S.F. BATCHELDER. Harvard Lampoon.

Mathematical.

In Vassar's halls a tutor young, 'Tis said, once met his fate; He taught her in the Calculus To differentiate.

They're married now—at meal-times oft Discord invades their state; For he has found that she with him Would differ when she ate.

Lehigh Burr.

She Still Wins.

He had worn a colored blazer on the Nile; He had sported spats in Persia just for style; With a necktie quite too utter, In the streets of old Calcutta, He had stirred up quite a flutter for a while.

The maids of Java flocked before his door, Attracted by the trousers that he wore; While his vest, a bosom-venter, Shook Formosa to the centre, And they hailed him as a mentor by the score.

On his own ground as a masher, on the street He outdid a Turkish Pasha, who stood treat; He gave Shanghai girls the jumps, And their cheeks stuck out like mumps At the patent-leather pumps upon his feet.

But he called upon a Boston girl one night, With a necktie ready-made, which wasn't right; And she looked at him, this maid did, And he faded, and he faded, And he faded, and he faded out of sight.

The Tech.

Her Present.

He had hinted at diamonds, a fan by Watteau, A fine water spaniel,—so great was his zeal,— A chatelaine watch, or a full set of Poe, And then at the end sent a padded Lucile.

F. Harvard Lampoon.

On the Weather.

The sultry stillness of a summer's day Oppresses every sense. The droning bees Alone the silence break, and restless play The shadows of the gently swaying trees.

The very ripples in the stream are still, Save now and then a low and gentle swash, All which doth try me sore against my will— So hot! And all my ducks are in the wash.

FERRIS GREENSLET. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

Tom's Philosophy.

The bridges mingle with the river, And the river with the ocean; The lights of Boston mix forever With a jagged motion; Not a lamp-post near looks single; All things, when in town I dine, With weird, uncanny phantoms mingle, Why not I with wine?

See the house-tops fall from heaven! And that chimney hit the other— A college man would be forgiven If home he'd help a brother. Is it the sun that shines on earth, Or moonbeams that I see? What are all my struggles worth, Since I've lost my key?

Harvard Lampoon.

Fashion's Folly.

I knew a maiden fair and sweet, Whom I had loved for years. At last one day I told her this, Although with many fears.

At first she did not say a word, Then in a pleasant way She looked out to the west, and said: "It is a pleasant day."

She had not heard a single word, She's told me since with tears; She wore her hair, as some girls will, Down over both her ears.

S.W. CHAMBERLAIN. Vassar Miscellany.

Christmas in Chicago.

The girl from Chicago arose sharp at eight, As her maid on the door was knocking; She found a piano, a desk, and a slate Concealed in the toe of her stocking.

A. M. WHITE, JR. Harvard Advocate.

A Discovery in Biology.

I think I know what Cupid is: Bacteria Amoris; And when he's fairly at his work, He causes dolor cordis. So, if you'd like, for this disease, A remedy specific, Prepare an antitoxine, please, By methods scientific. Inoculate another heart With germs of this affection, Apply this culture to your own, 'Twill heal you to perfection.

MARY E. LEVERETT. Vassar Miscellany.

Logic.

Say, does Fact or Reason err, And, if they both err, which the more? The man of smallest calibre Is sure to be the greatest bore.

Harvard Lampoon.

A Flirtation on the Cars.

I did not even know her name, Nor where she lived, nor whence she came— 'Twas sad, and yet Was I so very much to blame, That all my heart should start to flame, And flare and fret?

She was so sweet, so passing fair, With such a smile, with such an air— What could I do? A glance as shy, as debonair, An eye as bright, a smile as rare, I never knew!

And so I smiled across the aisle, And met the winsome, merry smile She sent so bold; At last she laughed, then after while She cooed aloud in friendly style, "I'm free years old!"

University of Chicago Weekly.

Has It Come to This?

A youth, with shining locks of gold, And eyes than summer skies more blue, With plaintive voice and modest mien, Went forth to greet his sweetheart true.

And sang, in accents sweet and low, Beneath, her window (so says rumor), "Than others art thou fairer far, Du bist wie eine bloomer."

MARIE REIMER. Vassar Miscellany.

And the Hammock Swung On.

"A is the maid of winning charm; B is the snug, encircling arm; How many times is A in B?" He questioned calculatively. She flushed, and said, with air sedate, "It's not quite clear; please demonstrate."

HAMILTON GREY. Hamilton Literary Monthly.

The Critic.

"Are you a LAMPOON man? Not really! Oh, dear, though, I know you must be! That's why you've been smiling so queerly— My goodness, you're studying me! Now, what have I said that is funny? And oh, will you publish it soon?" 'Tis thus, with a voice sweet as honey, She mentions the HARVARD LAMPOON.

"Indeed, yes, I see it quite often, The pictures are simply inane; The verses and jokes—they would soften An average Vassar girl's brain. Of course they are killingly comic; I laugh, but I feel like a loon!" And thus, with a fierceness atomic, She censures the HARVARD LAMPOON.

"But then they are bright, I don't doubt them, And very artistic, of course! Outsiders don't know all about them, You have to explain the—the—'horse.' Do send me that sweet book of 'pickings,' I hear you will publish in June." And thus she gives over her flickings, And praises the HARVARD LAMPOON.

S.F. BATCHELDER. Harvard Lampoon.

Her Leghorn Hat.

Her leghorn hat has rows on rows Of ribbon, tied with charming bows. The crown is wreathed in dainty green, And from their leaves there peep between Some rosebuds white as winter snows.

The brim's so large, whene'er it blows, Her face is hid from friends and foes, As all must know who once have seen Her leghorn hat.

I wonder why it droops and flows About her face; howe'er she pose, It always serves her as a screen; I cannot guess, and yet I ween It keeps the freckles from her nose, Her leghorn hat.

Yale Record.

Equivocal.

On the wealthy Larica's worn features I wrote In rhyme some extravagant praise. The verses were spurned (and I'm in the same boat), For I called them "Some Lines on Her Face."

BEN JOHNSON. Brunonian.

A Problem.

My love's face is exceeding fair, With eyes like jewels bright; Above, a wealth of flowing hair, A golden crown of light.

With smiles more radiant than the sun, My love frees me from care, And yet, when all is said and done, I'm driven, to despair.

And if the reason you'd seek out Why I should mournful be, I'll tell you that I'm filled with doubt Which girl is meant for me.

And yet I love but one sweet face,— Oh, happy he who wins,— But I, I'm in an awkward place, My love, you see, is twins.

G.P. DAY. Yale Record.

The Outward Shows.

She was the premiere danseuse of the ballet, And she tripped the light fantastic like a fay; She was so sweet and cunning, And withal so very stunning, That I was bound to meet her right away.

I went behind the scenes after the play, And imagine my surprise as well you may: This maid so sweet and cunning, And withal so very stunning, I'll swear that she was forty if a day.

Harvard Lampoon.

"As Ye Sow."

"What awful debts are these, my son? Not one cent more, forsooth! I never was a rake like you In the hey-day of my youth."

"Quite right you are," the sport replied; "And yet you twist the truth, For once you used to rake the fields In the hay-day of your youth."

J. J. MACK, JR. Harvard Lampoon.

On Afric's Golden Sands.

A wild and warlike Zulu chief Was he; His costume was as brief as brief Could be. He vowed that he would woo and win A maid, But she skipped out and left him in The shade. At first she liked him; this was how She ceased— He simply wouldn't wear his trou- Sers creased.

University Herald.

Two Simple Little Ostriches.

