I plead in vain,

She hears my suit with sweet disdain,

When I remind her-speaking low-

That once she did not flout me so,

She asks me-do I think 'twill rain?

Then when in anger I am fain

To leave her, swear I've naught to gain

By staying, save th'increase of woe,

Clarissa laughs.

Yet when I beg of her to deign

To answer, give it joy or pain,

She smiles. So then I cannot go,

For with her smiles my love doth grow.

Yet when I press my suit again,

Clarissa laughs.

RUTH PARSONS MILNE. Smith College Monthly.

~'Mid the Roses.~

'Mid the roses she is standing,

In her garden, waiting there;

Roses all about her glowing,

Roses shining in her hair.

May I, dare I, ask the question

Which my heart has asked before?

Then I falter, "Can you love me,

Darling?" I can say no more.

Now the petals fall more slowly:

One has lodged upon her dress;

Now her eyes she raises gently;

Meeting mine, they answer "Yes."

F.T. GEROULD. Dartmouth Literary Monthly.

~A Society Martyr.~

Rustling billows of silk 'neath the foam of old lace,

A half-languid smile upon each listless face,-

A dreaming of roses and rose-leaf shades,-

A medley of modern and Grecian maids.

Such clatter and clink

One scarcely can think

Till he spies a shy nook where he lonely can sink,-

For how can a bachelor be at his ease

With such chatter and gossip at afternoon teas?

Fair Phyllis's gold lashes demurely cast down,

Her face in sweet doubt 'twixt a smile and a frown,-

A venturesome rosebud o'ertopping the rest

Now lies all a-quiver upon her white breast,

The curves of her neck

Man's vow often wreck,-

She has the whole world at her call and her beck.

So how can a bachelor be at his ease

With such variant emotions at afternoon teas?

Behind sheltering palms, safe from gossips' sharp gaze,

Is acted in mime one of life's dearest plays,-

Sweet Bessie's brown eyes raised beseechingly up,

Her lips just released from the kiss of her cup,

And Fred, I much fear,

From small sounds that I hear,

Is as bold as the rim of her cup,-and as near,-

And how can a bachelor be at his ease

With such sights and such sounds at our afternoon teas?

Shrewd maters watch Phyllis and Bessie and Fred,-

Each smile and each look and each toss of the head,-

And wonder and ponder and figure and scheme,

While fortune and fashion 'gainst love tip the beam.

For Bessie's dark locks

And Phyllis's smart frocks

Are but snares to entrap the society fox.

Pray, how can a bachelor be at his ease

With such artful devices at afternoon teas?

JOHN CLINTON ANTHONY. Brown Magazine.

~O Mores!~

Cupid's bow is lying broken,

Fallen on the ground,

And his arrows all with blunted

Points are strewn around.

For to reach our modern hearts

Powerless are the blind god's darts,

From his rosy shoulders stripped;

Since, to pierce the breasts so cold,

Shafts must always be of gold,

Arrows must be diamond-tipped.

ALBERT ELLSWORTH THOMAS. Brunonian.

~Which?~

Blonde or brunette? Shall Ethel fair,

My winter girl, with golden hair,

Or Maud, whose dark brown eyes bewitch,-

My summer girl,-now govern?

Which?

Shall cold Bostonianism rule?

Shall Love teach Browning in his school?

Or shall coy glances, passion-rich,

Compel my fond allegiance?

Which?

And yet the solving's really clear.

For winter's gone and summer's here.

I want no statue in a niche,

So Cupid says, "Let Maud be

'Which!'"

W.C. NICHOLS. Harvard Lampoon.

~Then and Now.~

When first we met she was three feet high,

And three, I think, was her age as well,

A touch of the heaven was in her eye;

I cannot say she was very shy,

(As you'll see by her actions by and by),

But the way I behaved I blush to tell.

We met at a party, on the stair;

She was decked in ribbons and silk galore,

She smiled with a most bewitching air,

And then, I'm afraid, I pulled her hair.

You know you can't expect savoir-faire

Of a cavalier of the age of four!

She only laughed with her subtle charm,

And took it more sweetly than you'd have believed,

But later she really took alarm-

When she wanted to kiss me I pinched her arm,

And she ran away to escape from harm;

At which, no doubt, I was much relieved.

She did not offer to kiss again;

I saw her go off with another beau.

She pretended to hold up her ten-inch train,

And whispered low to her new-found swain.

I was eating ice-cream with might and main,-

And that was some seventeen years ago.

I see her to-night on the winding stair,

She replies with a smile to my sober bow;

The palms lean lovingly toward her hair,

And her foot keeps time to a distant air.

I'm afraid she does not recall or care-

She does not offer to kiss me now!

Heigho! What a sad, what a sweet affair,

What a curious mixture life seems to be!

I am fast in the net of love, and there,

With another man on the winding stair,

Is the girl I love,-and I pulled her hair

When she wanted a kiss at the age of three!

GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator.

~A Toast.~

Clink, clink,

Fill up your glasses.

Drink, drink,

Drink to the lasses.

Eyes that are blue,

Lips that are sweet,

Hearts that are true,

Figures petite.

Clink, clink,

Fill up your glasses.

Drink, drink,

Drink to the lasses.

Drink, for there's nothing so sweet as a maid is;

Drink to the dearest of mortals, The Ladies.

HENRY MORGAN STONE. Brunonian.