Now we can talk. Thank goodness, that old bore Who took me out is talking business o'er With some one else. The roses were so sweet, You reckless fellow. It's such fun to meet Like ordinary friends, while no one knows Our precious secret. Do you like my clothes? They're new. You dear! I'm really looking well? Why don't you like the sleeves? They're very swell. "They're more offensive than my buzz-saw hat?" What do you mean? O Jack! How simply flat! They sha'n't keep you away, dear. Now take care! No, keep your hands at home. You've seen the Fair, Of course? They're listening, Jack. Do try to talk. I'm glad they didn't have it in New York, Aren't you? Two weeks of it was quite enough. The Ferris Wheel. You wretch! 'Twas rather rough To make me do it at all, while you sat back And howled at me. When we are married, Jack,— O dearest, please be careful! They will guess, If you don't look less interested. Yes, yes, You know I do. Oh, dearly. By and by I'll give you three. Well, four. Will Congress try To introduce new silver laws? Don't laugh! I wish they could do something in behalf Of all the hungry people out of work. You make me do it all, you wretched shirk. Now I must leave you, dearest. Au revoir! Don't stay forever over your cigar.

(THEIR VIS-A-VIS.)

It's not announced, but then we know it's on. It's simply low—another good man gone!

JULIET W. TOMPKINS. Vassar Miscellany.

Continuity and Differentiation.

Whenever in America A girl is asked to wed, She straightway says, "Go ask papa," And coyly droops her head.

And over in the Fatherland, Where flows the terraced Rhine, She whispers, while he clasps her hand, "Ich liebe dich allein."

But up in Russia, where the snow Sweeps hissing thro' the firs, She simply murmurs soft and low, "Bhjushkst zwmstk rstk pbjunsk pjbrs."

University Herald.

Deception.

Among her curls with wanton glee The breezes play caressingly, Catch up stray locks with cunning grace, And as she turns aside her face, Blow them about provokingly.

Then with a smile that's fair to see She tries, and most coquettishly, To stop the breeze's merry race Among her curls.

But all in vain, for now one wee Small lock escapes, and is still free. And as I peer beneath the lace I see, stowed snugly in its place, A tiny switch put secretly Among her curls.

Yale Record.

George Birthington's Washday.

There was a famous washing day, its action near the Hub; A nation's raiment in the suds, a hero at the tub. Then come, ye loyal patriots, and listen to my lay! I'll sing of good George Birthington on this, his washing day.

"The time is come," said Birthington, "when wash we really must, For, see our country's garments, how they're trampled in the dust; And Liberty's bright tunic is so sadly soiled, I ween, That nothing but a washing day will make it bright and clean."

The morning dawned, the washers came, the washing was begun; The steam rose high, nor ceased to rise till cleanliness was won. And now, though good George Birthington is gone to his repose, The grateful country still recalls how well he washed her clothes.

FLORENCE E. HOMES. Wellesly Lyrics.

The Freshman's Vacation.

He had fished in the Aroostook, And he'd trolled in the Walloostook, And he'd angled in the Mattawamkeag, He had hunted Lake Umbagog, And spent weeks on Memphremagog, For he'd sworn to bring the fish home by the bag.

All too soon the summer ended, And his homeward way he wended, And he left his tent within the shady vale; But before he reached New Lyddom, He took all his fish and hid 'em In an envelope and sent them home by mail.

University Herald.

A Rondel.

"I'd draw the knot as tight as man can draw, And firm I'd make it fast by every law; Dearest, you need not speak your fond consent, Your paleness and your blush so finely blent," He gently said; "tell me my happy lot: I'd draw the knot."

But ere he could the eager phrase repeat,— The phrase his manly fancy found so sweet,— The modest maiden toward him turned her face: Her eyes met his a moment's rapturous space,— She spoke, her firm glance faltering scarce a jot, "I'd rather not."

J.J. MACK, JR. Harvard Lampoon.

The Ladye of the Lab.

He fareth in a joyous wise Where runs the road 'neath gentle skies— How should his canine heart surmise That where the red-roofed towers rise The blood is red upon the slab? His way is warm with sunlight yet, He knoweth not the sun must set; And he hath in the roadway met The Ladye of the Lab.

How should he read her face aright? Upon her brow the hair is bright, Within her eyes a tender light, Her luring hands are lily-white, Tho' blood be red upon the slab; Her calling voice is siren-sweet,— He crouches fawning at her feet,— It is a fatal thing to meet The Ladye of the Lab!

And she hath ta'en him with a string To where the linnets never sing, Where stiff and still is everything, And there a heart lies quivering When blood is red upon the slab; O little dog that wandered free! And hath she done this thing to thee? How may she work her will with me,— The Ladye of the Lab!

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. Four-Leaved Clover.

Our Wrongs.

When girls are only babies, Their mammas quite insist That they by us— Against our wills— Be kissed—kissed—kissed.

But when those girls Are sweet eighteen, Their mammas say we sha'n't, And though we'd like to kiss them, We can't—can't—can't.

C.F.H. Williams Weekly.

A Snare and a Delusion.

Between the trees a hammock swings On the lawn, at twilight's glow; Oh, what bliss sweet memory brings Of the days of long ago!

A dainty gown of spotless white, Moulded to a faultless form, Fashioned like a fairy sprite, Riding on love's tidal storm.

In the gloaming, dim discerning, We can faintly see the book; Softly stealing, with lore's yearning,— Gracious heaven! it's the cook!

Yale Record.

At the Junior Promenade.

The stars were out and the moon was bright At the Junior Promenade, But all the glories of starlit night Were bated before the splendid sight Of that merry throng—and my lady in white, At the Junior Promenade.

Oh, she was tall and wondrous fair At the Junior Promenade, Her eyes were stars, and black was her hair, Her cheeks shone red in the bright light's glare: I worshiped her quite as I danced with her there, At the Junior Promenade.

She waltzed with the grace of a goddess divine At the Junior Promenade. I held her close, her hand in mine, My cheek touched the strands of her hair so fine. A perfume arose from her lips of wine, At the junior Promenade.

Such seeds of love in my heart were sown At the Junior Promenade, Till soon came the end—I was left alone, And then found out—what I cannot disown— That I had made love to the chaperone At the Junior Promenade.

CAREY CULBERTSON. Syllabus.

El Dorado.

'Twas a youthful would-be poet, Gazing with enraptured air Through the starlight, when a comrade Found him standing silent there.

"Don't disturb me," was his answer, When addressed, "Oh, let me be! I am filled with heavenly raptures, For I see infinity!

"Let me gaze until I'm sated, For at last I've found a place, Where there's absolutely nothing Crowded out for want of space!"

GRANT SHOWERMAN. Wisconsin Aegis.

The Conversion.

She told him surely 'twas not right To smoke a pipe from morn to night "Indeed," cried he, "what would you, dear? 'Tis but to aid my thoughts of you." "Why, then," she whispered, nestling near, "Why, then, I love your old pipe, too."

R. W. BERGENGREN. Harvard Advocate.

Were It Only Now.

I'm sitting musing in my room, The snow is on the ground; The moon has hid her face to-night, And darkness is profound. 'Twas somewhat such a night as this, A little darker, though, I asked Bess to go sleighing, and She said that she would go.

But just as we were starting out, Said she, "For just us two" (A smile played round her mouth) "I think It much too dark, don't you?" I did not know their wiles as yet, I was so young and slow; But thought she really meant it, and I stammered, "I—think—so."

She cast at me a pitying glance, Then in the house we went; The balance of that evening was In conversation spent.

* * * * *

Since then she's always been polite, And cordial, too, you know; But from that time I realize I've never had a show.

A. W. BELL. Yale Record.

Her Thanks.

She thanked them all for everything, From Christmas card to diamond ring; And as her gifts she gaily flaunted, She told her friends, "Just what I wanted."

But I, who had no cash to blow, Just kissed her 'neath the mistletoe. She blushed a bit, yet never daunted, Repeated low, "Just what I wanted."

M.D. FOLLANSBEE. Harvard Lampoon.

An Idyl.

He stands before his glass in doubt; His beard by night hath sprouted well. He needs must scrape,—and yet without He hears begin the lecture bell. Too many times he's skipped the course— He fears its doors on him may shut: His blade is dull. Now which is worse, To cut and shave, or shave and cut?