~A Bit of Lace.~

It lay upon a pillow white,

The framework of a beauteous sight

Wherein its mistress laid a bright

Ecstatic face,

And when each night it proudly bore

Her wavy wealth of "cheveux d'or"

It seemed a very Heaven for

The bit of lace.

But lace can from a pillow part

And by a touch, of cunning art

Adorn the casket of the heart,

Where every grace,

Half hidden by its witching fold,

Seeks to betray a charm untold-

How envies each admirer bold

The bit of lace!

Still maidens' mind and garments change,

And so there comes a new exchange;

The real Valenciennes finds a strange

New resting-place,

Where tiny feet and ankles hide,

And where but for a shoe untied

No human eye had e'er espied

The bit of lace.

A crowded street, a sudden scare,

A little rush, a lengthy tear,

A snowy skirt that needs repair,

Decides the case.

And what each morn her footman missed

Hung from a dainty, dimpled wrist,

And ardent lovers fondly kissed

The bit of lace.

* * * * *

This tale is incomplete, I know,

But where else could the traveller go?

Ah, it was fifty years ago

All this took place.

And nodding, in her noonday nap,

Secure from every sad mishap,

I see in Grandma's dainty cap

The bit of lace.

Red and Blue.

~A Song to Her.~

A song to a maid with eyes like stars;

Lad, you can sing it.

Any old tune to trip the bars,

Any old voice to ring it;

Love will wend it away to her;

Love will mend it and pray to her;

Love with his love will wing it.

A song to a maid, a song of songs

Born in the singing

Ever, oh! ever to love belongs;

Ringing, ringing, ringing!

Holly berry, a winter theme,

Bursting cherry, a summer's dream,

Love on love's pinions winging.

Wrinkle.

~Circe.~

Merry smiles and entrancing eyes,

Words that are light as passing air.

Lips that never disown disguise,

Hearts that endeavor hearts to snare,

Tongues that know not the way to spare,

Babbling on in a thoughtless whirl;

Would-be worshippers, O beware!

These are the ways of the modern girl.

Faces fickle as April skies,

Eyes where Cupid has made his lair;

When they tempt you to idolize,

Then for a broken heart prepare.

What does she care for your despair,

Striving peace from your life to hurl?

Would-be worshippers, O take care!

These are the ways of the modern girl.

Ribbons and laces, smiles and sighs,

A knot of vermilion in her hair,

Glances where veiled deception lies,

A kiss, perchance, on the winding stair,

Exquisite gowns and roses rare,

Shimmer of silver, gloss of pearl-

Where is the heart, O woman, where?

These are the ways of the modern girl.

ENVOY.

Fashion and pique her hours share,

Nature and truth their standards furl,

Fair as fickle, and false as fair,

These are the ways of the modern girl.

Columbia Spectator.

~A Wish.~

Cupid laughs, nor seems to care

How his shafts are wont to harrow.

Ah! that I could unaware,

Wound him with his golden arrow.

A. Columbia Spectator.

~To Phyllis.~

I said your beauty shamed the rose's blush;

You thought the simile was trite, untrue;

But, oh, I saw each rose for pleasure flush

To hear itself compared, dear heart, to you!

ALBERT PAYSON TERHUNE. Columbia Spectator.

~L'Amour, L'Amour.~

We catch the fleeting perfume of roses

As the evening closes the golden day,

And the rhythmic beating of waves in motion

Comes from the ocean a mile away;

In the west is dying the sunset's splendor,

And twilight tender enfolds the land;

Where the tide is flying a-down the river,

And the grasses quiver, we silent stand.

In your radiant eyes the sun unknowing

Has left his glowing to deeper glow,

And your tender sighs sound far more sweetly

Than the winds that fleetly and blithely blow

And first all shyly your small hand lingers

With trembling fingers within my own,

The blushes slyly and swiftly starting,

And then departing like rose-leaves blown.

Alas, the envious time is fleeting,

But your heart is beating in time with mine,

And Cupid's rhyme rings louder-clearer,

As I draw you nearer, my love divine!

In the twilight dim we have found love's tether,

And are linked together, no more to part;

While the white stars swing in a maze of glory,

To hear the story that bares your heart.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator.

~Lines on a Ring.~

Oh, precious drop of crystal dew,

Set in a tiny band of gold,

Which doth within its little grasp

A blue-veined finger softly hold-

Thou failest if thy radiant rays

Are seeking-bold attempt 'twould be!-

To show a fraction of the love

That beams from Edith's eyes on me.

LOREN M. LUKE. Nassau Literary Monthly.

~A Memory.~

Shadows up the hillside creeping,

Gold in western sky,

Meadow-brook beneath us keeping

Dreamy lullaby.

Soft stars through the pine-trees gleaming-

Gems in dark robes caught-

Everything about us seeming

With hidden meaning fraught.

Sweet dark eyes, upon me turning,

Challenge if I dare,

Vie with amorous sunbeams burning

O'er her face and hair.

But a truce to idle musing-

That was long ago.

Was she gracious or refusing?

You may never know.

Winter's snows those fields are hiding

'Neath a robe of white,

For another she is biding

Tryst of love to-night.

I was only glancing over

A book beloved of yore,

When a sprig of mountain clover

Fluttered to the floor.

IRVILLE C. LECOMPTE. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

[Illustration: A WESLEYAN GIRL.]

~The Soul's Kiss.~

Not your sweet, red lips, dear,

Tremulous with sighs,

Lest their passion dull love's rapture;

Kiss me with your eyes.

Gleam on Cupid's wing, dear,

At the least touch flies,

Even lips may brush to dimness;

Kiss me with your eyes.

Pain within the bliss, dear,

Of those soft curves lies;

Only love the soul's light carries;

Kiss me with your eyes.

MAUD THOMPSON. Wellesley Magazine.

~A Portrait.~

A slim, young girl, in lilac quaintly dressed;

A mammoth bonnet, lilac like the gown,

Hangs from her arm by wide, white strings, the crown

Wreathed round with lilac blooms; and on her breast

A cluster; lips still smiling at some jest

Just uttered, while the gay, gray eyes half frown

Upon the lips' conceit; hair, wind-blown, brown

Where shadows stray, gold where the sunbeams rest.

Ah! lilac lady, step from your gold frame,

Between that starched old Bishop and the dame

In awe-inspiring ruff. We'll brave their ire

And trip a minuet. You will not?-Fie!

Those mocking lips half make me wish that I,

Her grandson, might have been my own grandsire.

Trinity Tablet.

~A Picture.~

On spinet old, Clarissa plays

The melodies of by-gone days.

Forgotten fugue, a solemn tune,

The bars of stately rigadoon.

With head bent down to scan each note,

A crimson ribbon round her throat,

The very birds to sing forget

As some old-fashioned minuet

Clarissa plays.

King George long since has passed away,

And minuets have had their day.

Within a hidden attic nook

Covered with dust, her music-book.

Gone are the keys her fingers pressed.

The bunch of roses at her breast.

But still, unmindful of time's flight,

With face so fair and hands so white,

Clarissa plays.

EDWARD B. REED. Yale Literary Magazine.

~Tildy in the Choir.~

Lines that ripple, notes that dance,

Foreign measures brought from France,

Reaching with a careless ease

From high C to-where you please,

Clever, frivolous, and gay-

These will answer in their way;

But that tune of long ago-

Stately, solemn, somewhat slow

(Dear "Old Hundred"-that's the air)-

Will outrank them anywhere;

Once it breathed a seraph's fire.

(Tildy sang it in the choir.)

How she stood up straight and tall!

Ah! again I see it all;

Cheeks that glowed and eyes that laughed,

Teeth like cream, and lips that quaffed

All the genial country's wealth

Of large cheer and perfect health,

Gown-well, yes-old-fashioned quite,

You would call it "just a fright,"

But I love that quaint attire.

(Tildy wore it in the choir.)

How we sang-for I was there,

Occupied a singer's chair

Next to-well, no prouder man

Ever lifts the bass, nor can,

Sometimes held the self-same book,

(How my nervous fingers shook!)

Sometimes-wretch-while still the air

Echoed to the parson's prayer,

I would whisper in her ear

What she could not help but hear.

Once, I told her my desire.

(Tildy promised in the choir.)

Well, those days are past, and now

Come gray hairs, and yet somehow

I can't think those years have fled-

Still those roadways know my tread,

Still I climb that old pine stair,

Sit upon the stiff-backed chair,

Stealing glances toward my left

Till her eyes repay the theft;

Death's a dream and Time's a liar-

Tildy still is in the choir.

Come, Matilda number two,

_Fin de siècle _maiden you!

Wonder if you'd like to see

Her I loved in fifty-three?

Yes? All right, then go and find

Mother's picture-"Papa!"-Mind!

She and I were married. You

Were our youngest. Now you, too,

Raise the same old anthems till

All the church is hushed and still

With a single soul to hear.

Do I flatter? Ah, my dear,

Time has brought my last desire-

Tildy still is in the choir!

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

~A Memory.~

We sat in the lamplight's gentle glow,

Alone on the winding stair,

And the distant strains of a waltz fell low

On the fragrance-laden air.

I caught from her lips a murmured "yes,"

And the stately palms amid

There came a blissful, sweet caress-

I shouldn't have-but I did!

I might forget that joyous night,

As the months slip swiftly by;

I might forget the gentle light

That shone in her hazel eye;

But I can't forget that whispered "yes"

That came the palms amid,

I can't forget that one caress-

I shouldn't have-but I did!

GUY WETMORE CARRYL Columbia Spectator.

~The American Girl.~

The German may sing of his rosy-cheeked lass,

The French of his brilliant-eyed pearl;

But ever the theme of my praises shall be

The laughing American girl,

Yes, the jolly American girl.

She laughs at her sorrows, she laughs at her joys,

She laughs at Dame Fortune's mad whirl;

And laughing will meet all her troubles in life,

The laughing American girl,

Yes, the joyous American girl.

You say she can't love if she laughs all the time?

A laugh at your logic she'll hurl;

She loves while she laughs and she laughs while she loves,

The laughing American girl,

Oh, the laughing American girl!

S.F.P. Campus.

~Ballade of Justification.~

A jingle of bells and a crunch of snow,

Skies that are clear as the month of May,

Winds that merrily, briskly blow,

A pretty girl and a cozy sleigh,

Eyes that are bright and laughter gay,

All that favors Dan Cupid's art;

I was but twenty. What can you say

If I confess I lost my heart?

What if I answered in whispers low,

Begged that she would not say me nay,

Asked if my love she did not know,

What if I did? Who blames me, pray?

Suppose she blushed. 'Tis the proper way

For lovely maidens to play their part.

Does it seem too much for a blush to pay

If I confess I lost my heart?

What if I drove extremely slow,

Was there not cause enough to stay?