Harvard Lampoon.

"When?"

When Harvard's crimson cohorts came From classic Cambridge down, And Eli's lovers of the game Forsook their leafy town, And met on neutral ground to claim The football victor's crown,

I carried Rose to see the sight, The pageant's grand review; We watched the struggling heroes fight, The crimson and the blue; The crowd was yelling with delight, And fierce the contest grew.

First Yale rose up, an azure sea, And shouted through the din; Then Harvard yelled triumphantly, And each was sure to win, When Rosa, smiling, said to me, "When does the game begin?"

E. A. BLOUNT, JR. Columbia Spectator.

An Unfortunate Phrase.

He sent her twelve Jacqueminot roses, All fragrant and blooming and fair, That nestled so sweetly and shyly 'Neath smilax and maidenhair.

She sent him a letter to thank him, On paper just tinted with blue— "The flowers are still very fresh, John, When I see them I think of you."

She posted her letter that morning, He got it that evening at ten. She can't understand what has changed him, For he called on her never again.

F.S. Columbia Spectator.

Lines to a Monkey.

(After reading Darwin.)

It seems quite funny to reflect, And yet what else could we expect (If Darwin's true), That my primeval grandmamma And prehistoric grandpapa Looked just like you.

How any one could ever see Relationship 'twixt you and me I can't explain. You're such an awkward little beast, Your features are (to say the least) So very plain.

And since the rule's considered poor That doesn't work both ways, I'm sure As I can be, That ages hence, if earth endures, Some distant relative of yours Will look like me.

HENRY RUTGERS CONGER. Williams Literary Monthly.

Hymns Ancient And Modern.

ANCIENT.

Complexion like the winter snow, Just tinted by the sunset glow, Throat white as alabaster, Teeth of pearl, and hair of gold, And figure—sure in Venus's mould Th' immortal gods have east her.

And I am proud her slave to be, And deem it high felicity To die, if she should will it so. Ye fates! to-night propitious be, For I approach divinity: My life depends on "Yes" or "No."

MODERN.

Stunning girl, Out of sight. Guess I'll pop Tuesday night. Bully shape, Pretty eyes; Papa's rich, Quite a prize.

Sure to have me, Can't say no; Lots of rocks— It's a go.

R. L. RAYMOND. Harvard Lampoon.

Nightmare Of A Freshman Sign Swiper.

He turned and tossed upon his bed, Repose he could not find, For all night long such things as these Kept coursing through his mind.

"Keep off the Grass," and "Beer on Draught," "H-O," and "Pyle's Pearline;" "Look out for paint," and "Use Pear's Soap," Were signs which he had seen.

And in the midst of all of these A demon seemed to dance, Who asked him with a fiendish grin, "I say, 'Do you wear pants?'"

W.D. FLAGG. Harvard Lampoon.

What the Wild Waves Said.

Do you hear the ocean moaning, Ever moaning sad and low? 'Tis because that fat old bather Stepped upon its undertow.

University Herald.

A Decision.

As a maid so nice, With step precise, Tripped o'er the ice, She slipped; her care in vain. And at the fall, With usual gall, The schoolboys call, "Third down; two feet to gain."

ARTHUR LLEWELLYN ENO. Brunonian.

The Thorn that Guards.

Far in the corner on the stairs, We were sitting together, she and I; The murmuring music was soft and low, Like zephyrs that float 'neath a summer sky.

She held in her fingers a deep red rose, And was plucking the petals, one by one; Her eyes were filled with the dreamy light That softens the west when the day is done.

"Ah, Mildred, you are a bud yourself; Its blushing sweetness is wholly thine; Cannot you let me press the flower, And keep it forever, and call it mine?"

The fair lips trembled, the dimples smiled, Her eyes told clearly that I had lost; But my heart still hoped, till she gently sighed, "You forget what American Beauties cost."

T.G.P. Cornell Era.

A Kiss.

"A kiss it is a poeme faire."—Old Song.

A kiss is not like the poems at all Which I drop through the editor's office door; For I like it as well "returned with thanks," As "accepted, with a request for more."

L. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

The Modern Book.

Extremely small or of giant size, Bound in vellum or boards antique, The pages of paper made by hand With deckle edge and shape unique; Margins four inches wide, at least, And straggling o'er the page a line Or two (no more), of beautiful print In type advertised as "our own design." You pay a price exorbitant This cherished morsel to procure; You get a gem of the bookman's art And five cents' worth of literature.

M.R. Vassar Miscellany.

His Father Took Him Home.

"I was always so poor in Greek," He played the guitar, "A 'dec' I never could speak," He won every race, "My Latin I have to 'horse,'" In football a star, "The German is 'cribbed' perforce." He played second base.

S.J.R. Madisonensis.

Beautiful Sprig.

Sprig, sweet Sprig, is cobig; For I feel it id the air, See, the groud is gedtly thawig, Bud ad slush are everywhere.

Dow I doff by widter fladdels, Ad I dod by subber close; Thed for weeks ad weeks together Vaidly try to blow by dose.

J. P. WELSH. Harvard Lampoon.

III. COLLEGE AND CAMPUS

The Way of It.

A little learning, scattered o'er A frolic of four years or more. Then—Presto, change!—and you create The sober college graduate!

Yale Record.

Comfort.

With pipe and book, an old armchair, A glowing hearth, what need I care For empty honors, wealth or fame? Grant me but this: an honest name, A cup of ale, a coat to wear, And then, while smoke wreaths rift the air, The banquet of the gods I share, Content to sit before the flame With pipe and book.

Above the city's noisy glare, Yet sweet, tho' humble, is my fare; For changing not from praise to blame, These faithful friends are still the same— No earthly comforts can compare With pipe and book.

CHARLES E. MERRILL, JR. Yale Courant.

O Hero.

Out into the mud and the wet he goes, My hero, tall and strong; Under his jersey the muscle shows, And, Samson-like, his dark hair grows Delightfully thick and long.

Out from his feet the black mud flies, His jacket is far from white; Bother these boys with their dapper ties, Who come and compel me to turn my eyes Away from a nobler sight!

The hills are red with the western sun, The twilight comes like a dream; But until the practice work is done I strain my eyes for his every run, And I know he will make the team.

I envy the fellow who keeps his cap, With so little appreciation, While I stroll back with a soft-tongued chap Whose muscles I know aren't worth a rap, And whose hair is an imitation.

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. Four-Leaved Clover.

To the Faculty.

You tell us in philosophy That time does not exist, That 'tis but a film of fancy, A little mental mist.

And space—why, space is nothing More than mere mode of thought, A sort of mental telescope Our feeble minds have wrought.

Well, if that's true, Respected Sirs, I'll breakfast at my ease, And think myself in chapel Just as often as you please.

H. K. WEBSTER. Hamilton Literary Monthly.

Her Answer.

"Maud, take my heart!" cried Algernon. (Maud goes to Barnard College.) She said, "You know I'm wedded to A noble search for knowledge.

"I cannot take your heart, Al, but—" He saw her eyes with pleasure beam— "I'm much obliged. You've given me A subject for a daily theme."

C.H. Columbia Literary Monthly.

"Give Me the Town."

Give me the town; let others go Where babbling streams of water flow, Where soars the lark on daring wing (I'd rather hear De Reszke sing), And where sweet-scented breezes blow.

I love to be where, to and fro, Weary or eager, fast or slow, The human tide is eddying; Give me the town.

The balls, the theatres, the row, Who would not find amusement so? Here's where a man can have his fling, Can drink the dregs of—everything. Would you change this for Surrey? Oh, Give me the town.

MARY HELEN RITCHIE. Bryn Mawr Lantern.



I Flunked To-Day.