Such opportunities do not grow

Right in one's pathway every day;

Cupid I dared not disobey,

If he saw fit to cast his dart;

Is it a thing to cause dismay

If I confess I lost my heart?

ENVOY.

What if I kissed her? Jealous they

Who scoff at buyers in true love's mart.

Who can my sound good sense gainsay

If I confess I lost my heart?

GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator.

~Perdita.~

'Twas only a tiny, withered rose,

But it once belonged to Grace.

The goody didn't know that, I suppose-

'Twas only a tiny, withered rose,

No longer sweet to the eye or nose,

So she tossed it out from the Dresden vase.-

'Twas only a tiny, withered rose,

But it once belonged to Grace.

Harvard Advocate.

~Strategy.~

Some, Cupid kills with arrows,

Some, with traps;

But this spring the little rascal

Found, perhaps,

That he needed both to slay me;

So he laid a cunning snare

On the hillside, and he hid it

In a lot of maidenhair;

And I doubt not he is laughing

At the joke,

For he made his arrows out of

Poison-oak.

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. Sequoia.

~Canoe Song.~

Dip! Dip! Softly slip

Down the river shining wide,

Dim and far the dark banks are;

Life is love and naught beside.

Onward, drifting with the tide.

Drip, drip, from paddle tip

Myriad ripples swirl and swoon;

Shiv'ring 'mid the ruddy stars,

Mirrored in the deep lagoon,

Faintly floats the mummied moon.

Soft, soft, high aloft,-

Ever thus till time is done,-

Worlds will die; may thou and I

Glide beneath a gentler sun,

Young as now and ever one.

E. FRèRE CHAMPNEY. Harvard Advocate.

~A Rambling Rhyme of Dorothy.~

When ye Crocuss shews his heade

& ye Wyndes of Marche have flede,

Springe doth come, and happylye

Then I thinke of

Dorothy.

Haycockes fragrante in ye sun

Give me reste when taskes are done:

Summer's here, & merrylye

Then I dreame of

Dorothy.

Scarlette leaves & heapinge binne;

Cyder, ye cool Tankard in;

Autumn's come. Righte jollylye

Then I drinke to

Dorothy.

When ye Northe Wynde sweeps ye snowe

& Icyclles hange all belowe,

Then, for soothe, Olde Winter, he

Letts me dance with

Dorothy!

ARTHUR CHENEY TRAIN. Harvard Advocate.

~The Prof.'s Little Girl.~

She comes to the Quad when her Ladyship pleases,

And loiters at will in the sun and the shade;

As free from the burden of work as the breezes

That play with the bamboo is this little maid.

The tongues of the bells, as they beat out the morning,

Like mad in their echoing cases may whirl

Till they weary of calling her,-all their sharp warning

Is lost on the ear of the prof's little girl.

With a scarred-over heart that is old in the knowledge

Of all the manoeuvres and snares of the Hall,

Grown wary of traps in its four years at college,

And able at last to keep clear of them all,-

Oh, what am I doing away from my classes

With a little blue eye and a brown little curl?

Ah me! fast again, and each precious hour passes

In slavery sweet to the prof's little girl.

She makes me a horse, and I mind her direction,

Though it takes me o'er many a Faculty green;

I'm pledged to the cause of her pussy's protection

From ghouls of the Lab and the horrors they mean;

I pose as the sire of a draggled rag dolly

Who owns the astonishing title of Pearl;-

And I have forgotten that all this is folly,

So potent the charm of the prof's little girl!

Yet, spite of each sacrifice made to impress her,

She smiles on my rival. Oh, vengeance I'd gain!

But he wears the same name as my major professor,

And so in his graces I have to remain;

And when she trots off with this juvenile lover,

Leaving me and the cat and the doll in a whirl,

It's pitiful truly for us to discover

The signs of her sex in the prof's little girl.

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. Four-Leaved Clover.

~Gertrude.~

Fair Gertrude lives at Farmington,

Perhaps you've seen her there;

Her eyes delight in laughing light,

Let gods describe her hair;

Her figure-well, grave Juno ne'er

Had half the supple grace

Of Gertrude fair of Farmington-

Perhaps you know that place?

Beneath her lips there gleam two rows

Of greed-inspiring pearls;

Such rows of teeth the gods bequeath

To but their choicest girls.

For other things at Farmington

I do not care a rap,

Although it is a lovely place-

I've seen it (on the map).

I would the gods had given me

Some mild poetic skill;

In Gertrude's praise I'd sing for days,

And volumes I could fill.

Perhaps you think I love this maid-

In sooth perhaps I do;

Well, If I did, I'd tell her-

But, by Jove, I'd not tell you.

J.H. Scranton Yale Record.

~My Politics.~

I am for gold-her golden hair

Whose mesh my soul entrances;

Caressing this, what do I care

For national finances?

For silver, too-those silver tones

That with her laughter rise;

This wealth, thank God. no law or thrones

Can e'er demonetize.

G.W. PIERCE. University of Texas Magazine.

~The Summer Girl.~

A half-reclining form

In a "sleepy-hollow" chair,

A cloud of curls that storm

About her beauty fair,

Two laughing eyes that tell

A shyly answered "Yes."

A dainty hand to-well,

Say simply to caress.

An airy little sprite

In a billowy flood of lace,

Which flutters in its flight

In the galop's tripping grace.

And, oh, the broken hearts

Which follow the rapturous whirl!

Oh, the Redfern gown, and the arts

Of the annual summer girl!

EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER. Dartmouth Literary Monthly.

~Love's Token.~

The frost and snow of mistletoe,

The warmth of holly berry,

These I combine, O lady mine,

To make thy yule-tide merry.

And shouldst thou learn, sweet, to return

My love, nor deem it folly,

Twined in thy hair the snow fruit wear,

And on thy breast the holly.

ALICE R. TAGGART. Vassar Miscellany.

~A Passing Song.~

Ah, only love I have ever known,

Ah, only love I shall ever know,

The careless hours of youth have flown

And the light-hearted past to the winds is thrown,

And faster and faster the hours go.

To your heart and mine there's a secret lying

While the spring's breath thrills in the air of May,

While life seems ever to be defying

The flight of time and the thought of dying,

And the great world runs on its careless way.

Yet one dear thought in my heart is resting

As I face the path I must tread ere long,

When wearied with life's unending questing,

Its tawdry joys and its idle jesting,

I shall pass to the midst of the missing throng.

That here I have known your heart's dear thrilling,

Your helping hand and your watchful eye,

My life with your tender love fulfilling.

I know but this, and am strangely willing

To learn your love and in learning-die.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator.

~Safe.~

When I picked up her glove

I let Fate decide it.

So great was my love,

When I picked up her glove;

'Twas as soft as a dove

And her hand was inside it.

When I picked up her glove

I let Fate decide it.

W. Columbia Spectator.

~Her Winsome Smile.~

Her winsome smile! It beams on me

From where the choir makes melody,

Behind the parson; maid demure,

Her witching eyes my thoughts allure,

Although, in church, this should not be.

Pale Luna's light, the dimpling sea,

Are very taking, I'll agree;

But to her smile all else is poor-

Her winsome smile.

The preacher, in a mournful key,

Shoves on the Year of Jubilee,

Shows present times without a cure,

With pessimistic portraiture-

His back is turned, he cannot see

Her winsome smile.

HARRY KEISER MUNROE. Wesleyan Argus.

~The Summer Girl.~

I wooed her in the summer months,

When all the world was gay,

And on the hillside, in the sun,

The yellow harvest lay,

And late, across the level lawns,

The twilight met the day.

Together, in the garden walks,

At early morn we went;

Together, in the deep green groves,

The drowsy noontide spent;

And in the evening watched how well

The sunset glories blent.

Oh, happy morn! The trysting oak

Hung o'er the orchard gate.

I waited for her in the shade--

I had quite long to wait,

For with the coachman she eloped

And left me to my fate.

Yale Record.

~Phyllis's Slippers.~

Before the firelight's genial glow

She sits, and dreams of waltzes sweet,

Nor heeds the curious gleams that show

Grandmamma's slippers on her feet.

Ah, happy slippers, thus to hold

So rare a burden! It were meet

That you should be of beaten gold

To clasp so close such dainty feet.

H. A. RICHMOND. The Tech.

~Vindication.~

Pray, why do maidens ever stand beneath

The mistletoe?

And why was ever hung the mystic wreath-

Why should it grow?

And why were laughing eyes and lashes made,

If not to tease?

And such an opportunity displayed,

If not to seize?

Why, pouting lips should always ready be

To catch a kiss.

If cheeks will blush, why, it is plain to see

'Tis not amiss.

And when a maiden sweet, and roguish eyes,

And mistletoe,

And madd'ning lips, while telltale blushes rise,

A-teasing so-

Think you that I all idle waiting sat

To see her go?

Did I believe when she insisted that

She didn't know?

ARTHUR MAURICE SMITH. Wrinkle.

~To an Imaginary One.~

Say, darling, do you love me true?

Return you my affection?

Pray answer as I want you to,

And speak with circumspection.

Don't blurt me out a yes, chérie,

And throw your arms around me:

A lack of maiden modesty

Would shock me and confound me.

Be distant as the morning star,

Nor let me know how real,

How most material you are-

My love is too ideal.

Yes, be a little bit afraid,

And make a sweet resistance;

So near, a maid is but a maid,

A goddess at a distance.

Still deign to play the charmer, dear,

Blush while you're thinking of me,

Breathe coyest wordlets in mine ear,

But don't confess you love me!

HENRY B. EDDY. Harvard Advocate.

~When Gladys Plays.~

When Gladys plays in gladsome glee,

All men and gods might wish to see.

With flushing cheek and flashing eye

She strokes the ball or lobs it high,

With cuts of great variety.

The ball hides in some blooming tree,

And sorely tries poor patient me;

But I swear not, oh, no! not I,

When Gladys plays.

When whist with all propriety,

As Foster, Hoyle, or Pole decree,

We play together, although my

Good ace she trumps, I merely sigh

And grant the points to the enemy,

When Gladys plays.

FERRIS GREENSLET. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

~At the Club.~

When a pretty maiden passes

By the window down the Street,

Cards and billiards lose their sweet;

Conversation on old brasses

Languishes; up go the glasses:

"Nice complexion!" "Dainty feet!"

When a pretty maiden passes

By the window down the street

Smith forgets the "toiling masses,"

Robinson, the fall in wheat;

All the club is indiscreet.

Ah, the wisest men are asses

When a pretty maiden passes

By the window down the street!

RICHARD HOVEY. Dartmouth Lyrics.

~Friends.~

The wintry sky may be chill and drear,

And the wind go sighing in mournful strain,

Or it may be the spring of the waking year,

When flowers and birds return again.