I flunked to-day. "I'm not prepared," Was all I said. Still less I cared. No more I strive the depths to try, Or drink the fount of wisdom dry; Yet once at learning's court I fared;

There with the best my work compared; My weary brain was never spared. But now,—some one could tell you why I flunked to-day.

As once to college I repaired, A half-veiled glance my heart ensnared. I felt my love (for knowledge) die; And thus it was without a sigh I flunked to-day.

ALBERT PAYSON TERHUNE. Columbia Spectator.

Ring from the Rim of the Glass, Boys.

Ring from the rim of the glass, boys, Ripples of tinkling tones; Drink to the heyday of youth, boys, Mindless of after-moans.

Over the rim of the glass, boys, Gaze into eyes that are bright. Drink with each sip of the wine, boys, Passionate gleams of delight.

Sing to the rim of the glass, boys, Chorus wherever we roam. Drink in its sparkling-eyed depths, boys, A love as light as its foam.

Kiss the rim of the glass, boys, Blind to its siren-gleam. Drink in its shading depths, boys, The wav'ring forms of a dream.

Then ring from the rim of the glass, boys, Ripples of tinkling tones. Drink to the heyday of youth, boys, Mindless of after-moans.

JOHN CLINTON ANTHONY. Brown Magazine.

Comforting Reflections of a Nonentity.

I cannot boast of learning deep, Nor can I much to art aspire; My poetry loses me no sleep, Nor oratory's burning fire.

I do not row upon the crew, Nor on th'eleven glory win; I am not of the chosen few Who sing or play the mandolin.

I am not any social star, But then—within my certain knowledge, Like me, unknown to fame, there are Some fifteen hundred men in college.

S.M. WILLIAMS. Harvard Lampoon.

When Witherspoon was President.

Their manners had a formal cast A century or more ago, Their bow was suited, as they passed To place in Academic row. With "honored sir" and "humbly so," Their speech was truly reverent— True learning did true grace bestow, When Witherspoon was president.

The clothes they wore would now be classed At best as but a curio, Huge buckles held their slippers fast— Low cut and pointed at the toe. Gray powdered hair, small-clothes below, A long blue coat fresh splendor lent— In sooth they made a goodly show When Witherspoon was president.

But when the trumpet's warring blast Had knelled the fate that tyrants know, They proved no laggards at the last, And sprang to meet their country's foe. Their master's words undying glow— "To slavery there's no consent, My fame, my life is on the throw—" When Witherspoon was president.

Aye, manners, customs, clothes may flow, Unchanging is such sentiment— We would have done as they, I trow, When Witherspoon was president.

DAVID POTTER. Nassau Literary Monthly.

My Pipe is Out.

My pipe is out; the hour is late, And sitting lonely by the grate Sweet thoughts that led their circling train In puffs cerulean 'round my brain Have flown, and left me to my fate.

No more the form of lovely Kate Floats in the smoke-rings I create; And this the cause of all my pain, My pipe is out.

How can my pen the woes relate That on these happy moments wait? With eager eyes I look again Within my empty pouch,—in vain! So I must cease to meditate, My pipe is out.

HERBERT MULLER HOPKINS. Columbia Spectator.

At the Race.

She wore a little knot of blue, He waved a flag of red; With all her heart she would be true To Yale—she said.

And as she spoke a dainty flush Gave token of her pride; He thought the crimson of her blush Her words belied.

So while he watched her blushes start— "Deny it if you will, Your blood—yes, even in your heart— Is crimson still."

She turned and spoke, her voice was low, And yet it pierced him through— "Sir, pardon me, I'd have you know My blood is blue!"

Yale Record.

To an "Instructor."

Treat not with such wanton disdain The title of which you're possessor, Nor sorrow, because you remain Instructor instead of "Professor."

Content you should be to be known As one of enlightenment's ductors, Rememb'ring how oft we bemoan Professors who are not instructors.

HARRY S. FURBUR, JR. Syllabus.

As Usual.

Oh, the gay and festive Freshman has appeared upon the scene,— 'Tis not the monster jealousy that makes him look so green, 'Tis not the fumes of rum that give his nose that ruddy glare, But the boy has caught hay-fever from the hay-seed in his hair.

The blush upon his cheek is not the bloom upon the rye, But tells of health and happiness, and johnny-cake and pie. The firm, elastic tread with which the boy is wont to roam Comes from running on a steep side hill to drive the heifers home.

The funny tales he'll have to tell of cows that get astray Will all be sure to help him in a purely social way; And all the strength that he's acquired from milking them each trip Will come in mighty handy when he tries to learn the grip.

For father will go barefoot, and mother dear will scrub The neighbors' dirty linen within a sudsy tub, And Jane will wear no Sunday hat, and Jim no Sunday tie, So Sam can go to Harvard to adorn the Zeta Psi.

Then nearly every morning, at the druggist's, for a bluff, He'll ask the clerk for vichy, to make him think he's tough. That boy will smoke a cigarette, and quite forget the plow! And mother will not know her son a year or so from now.

Harvard Lampoon.

Speed.

They tell how fast the arrow sped, When William shot the apple, But who can calculate the speed Of him who's late for chapel?

Trinity Tablet.

A Senior Schedule.

We're a-studying of Literature As hard as e'er we can; We dote on Revolutions And the Brotherhood of Man.

We're returning to the People With a truly Lyric Cry; And for Democratic Spirit We'd lay us down and die.

We're a-reading of Philosophy To find out why we be, And a-learning that External Worlds Lie wholly in the Me.

We don't believe in Matter, And of Mind we're not quite sure; We're inclined to think Uncertainties Most likely to endure.

We're a-studying Geology Of Pre-historic Times, Before the Tides of Primal Sea Got written into rhymes;

When the "Old World spun forever," And the poets never knew it,— And all the Rocks, and Stones, and Things, Were nicely mixed up through it.

We're a-looking at Fine Pictures Made by People what are dead; And we criticize Cathedrals With a Ruskin at our head.

We're a-growing awful learned,— There's lots more of the kind,— But we do not mind confessing That it's all a Beastly Grind.

MARY HOLLANDS McLEAN. Wellesley Lyrics.

A Change of Heart.

I knew he cut his classes, and I'd heard him flunk in history, And how he dared say "not prepared" so often was a mystery. He'd sometimes cram for an exam., but seldom knew a word in it. His parted hair grew long and fair; I thought he looked absurd in it.

I felt regret whene'er we met, and bowed with utmost gravity; I didn't dream he'd joined the team—I thought him all depravity. So when I found, at Haight Street ground, how great was his agility, I oped my eyes in marked surprise, amazed at his ability.

He tackled hard, gained many a yard, place-kicked and charged successively; He turned the edge of the flying wedge, and interfered aggressively!

He bucked the line! I thought it fine, and shouted out excitedly; He passed the ball behind them all! I saw the scheme delightedly.

He slipped about the line without a thought of trip or fumbling, When to the din of tooting tin a crowd on him came tumbling. I felt a chill, my heart stood still, when those mean boys fell down on him, His clothes were torn, his nose cap gone, and streaks of black and brown on him.

He scored a touchdown then, and such a frenzy I did never see; It made the umpire's whistle dumb, and overwhelmed the referee. Then when he punted out in front, though hoarse with loud admiring, I with, delight yelled, "He's all right!" for they were all inquiring.

The game was won, and we'd begun to cheer each man respectively; We rah! rah! rahed! and blew horns hard, and shook our flags effectively; His eyes shone bright, as left and right they called to him vivaciously; I my disdain recalled with pain, and waved my banner graciously.

Now let him miss the German quiz, and fail to pass astronomy, To football lore what's physics or political economy? To have him bow is rapture now, to be o'erlooked adversity; To catch his smile is worth the while attending University.

HENRIETTA L. STADTMULLER. Sequoia.

Drinking Song.

Let sparkling wine o'erbrim the glass, And kiss its lips in haste to fly; But though it would to glory pass, It is not eager as am I. I fain would drain the utmost drop, And leave the beaker's hollow bare, For when I turn its foot atop, I see my true love's image there.