Be it March or May, it matters not,

Snow or violets on the ground,

I know a little bewitching spot,

Where it is fair the whole year round.

A low tea-table set out for two,

A divan with cushions piled on high,

Dresden tea-cups of pink and blue,

A fat little kettle simmering nigh,

In winter a fire that cracks and roars,

In summer a window where breezes play.

What if it hails or snows or pours,

In that little spot it is always May.

A girl-of course, you will say, when one

Describes such a haven from life's mad whirl.

There must be a-wait till my song is done.

This is such an entrancing girl!

Cheeks as fresh as a summer rose,

Eyes that change like the changing sea,

Lips where a smile first comes, then goes.

And, oh! but she makes delicious tea.

So we sit and talk while the kettle sings,

And. life seems better at least to me,

The fleeting hours have golden wings,

When in that little spot I'm drinking tea.

Love? Ah, no, we are far above

Such folly. Our time we can better spend.

This world is brimming with loveless love,

But 'tis rarely enough one finds a friend.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator.

~Another Complaint Against Cupid.~

Wherever maidens may be found

Dan Cupid's sure to wander round,

I found him once, the little fool,

Attending on a cooking-school.

The scholars only laughed and smiled,

And cried: "How sweet, how smart a child!"

He kept his wings close hid, yet I

Remembered him from days gone by,

And, stepping up, I whispered this:

"My boy, compound for me a kiss."

His face grew thoughtful, then the rogue

Lisped out: "Well, this is most in vogue:

An acorn-cup of sugar first,

Sprinkle quite well with bubbles burst,

Then add a pinch of down that lies

All over June's brown butterflies.

Mix well, and take, to stir it up,

The stem of one long buttercup.

But, sir, you ne'er can taste a mite

Until I add the appetite."

Whereat, ere I could turn to start,

I saw-I felt the flashing dart.

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. Olla Podrida.

~Sub-Mistletoe.~

We two stood near

The chandelier,

With mistletoe upon it.

A lovely girl,

My head awhirl,

Her wrap-I'll help her don it.

A button caught;

I surely ought

To help, when she'd begun it.

A pause, a hush,

A kiss, a blush,

And now, by Jove, I've done it!

Lehigh Burr.

~She Sayeth "No."~

She sayeth "No"-my lady fair-

And lightly laughs at my despair.

She quick evades my least caress,

Nor grants to me a single tress

From out her wealth of golden hair.

Yet to her cheeks creeps crimson rare,

When I for her my love declare.

But while her blue eyes tell me "Yes,"

She sayeth "No."

The maid well knows I would not dare

Try to escape her gentle snare.

And, if I really must confess,

I own I trust her lips far less

Than her blue eyes beyond compare.

She sayeth "No."

BERTRAND A. SMALLEY. Dartmouth Literary Monthly.

~Silhouettes.~

Grandma's shadow on the wall,

Graceful figure, slim and tall,

Shadow of a maiden fair,

Lofty head, with rippling hair,

Nose "la Grecque" from Hebe stole:

Charming, very, on the whole,

Is this shadow on the wall,

Fifty years ago,-that's all.

Grandpa's shadow on the wall,

Straight this shadow is, and tall;

(Nose "la Roman," we might say)

Stately mien, and courtly way;

Now it's deeply bowing, oh!

But see! for kneeling low

Is this shadow on the wall,

Fifty years ago,-that's all.

* * * *

Grandma's shadow on the wall,

Bent this figure is, not tall;

Shadow in a rocking-chair,

Rocking gently,-now with care;

Now it nodding, nodding seems.

Do you think this shadow dreams

Of some shadows on the wall

Fifty years ago,-that's all?

ANNIE KNOWLTON PILLSBURY. Mount Holyoke.

~Bread and Wine.~

All day work in the shops,

The weary tread

Of toil that knows no change.

And this is bread.

At night when work is done,

Her hand in mine,

The hope of happier days,

And this is wine.

ELIZABETH REEVE CUTTER. Smith College Monthly.

~A Song.~

This I learned from the birds,

Dear heart,

And they told me in woodland words,

Apart,

And they told me true,

That all their singing the summer through

Was of you, of you.

This I learned from the flowers,

Dear heart,

In the dewy morning hours

Apart,

And they sware it, too,

That all their sweetness the summer through

Was for you, for you.

This I learned from the leaves,

Dear heart,

On stilly, starry eves

Apart,

Though their words were few,

That all their sighing the summer through

Was for you, for you.

This I learned from the stars,

Dear heart,-

From the Seven Sisters, and Mars,

Apart

In the boundless blue,-

That their light the lingering summer through

Was for you, for you.

This I learned from my life,

Dear heart,

'Mid its storms, and stress, and strife,

Apart,

(God knows it's true!)

That I need to love me my long way through,

Only you, dear, you.

FRANCIS CHARLES MCDONALD. Nassau Literary Monthly.

~Drifting.~

Drifting in our frail canoe

On the dusky, silent stream,

Dearest, see! The sunset-gleam

Fires love's torch for me and you.

Coral clouds and pearly sky,

Flaming in the farthest west,

Softly whisper peace and rest,

Peace and rest that never die.

Let us shun the sable shore,

Frowning at us slipping by.

Let's be happy, you and I,

Drifting, drifting evermore.

H. H. CHAMBERLIN, JR. Harvard Advocate.

~Cloudland.~

Over the hills, at the close of day,

Gazing with listless-seeming eyes,

Margery watches them sail away,

The sunlit clouds of the western skies.

Margery sighs with a vain regret,

As slowly they fade from gold to gray,

Till night has come, and the sun has set,

And the clouds have drifted beyond the day.

What are you dreaming, my little maid

For yours are beautiful thoughts, I know;

What were the words that the wild wind said,

And where, in the dark, did the cloud-ships go?

Come through the window and touch her hair,

Wind of the vast and starry deep!

And tell her not of this old world's care,

But kiss her softly and let her sleep.

Columbia Literary Monthly.

~Two of a Kind.~

HE:

Down in the glen

By the trysting tree,

Somebody's sister is waiting for me.

Under the stars,

In the dewy grass

Waiting for me-the poor little lass!

And I sit alone

In my cozy den,

A much better place than that clammy glen,

And I think of her tears

As she waits in vain

Till it seems almost cruel to give her such pain.

SHE:

Down in the glen

By the trysting tree,

Somebody's brother is waiting for me;

Waiting in vain,

Though it may seem cruel,

But how can I help it-the poor little fool!

I know I'm not faithful

As he is-but then,

Women are never as constant as men.

He'll never forgive me;

I know I'm to blame,

But he might have treated me some day the same.

WALTER TALLMADGE ARNDT. The Badger.

~To the Cigarette Girl.~

Your motions all are sweet and full of grace

As daintily you roll your cigarette;

You smoke it with a pretty puckered face

That I, a mortal man, can ne'er forget.

It's jolly fun when you adopt our sins;

Pray never fear of being thought a "poke."

Your every mood sincerest worship wins,

And yet I wish, my dear, you didn't smoke.

H. F. H. Amherst Literary Monthly,

~A Game of Chess.~

We played at chess one wintry night

Beside the fire, that warm and bright

Was mirrored in her hazel eyes;

Methought a gleam from Paradise

Outshone the back-log's flickering light.

The hand that took my queen was white,

I trembled at its gentle might;

Nor sweeter game could Love devise-

We played at chess.

I scarce could see to play aright,

I took a pawn and lost a knight,

And then she gazed with mild surprise-

She said I was not shrewd nor wise;

And yet, to me, with strange delight

We played at chess.

ROBERT PORTER ST. JOHN. Amherst Literary Monthly.

~When Margaret Laughs.~

When Margaret laughs the world is gay,

All care is driven far away;

Her hat aslant, with roguish air,

A red carnation in her hair-

True daughter of the merry May.

The rosebuds of a summer's day,

The modest flowers along her way,

All seem to have a grace more fair,

When Margaret laughs.

Oh, youth! for her so bright and gay,

Oh, years! that slip so fast away,

Keep her, I pray thee, fresh and fair,

Dainty, bewitching, debonair,

For life is but a holiday

When Margaret laughs.

GEORGE B. KILBOURNE. Williams Literary Monthly.

~The Captive.~

I've sought for Cupid by day and night,

But he always contrived to elude me,

And kept discreetly out of my sight,

Nor showed his face, the crafty wight,

Nor e'er for a moment sued me.

And often while for his face I sought

I thought with a thrill I had found him,

By my little wiles and my coaxing caught,

Or even for gold ignobly bought,

With his arrows and bow around him.

But now my pulse gives a fresh, wild start,

And a throb of joyous surprise, dear,

As I see him, armed with his subtle dart,

A fellow prisoner with my heart,

In the depths of your hazel eyes, dear.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator

~The Difference.~

All in the days of long ago,

When Grandfather a-wooing went,

He looked a gallant, dashing beau,

And with his looks was well content

He rode beside My Lady's chair

With gracious salutation,

He vowed she was divinely fair

And told his adoration.

But now, alas, poor Grandfather

Would stand but sorry chances

Of passionately telling her

His bosom's sweetest fancies.

For since a wheel My Lady rides,

The bravest, gayest courtier

Would lose her, if he weren't besides

A fairly rapid scorcher.

H.K. WEBSTER. Hamilton Literary Monthly.

~The Lenten Maid.~

Her wonted smiles are turned to frowns,

Her laugh a sigh,

Sackcloth and ashes for ball gowns-

Ah, luckless I.

While worldly thought! away are gone,-

Her Lenten part,-

Does Cupid blunt his darts upon

A stony heart?

Ah, though her mirth and jollities

She puts aside,

The silent laughter of her eyes

She cannot hide.

S. R. KENNEDY. Yale Record.

~Wealth.~

I like pretty maids flushed with joy,

With glad hair blowing free.

They smile right kind on many a boy,

But only one on me.

But I have a penny, a fiddle, and Joan,

And my sweet Joan has me.

Meadow and flock, the wise folk said,

It never were right to miss,

But my maid Joan has a kirtle red

And a merry mouth to kiss.

And I can fiddle and Joan can sing,

And what were better than this?

The young men talk of getting and gold,

And lands far over the sea.

But I and my fiddle will never grow old,

And this is the life for me.

I have a penny, my fiddle, and Joan,

And my sweet Joan has me.

ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH. Smith College Monthly.

~Jamie's Word wi' the Sea.~

(A-WAITIN' FER JINNIE.)

Ye'll no fret ye mair the noo,

Wull ye, sea?

Like ye've dune the winter through,

Roarin' at the sands and me.

Ye were wearyin' yersel'

Till her bit,

Wee, licht fuitstep by ye fell.

Ay, but lookee noo! an' quit!

Ken ye no the way she rins?

Hoo her hair,

Ower-muckle fer the pins,

Blaws aboot her everywhere?