Each bubble of the dancing wine Symbols a love-kiss softly given, And rising upward is a sign That earth hath joys to equal heaven. Ah! were the cup a league in rim, And deep as is the ocean's blue, I'd hold its girth were all too slim And wine of kisses thrice too few.

B.A. GOULD, JR. Harvard Lampoon.

Sour Valentines.

To-morrow is the day for valentines; Then let me leave my thesis for a space, Lower the lamplight on these weary lines, And dream a little in the shadowed place. In my three years at college, I have named My Valentine and kept the season thrice; The jolly saint himself is to be blamed If I have never had the same one twice.

In Freshman days, with all about me strange, And home's sweet halo shining on my way, My heart had never known the sense of change, And one dear face was with me day by day; So, when the time was here, I wrote my verse And drew the heart and arrow up above, And, happy in the thought I might do worse, I sent it off to Mother with my love.

When I had felt the thrill of Sophomore days, My thoughts were given to a dainty maid At college with me, and in woodland ways And quiet music-rooms my court I paid. But, with, my Junior dignity, I chose My Queen abroad, within the city's glare, Forgot the violet for the gayer rose, And lost my heart and pocket-money there.

Saint Valentine, those days were long ago; Your power is lost upon this penitent, For, with my Senior gravity, I know That life means more than your light sentiment. And yet, this once, your day shall have from me Some of the old observance, though I scoff; My thesis waits,—my Valentine shall be The old-maid sister of my major prof.

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. Sequoia.

The Banjo Fiend.

There is a fellow across the way Who plays the banjo night and day, And all you ever hear him play, Is plunk, plunk, plunkety, plunk, plunk.

He plays along with might and main, Be it foul or fair, be it snow or rain, And, oh! it is that constant strain, That plunk, plunk, plunkety, plunk, plunk.

You sit here in your room and swear, But he can't hear, nor does he care, Only goes on playing that same old air, The plunk, plunk, plunkety, plunk, plunk.

It is his hope that some fine day On the Banjo Club they'll let him play, But he won't if we have aught to say, With his plunk, plunk, plunkety, plunk, plunk.

WILLARD GROSVENOR BLEYER. The Badger.

Varium et Mutabile.

I saw her going to the game, Her eyes were bright, her cheeks aflame, And o'er her shoulders lightly fell A Princeton scarf, her choice to tell.

I saw her when the game was o'er, A loyal Nassau maid no more; To Yale, the victor, now she's true— Her yellow scarf was lined with blue.

J. P. SAWYER, Yale Record.

In His Own Country.

I made myself a poet in the place, And blithely sang of college life and ways, The pleasure of the undergraduate pace, And all the joy between the holidays; No care spoke ever in my careless song, From graver strains I kept my pipe apart, And played the upper notes; ah, was it wrong To dream my music reached the student heart?

Upon a day one said, with kind intent: "Why sing forever of these trivial things? For better music was your piping meant; Will you confess such earth-restricted wings? Strike some Byronic chord, sublime and deep, Find in ethereal flight the upper air, And speak to us some word that we may keep Within our hearts and ever treasure there!"

Then, with one pang for wasted hours, I gave Another meaning to my faltering lay, And sang of Life and Pain, an early grave, Hope and Despair, and Love that lives alway; But when I listened for an echoing heart, I saw all other lips with laughter curl, And heard them whisper jestingly apart, "He's got it bad, poor fool; we know the girl!"

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. Sequoia.

His Letter.

"Dear Father: Please excuse," he wrote, "The hurried shortness of this note, But studies so demand attention That I have barely time to mention That I am well, and add that I Lack funds; please send me some. Good-by. Your loving son." He signed his name, And hastened to the—foot-ball game.

W.R. HEREFORD. Harvard Lampoon.

The Unwilling Muse.

Oh nothing in all life worse is, For abating superfluous pride, Than having to scribble on verses With the editor waiting outside; I am hearing a lecture on Shelley, Where I ought to be able to dream, But my brain is as vapid as jelly. And I cannot alight on a theme.

The bell rings. My friend, the Professor, Is beginning to read out the roll. How time drags! Am I present? Oh, yes, sir, But, oh, what a blank is my soul. I fear that my cunning has left me, Inspiration refuses to guide, The rouse of her aid has bereft me, And the editor's waiting outside.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator.

A Written Lesson.

I was happy that day, For I knew what to say, And I knew how to tell it; But I found with dismay, As is always the way, When I know what to say, And know how to tell it, That I know what to say But I never can spell it.

S.W. CHAMBERLAIN. Vassar Miscellany.



The Deal Closed.

The ideal co-ed is a thing of books, A creature of brain entirely; With stooping shoulders and studious looks, She digs all day and half the night; People say she is wondrous bright, But her figure's an awful sight! Her thoughts are deep in the classic past, She only thinks of A. B. at last; She has fled this world and its masculine charms, And a refuge found in Minerva's arms.

Now, the kind of co-ed that I describe Is a co-ed seen very rarely; The real co-ed's a thing of grace, With dainty figure and winsome face; She walks and rides, and she cuts, mon Dieu! But every professor lets her through; For her each year is a round of joy, A. B. means nothing if not "A Boy," And you and I must yield to her charms, And take the place of Minerva's arms,

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. Stanford Quad.

Conditioned.

Dear old pipe, my oldest friend, Brier of darkest hue, How I long to smoke and dream— I'm in love with you.

Good old beer, an oft-tried friend, Best and choicest brew, How I long for you again— I'm in love with you.

Laughing lips and rosy cheeks, Eyes of deepest blue, You I long for most of all— I'm in love with you.

Tempt me not, my dear old friends, I have work to do— Four conditions in a term— For I loved but you.

Brunonian.

Evening on the Campus.

Behind a screen of western hills The sunset color fades to-night; Along the arching corridors Long shadows steal with footsteps light. The banners of the day are furled; Thro' darkening space the twilight creeps And smooths the forehead of the world Until he sleeps.

The oak-trees closer draw their hoods; A bird, belated, wings his dim, Uncertain flight, and far above A star looks down and laughs at him; The sky and mountains melt in one; Tall gum-trees range their ranks around; The white walk marks its length upon The velvet ground.

From out the dusk the chimney points, Like guiding finger, to the skies; Down drops the curtain of the night, And all the plain in darkness lies,

When, as the college buildings seem To lose their form in shapeless mass, The lights shine out as poppies gleam Amid the grass.

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. Four-Leaved Clover.

Philosophy.

Shall I grieve because a maid Swore to love me—failed to do it? When we both are old and staid, I shall laugh—and she shall rue it. Shall I grieve, if for a prize, Strive my best—I fail to win it? In the world where honor lies, Medal men are seldom in it.

C.W. CRANNELL. Garnet.

Bed During Exams.

(With Apologies to Mr. Stevenson.)

I used to go to bed at night, And only worked when day was light. But now 'tis quite the other way, I never get to bed till day.

I look up from my work and see The morning light shine in on me, And listen to a warning knell— The tinkle of the rising bell.

And does there not seem cause to weep, When I should like so much to sleep, I have to sing this mournful lay, I cannot get to bed till day?

CLARA WARREN VAIL. Bryn Mawr Lantern.

Under Two Flags.

It's all very well For a boy, who can yell For his own special college through all, without fail. How can I be true To the red or the blue, When Will is at Harvard, and Tom is at Yale?

When one comes to call, I must stop in the hall To see that his pin's in a prominent place, They're both on the crew, And I'm all in a stew, For I'm pledged as a mascot for both in the race!

Dear Will's such a swell, And he dresses so well, (Tom says that he puts on a great deal of dog), His tenor is fine And his waltzing divine. But you ought to see Tom do his skirt-dance and clog!