Ye'll no stop yer clatt'rin' din?

Puir blin' thing!

Ye'll no see her happy rin;

"Jamie!" ye'll no hear her sing.

Hoots! Awa', ye loupin' sea,

Doon yer sands,

Jinnie's callin' doon tae me!

Jinnie's haudin' oot her hands!

ROBERT JERMAIN COLE. Columbia Literary Monthly.

~Lent.~

Priscilla is a maid devout

In this repentant season,

And to the world and all its ways

Has vowed a pious treason.

Sweet little saint, so shy, demure!-

Though long I've tried to win her

I fear that I'm not in it with

Some other lucky sinner.

For when I begged she'd trust her heart

To me, and o'er her bent,

She blushed and softly murmured,

"How can I when it's Lent."

T. L. CLARKE. Yale Record.

~I Dream of Flo.~

I dream of Flo, and memory, fleeting light,

Calls up the happy bygone days to-night,

The scent of lavender is faint in air,

(Ah, well-remembered flowers she loved to wear!)

My senses float afar in rapt delight.

How can I e'er forget that summer night!

'Tis not because her black eyes shone so bright,

Nor is it for the witchery in her hair,

I dream of Flo.

She promised me a cushion well bedight

With ruffles blue, and I, oh, luckless wight,

Must send to her-she said, exchange is fair-

My college pin in gold. Her cushion's where

With half-closed eyes I lie. Is't not aright

I dream of Flo?

ALBERT SARGENT DAVIS. Yale Courant.

~A Humble Romance.~

Her ways were rather frightened, and she wasn't much to see,

She wasn't good at small talk, or quick at repartee;

Her gown was somewhat lacking in the proper cut and tone,

And it wasn't difficult to see she'd made it all alone.

So the gay young men whose notice would have filled her with delight

Paid very small attention to the little girl in white.

He couldn't talk the theatre, for he hadn't time to go,

And, though he knew that hay was high, and butter rather low,

He couldn't say the airy things that other men rehearse,

While his waltzing was so rusty that he didn't dare reverse.

The beauties whom he sighed for were most frigidly polite,

So perforce he came and sat beside the little girl in white.

She soon forgot her envy of the glittering beau monde,

For their common love of horses proved a sympathetic bond.

She told him all about the farm, and how she came to town,

And showed the honest little heart beneath the home-made gown.

A humble tale, you say,-and yet he blesses now the night

When first he came and sat beside the little girl in white.

JULIET W. TOMPKINS. Vassar Miscellany.

~Mendicants.~

"Foot-sore, weary, o'er the hills

To your friendly door I come.

I'm a mother; in my breast

I have wrapped my only son.

Lady, blessed of the Three,

Give us shelter for a night.

Pure and wise they say thou art,

Pity one by fate bedight."

Calm and grave the maiden stood;

Eyed that weary mother long,

Drooping form, despairing face,

Eyes pathetic with great wrong.

"Enter," gently then she spake,

"Peace be thine from skies above,

Only I have closed my door,

Closed and barred it fast from Love."

By the hearthstone warm and bright

Sits the mother crooning low;

Ah! an arrow's silver gleam,

Flashes of a golden bow!

Soft she sways a dimpled child

Winged with down, and innocent;

"Hush thee, Eros,-sleep, my son,"

Sings her voice in glad content.

M. E. H. EVERETT. Madisonensis.

~With My Cigar.~

With my cigar I sit alone,

Alone in twilight's undertone,

With wav'ring shadows growing deep,

While long-forgotten faces peep

Midst curling mists of smoke, now blown

Into a frame that doth enthrone

A face that from my heart hath grown.

Sweet mem'ries o'er my being creep,

With my cigar.

Those hazel eyes on me have shone,

Those roguish lips have pressed my own,

And this the harvest that I reap!

And this the sweetness that I keep,

To wake, to find the vision flown

With my cigar!

JOHN CLINTON ANTHONY. Brunonian.

~To Waltz with Thee.~

To waltz with thee, my pretty belle,

To silver music's magic spell,

Was such a strange unmixed delight

That I had wished the merry night

Into eternity might swell.

* * * *

Terpsichore ne'er danced so well!

Can all the Graces in thee dwell?

My soul was raised to such a height

To waltz with thee.

Enchanting strains now rose, now fell,

Thy charms what raptures would compel!

Thy feet were winged, thy figure slight,

Thy winning tread, entrancing, light,-

What bliss to me that night befell,

To waltz with thee!

GEORGE B. ZUG. Amherst Literary Monthly.

~To Maude's Guitar.~

Sweet guitar, so old thou art

Thou seemest strange to modern eyes,

Yet in thy broad-backed cavern-heart

The softest music hidden lies.

Whene'er thy strings with gentle hand

I lightly sweep in deep-bassed chords,

There comes a breath of foreign lands

That seems to sing soft Spanish words.

Was Caballero's passion deep

E'er sung to thy rich-chorded bass?

Didst ever break se?ora's sleep

By music 'neath her window-case?

Somewhere-sometime, a song was sung

By lover bold or maiden fair,

So sweet, thou hid'st it deep among

Thy soulful strings, and kept it there.

Whoe'er it was, that distant day,

That loved to strike thy mellow strings,

Whoever sang that sweet love-lay,

Its echo still within thee rings.

Though Maude may vow she loves me not,

And jolly glees may lightly play,

I look beyond the surface thought,

And hear that echoing old love-lay.