It's all very well For a boy, who can yell For his own special college through all, without fail. Why, I'd gladly be true To the red or the blue, If Tom were at Harvard, or Will went to Yale!

JULIET W. TOMPKINS. Vassar Miscellany.

~After the Soiree ~

I beside the blue-gate lying, Round and round all objects flying, Just to reach my bed was trying, After the Soiree.

Now I hear the music stopping, Now the corks from champagne popping, Now the wasted money dropping, After the Soiree,

Now I sleep and now awaken, Find myself by classmates taken To the bed that I'd forsaken, After the Soiree.

When the light of day comes o'er me, What have I but flunks before me? Greek and Latin, how they bore me, After the Soiree.

F.R.D.B. Garnet.

A Panacea.

If your health is not quite right, If you have no appetite, If you cannot sleep at night, Light your pipe.

If conditions round you press, If your stock of cuts grows less, Spoiling all your happiness, Light your pipe.

If your debts upon you weigh, If your bills you cannot pay, As they come in day by day, Light your pipe.

There's no trouble in this land, Lack of wealth, or loss of stand, Loss of health, or lady's hand, Which can this sure cure withstand! Light your pipe.

R.O. RYDER. Yale Record.

A Toast.

What though the storm-king growls in rage, And the daylight fast is dimming; We'll add to the score on Mem'ry's page, While the butt with cheer is brimming.

And Love shall be the tapster gay, To draw at nod or winking; And whether the clouds be gold or gray, Here's to the cup and its clinking!

Those moist lips, touched in single bliss, More constant are than lovers'; Their foamy depth holds many a kiss, And many a sigh it smothers.

Then ho for the blood of youth, say I, And the mad, glad hopes it bringeth; For the palsied step of Age draws nigh,— "Sans hope, sans joy!" he singeth.

A. K. LANE. Tuftonian.

A Ballade of College Girls.

What do the dear girls learn nowadays, At all the colleges where they go? They've no cane-rushes nor football frays; Whence can their wealth of wisdom flow? Up at Wellesley they learn to row; Gowns and mortar-boards there are swell; They flirt in the shades of "Tupelo": I have been there,—but I won't tell!

The Smith girls had the dramatic craze, And even the critics puffed their show; The Amherst men are loud in their praise; They diet on pickled limes and Poe. At good Mount Holyoke, which some deem slow, They learn to cook and to sweep as well; Along with their Greek they're taught to sew: I have been there,—but I won't tell!

Cornell's "co-eds" have flattering ways; Many a soul they have filled with woe; Up at Vassar they're prone to stays, And no girl there can have a beau; All those beautiful blooms must throw Their sweetness away where no man may dwell; Rules can be cheated, sometimes, though: I have been there,—but I won't tell!

ENVOY.

Girls, the Blue and the Crimson know How a tryst is kept after bedtime bell. "Hush-sh," you whisper, "be cautious!" Oh, I have been there,—but I won't tell!

F.R. BATCHELDER. Harvard Lampoon.

Ballade of the Alumna.

How sadly in these latter days, In search of memories bitter-sweet, We tread the once-accustomed ways With step grown slow, and lagging feet,— Timed to the pulse's slower beat,— And climb the stair and reach the floor, To find—alas! how time is fleet! Another's name is on the door!

We timid knock, and beg to gaze On all once ours—are shown a seat, O irony! In sad amaze We marvel that it looks so neat, Recalling how we used to meet At gruesome hours in days of yore,— Hours that fate can ne'er repeat: Another's name is on the door.

Our ready chaff, our wordy frays, Conviction backed by young conceit, Have left no echoes; nothing stays To mark how once we "led the street;" But others come with youthful heat, Nor reck of those who came before, And play their part—their years complete;— Another's name is on the door.

ENVOY.

Freshmen, our age with reverence greet, And warning take, though grieved sore, No words delay, no prayers entreat,— Another's name is on the door.

EDITH CHILD. Bryn Mawr Lantern.

A Banquet Song.

I.

Comrades, fill the banquet cup Brimming up! Fill it full of love and laughter, Claret lips and kisses after, Crown it with a maiden's smiles, And the foam of magic wiles. Drink it, drain it, clink your glasses, For the love of loving lasses Ere it passes!

II.

Fill again, the banquet cup Brimming up! Overflow it with the roses Which her timid blush discloses. With her sparkling eyelight sift it, Till it flavored is. Then lift it. Drink it, drain it, clink your glasses, For the love of loving lasses Ere it passes!

III.

Comrades, fill a parting cup Brimming up! Flood it in your praise's zest, For the uninvited guest. With her charms and graces fill it, Touch the lips and heartward spill it. Drink it, drain it, clink your glasses, For the love of loving lasses Ere it passes!

EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER. Dartmouth Literary Monthly.

The Senior And The Rose.

A few faded rose-leaves— A Freshman-year treasure— I view you again with a sigh. Three years have I kept you In care without measure, And now must I tell you good-by?

A rose that a Senior Once dropped and deserted, A rose from the bright banquet-hall, A rose that man gave me, When madly I flirted With him at the great Junior Ball.

Alas for the rose-leaves! Confusion o'ercomes me! My cheek is quite crimson with shame! Which rose were you part of? And which Senior was she? And what was that college man's name?

EVA LINNETTE SOULE. Cardinal.

IV. NATURE

The American Partridge.

Neglected minstrel of the single song, Piping at twilight through the russet fields, Thy two soft silver notes, one short, one long, Rich with the careless joy that nature yields, Rise from the stubble round the well-stocked fields, Far from the chattering flock or warbling throng: Bob White!

American! All hail, my countryman! Thy treble, sweet or shrill, delights my ear; A song of freedom ere our race began, A challenger of conquest loud and clear; Bespeaking nature pure as God's first plan, And pride and peace, and quiet ever dear: Bob White!

Southern Collegian.

To a Chrysanthemum.

Thou beauteous flower, with heart of gold, Bravely defying winter's cold, When dreary north winds shrilly whistle Over the desolate fields of thistle; Thou comest to bless in beauty's ways, With memories of summer days, When at the touch of gentle showers, Decked were the fields in myriad flowers; Yet more than all I praise to-day This blossom bright, Since on her breast it lay Only last night.

JOHN ANGUS THOMPSON. Wesleyan Literary Monthly

My Treasures.

My jewels are the drops of dew That sparkle on the grass, Or break into a thousand bits When ruthless footsteps pass.

My gold bedecks the sunlit cloud, Untouched by human hand; My silver is the sleeping sea, Unshadowed by the land.

My friend is every wooded hill, And every singing brook; For they are always true to me, And wear a kindly look

And yet how few would ever think To count these treasures o'er; But, dreaming oft of Satan's gold, Would ask kind Heaven for more.

Co-heirs of Nature all may be, Although of humble birth; And yet, the miser hugs his gold, While poor men own the earth.

WILBUR DANIEL SPENCER. Dartmouth Literary Monthly,

A Pasture.

Rough pasture where the blackberries grow!— It bears upon its churlish face No sign of beauty, art or grace; Not here the silvery coverts glow That April and the angler know.

There sleeps no brooklet in this wild, Smooth-resting on its mosses sleek, Like loving lips upon a cheek Soft as the face of maid or child— Just boulders, helter-skelter piled.

Ungenerous nature but endows These acres with the stumps and stocks Which should be trees, with rude, gray rocks; Over these humps and hollows browse, Daily, the awkward, shambling cows.

Here on the right, a straggling wall Of crazy, granite stones, and there A rotten pine-trunk, brown and bare, A mass of huge brakes, rank and tall— The burning blue sky over all.

And yet these blackberries! shy and chaste! The noisy markets know no such— So ripe they tumble when you touch; Long, taper—rarer wines they waste Than ever town-bred topers taste.

And tell me! have you looked o'erhead From lawns where lazy hammocks swing And seen such bird-throats lent a wing? Such flames of song that flashed and fled? Well, maybe—I'm not city-bred.

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

Skating Song.

Moon so bright, Stars alight, Clouds adance, adance; Snow of night, Fleecy white, Silver ice agleam, aglance. High, hey, high, hey, Skimming the smooth, bright way, High, hey, high, hey, Over the ice away.

Cheeks so bright, Face alight, Heart adance, adance; Eyes of night, Brow of white, Silver skates agleam, aglance. High, hey, high, hey, Skimming the smooth, bright way, High, hey, high, hey, Over the ice away.

CORA ISABEL WARBURTON. Smith College Monthly.

A Mystery.

Once, a little while ago, 'twas so warm and still Down here, in this soft, dark place. Now I feel a thrill Darting through me. Shivering, quivering, bursts my wrappage brown, Struggling, striving, something in me reaches up and down. Ah! it must be death, this anguish that I cannot understand.

One inch more,—I lift my head above the parted mould, Oh! what rapture! Falling on me something sweet and gold, Something humming, singing, moving, growing on each side; High above me a blue glory stretching far and wide,— And I know 'twas life, that anguish that I could not understand.

MARY E. HOYT. Bryn Mawr Lantern.

The Birch-Tree.

Like a shower, breeze-suspended, Caught and played with by the air, April from the sky descended, Tricked by sunshine unaware, To a pale green fountain fashioned, Silver shaft with airy fling, Tremulous and sun-impassioned Is the birch-tree in the spring.

Like the spirit of the fountain— Seen when earth was yet a child— Leaping, white-armed, from the mountain, Laughing, beckoning, water-wild, Sheen of mist her beauty veiling, Which she only half can hide, Garments o'er her white feet trailing, Seems the birch at summer-tide.

E.A.H. Inlander.

My Quest.

Over the meadow and over the hill, Over the heath and heather, I seek for the spot where the dawn-wind sleeps, And slips from its night-bound tether. Is it here? Is it there? Pray tell me where The morning zephyrs tarry, That I may bide Where they crouch and hide, And sip of the dew they carry.

Over the billow and over the wave, Over the vales and valleys, I seek for the spot where the night-wind dreams, And rests from its twilight rallies. Is it here? Is it there? Pray tell me where The breath of night lies sleeping, That I may rest In its downy nest, With its breath my eyelids steeping.

W.T.O. Trinity Tablet.

Lullaby.

Breezes in the tree-tops high, Sighing softly as you blow, Sing a restful lullaby; Sing the sweetest song you know, Something slow, something low,— Lulla-lullaby.

Barley heads and crested wheat, Swaying gently to and fro, Sing the music of the heat, Sing the drowsiest song you know, Something slow, something low,— Lulla-lullaby.

Brooklet hidden in the grass, Murmuring faintly as you flow, Sing a sleep song while you pass; Sing the dreamiest song you know, Something slow, something low,— Lulla-lullaby.

MABEL A. CARPENTER. Wellesley Magazine.

Our Scarlet King.

He comes along the great highway In scarlet coat and crown, And high the shrilling trumpets bray And fierce his lancers frown. Bright scarlet is his royal crest; Bright scarlet shines his royal vest; Oh! pr'ythee canst thou bring A knight more nobly known and dressed Than this, our Scarlet King.

See how he throws his largess gold Into the bending trees. He doth the forest walls enfold In purple tapestries. He giveth all a majesty; He holds in fiel the shore, the sea; Oh! pr'ythee come and sing A song, and sing it merrily To him, our Scarlet King.

Past crypt and wayside canopy, Beyond each bloarny throne, Full fleetly speed his heralds free To make his advent known. His scarlet banners bend and blow; Our scarlet vintages shall flow; And pr'ythee with us sing, That proud October all may know And hail—"our Scarlet King."

HAROLD M. BOWMAN. Inlander.

Bob White.

At morn, when first the rosy gleam Of rising sun proclaimed the day, There reached me, thro' my last sweet dream, This oft-repeated lay: (Too sweet for cry. Too brief for song, 'Twas borne along The reddening sky) Bob White! Daylight, Bob White! Daylight!

At eve, when first the fading glow Of setting sun foretold the night, The same sweet call came, soft and low, Across the dying light: (Too sweet for cry, Too brief for song, 'Twas but a long, Contented sigh) Bob White! Good Night, Bob White! Good Night!

FRANCIS CHARLES MCDONALD. Nassau Literary Monthly.

An Evening Song.

O red, red clouds in the westering sky, That are lit with a lamp of gold, The hours are faint, they sleep, they die, The stars are earthward rolled; Make bright day's burial-place, make bright, So it crimson-canopied be— It dies, and Fancy out of the night Comes down—comes down to me.

O red, red clouds with your glory gone, That are ghostly shapes of gray. My lady dreams by a moon-lit lawn, Away from me—away; Go down—go down from the sky, so the gleams Of the moon shine over the sea, And bring the thought of my lady's dreams Over to me—to me.

ROBERT L. HUNGER. Yale Courant.

~Panacea ~

When life proves disappointing, And sorrow seems anointing Brows of care, Take a brace and go a-sailing, Either dolphin back or whaling, Anywhere.

Fling your troubles to the breezes, Where the salted Ocean sneezes Spray your face— Never mind the moments flying, There'll be left of care and sighing, Not a trace.

ANNIE NYHAN SCEIBNER. Wisconsin Aegis.

The Dive.

One moment, poised above the flashing blue, The next I'm slipping, sliding through The water, that caresses, yields, resists, Wrapping my sight in cooling, gray-green mists. Another moment, my body swirls, I rise, Shaking the water from my blinded eyes, And strike out strong, glad that I am alive, To swim back to the gray old pile from which I dive.

CORNELIA BROWNELL GOULD. Smith College Monthly.

The Robin.

A STUDY.

Abstracted, contemplative air, A sudden run and stop, A glance indifferent round about, Head poised—another hop.

A plunge well-aimed, a backward tug, A well-resisted squirm, Then calm indifference as before. But oh, alack, the worm!

KATHERINE VAN D. HARKEE, Vassar Miscellany.

A Mountain Brook.

I come from the depths of the mountain, The dark, hidden, head of the fountain, I spring from a nook in the ledges, And bathe the gray granite's rough edges, I rush over wide mossy masses To quench the hot thirst of the grasses. I bathe the cleft hoofs of the cattle, As o'er the rude ford-stones I rattle. I glide through the glens deep in shadow; I flow in the sun-bathed meadow, And seek, with a shake and a quiver, The still steady flow of the river, Then on to the wild rhythmic motion Of my mother, the sky-tinted ocean.

CHARLES OTIS JUDKINS. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

In the San Joaquin.

Across the hills the screeching blue-jays fly In countless flocks, and as they hasten by The children look up from their merry play To watch them slowly, slowly fade away; And night steals up the corners of the sky.

No silent, trembling star shines there, on high: The hollow rivers, that were still and dry, Begin to murmur; falls a gentle spray Across the hills.

The stubble colors through the fallen hay, And infant grasses pin the moistened clay; The drooping trees shake off their dust and sigh; And waking nature, with a gladdened eye, Beholds the summer lose its ending day, Across the hills.

NORMAN HUTCHINSON. Cornell Magazine.

Four-o'clocks.

It was that they loved the children, The children used to say, For there was no doubt That when school was out, At the same time every day, Down by the wall, Where the grass grew tall, Under the hedge of the hollyhocks, One by one, At the touch of the sun, There opened the four-o'clocks.

It was that they loved the children;— But the children have gone away, And somebody goes When nobody knows, At the same time every day, To see by the wall, Where the grass grows tall, Under the hedge of the hollyhocks, How, one by one, At the touch of the sun, Still open the four-o'clocks.

LILLIAN B. QUIMBY. Wellesley Magazine,

The Voice of the West Wind.

The Wind of the East and the Wind of the North From the gates of the Sun and the Cold blow forth: They wander wide and they wander free, But never a word do they speak to me; I hear but the voice I know the best, Of my brother-in-blood the Wind of the West, And the word that the West Wind whispers me, Is a message, Heart of my heart, for thee.

Heart of my heart, when the skies hang low, And all day long the light winds blow, When the South, and the East, and the North, are gray And the soft rain falls through the autumn day, Then, Light of my soul, canst thou not hear The voice of the West Wind, soft and clear? "Come," he whispers, and "Come," again, Leave the dull skies and the steady rain, Leave thou the lowlands and chill gray sea, Heart of my own heart, and come with me.

ROBERT PALFREY UTTER. Harvard Monthly

A Fairy Barcarolle.

My skiff is of bark from the white birch-tree, A butterfly's wing is my sail, And twisted grasses my cordage be, Stretched taut by the favoring gale.

My cushions are pearly gossamers frail, My mast is a tapering reed, My rudder a blush-rose petal pale, My ballast of wild-flower seed.

Through forests old and meads remote We'll sail on the leaf-arched streams, Down the silver rivers of Fancy float To the golden sea of dreams.

WILLIAM HOLDEN EDDY. Brown Magazine.

A Bird's Cradle-Song.

Weary, weary loves! Day is o'er and past; Every drooping lily bell Chimes good-night at last. Softly! nursing winds Swing them to and fro With the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of the rivulet below.

Even the willow leaves Brooding silence keep; All the great, good world is hushed— Hushed that you may sleep! But in heaven two wee, wee stars Dance and whirl and glow To the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of the rivulet below.

EVELYN M. WORTHLEY. Mount Holyoke.

The Wood Orchid.

A butterfly, wing-weary, came to find A sweet seclusion from the amorous wind, Deep in the pine woods, where the dusky trees Shut in the forest's sounding silences With close-twined boughs from which the breeze has blown The fragrance-breathing fragments of the cone. Deeply she drank the nectar of repose. Spreading her downy wings all veined with rose, Upon the gray-green mosses, cool and dank, Languished the sprite, and in a swoon she sank, While a delicious numbness born of death Stilled the soft wings that stirred with each faint breath. One summer morning, while the languid breeze Strayed with a languid murmur thro' the trees, It breathed a kiss upon a folded pair Of pink flushed wings—and found them rooted there.

College Folio.

A Song.

Oh, the hopper grass is clattering and flying all the day Round the tawny, trembling tassels of the corn, While the dreamy, drowsy bumblebee goes bumbling on his way, And the locust in the woodland sounds his horn.

Above the rattling cottonwoods that line the lisping stream, The crow is proudly calling to the sun, And the beetles in the bushes make the summer day a dream, For they hum and cheep until the day is done.

When the lotus-flower closes, and the stars are in the sky, Then the owl awakes and sings a plaintive song, While the crickets in the thickets sing the soothing lullaby, And the katydid is chirping all night long.

S.P. Kansas University Weekly.

The Skaters.

Above the frozen floods Gay feet keep time, Steel-shod, their measures beat Insistent rhyme. No cares oppress the hearts Glad youth makes light; The winter skies and happy eyes Alike are bright.

Shores where the summer waves Have whispered low, Echo the skaters' song, As to and fro Glide flitting forms, And watch-fire's glow Leaps into frosty air And crimsons snow.

Fly, skaters, with wing'd feet! The night wears on; Be your stroke ne'er so fleet, Night soon is gone.

With morning's dawn, the fires In ashes lie, And mountains keep their ward Silently by.

GRACE W. LEACH Madisonensis.

By the Roadside.

Shy violets among the tangled grass; Red robin, to thine own mate blithely singing, Among the elm-tree boughs so gayly swinging; My love, my true love, down this way will pass.

How shall you know her? By her sunny hair, Her grave, sweet eyes, all pure, no evil knowing: Oh, robin! thou wilt turn to watch her going; There is no maid in all the land so fair.

Shy violets among the tangled grass, Shed forth your richest perfumes 'neath her feet! And gallant robin, when thou seest her pass, Trill out thy merriest lay her ears to greet; And elm-tree branches, drooping low above her, Whisper to her that I came by and love her.

LOUISE R. LOOMIS. Wellesley Magazine.



"A White Morning"

Many a morning the trees' slim fingers Lift to the blue their frosted tips; Winter has paused beside them, passing, And blown upon them, through icy lips.

After the day has dawned in earnest, Comes a blaze from the soul of things. Some small snow-bird, beneath the window, Beats out life, from his restless wings.

Never trust to the cold and silence; Suns will rise, and the day climb higher. Under the snows are resurrections; Under the frost is hidden fire.

GRACE W. LEACH. Madisonensis.

V. IN SERIOUS MOOD

Verses.

What must be must be, little one, The dark night follow the day, And the ebbing tide to the seaward glide Across the moonlit bay.

What must be must be, little one, The winter follow the fall, And the prying wind an entrance find Through the chinks of the cottage wall.

What must be must be, little one, The brown hair turn to gray, And the soul like the light of the early night Slip gently far away.

FORSYTH WICKES. Yale Literary Magazine.

A Little Parable.

Just beyond the toiling town I saw a child to-day, With busy little hands of brown Making toys of clay.

Working there with all his heart, Beneath the spreading trees, He moulded with unconscious art Whatever seemed to please.

Men and fortress, plates and pies, All out of clay he made, Then rubbed with chubby fists his eyes, And slumbered in the shade.

JOHN CLAIR MINOT. Bowdoin Quill.

When Morning Breaks.

When morning breaks, what fortune waits for me? What ships shall rise from out the misty sea? What friends shall clasp my hand in fond farewell? What dream-wrought castles, as night's clouds dispel, Shall raise their sun-kissed towers upon the lea?

To-night the moon-queen shining wide and free, To-night the sighing breeze, the song, and thee; But time is brief. What cometh, who can tell, When morning breaks?

To-night, to-night, then happy let us be! To-night, to-night, life's shadowy cares shall flee! And though the dawn come in with chime or knell, When night recalls its last bright sentinel, I shall, at least, have memories left to me, When morning breaks.

EDWARD A. RALEIGH. Cornell Magazine.

A Lost Memory.

Listening in the twilight, very long ago, To a sweet voice singing very soft and low.

Was the song a ballad of a lady fair, Saved from deadly peril by a bold corsair,

Or a song of battle and a flying foe? Nay, I have forgotten, 'tis so long ago.

Scarcely half remembered, more than half forgot, I can only tell you what the song was not.

Memory, unfaithful, has not kept that strain, Heard once in the twilight, never heard again.

Every day brings twilight, but no twilight brings To my ear that music on its quiet wings.

After autumn sunsets, in the dreaming light, When long summer evenings deepen into night,

All that I am sure of, is that, long ago, Some one sang at twilight, very sweet and low.

PHILIP C. PECK. Yale Literary Magazine.

The Truth-Seekers.

They who sought Truth since dawn And sought in vain, Now, at the close of day. Come with slow step and faces drawn With nameless pain, To meet the night half-way.

"She whom we love is not! Of her no sight Had we, nor faintest trace!" "Nay, here am I ye sought!"— Beyond the night They met her, face to face.

FRANCIS CHARLES MCDONALD. Nassau Literary Monthly.

To-morrow.

There is a day which never comes To light the morning sky, But in our thoughts alone it lives, And there may never die; It holds our hopes of future bliss, Our aspirations high, And life itself is but a point In that eternity— To-morrow.

Each sunset brings us nearer that Which earth shall not behold, Where, far away beyond the hills And through the clouds of gold, We see a glimpse of brighter hours Than tongue of bard has told, When marks of time will be effaced, When men will not grow old— To-morrow.

WILBUR DANIEL SPENCER. Dartmouth Literary Monthly.

From My Window.

I sit within my little room And see the world pass by, The merry, youthful, thoughtless world, That knows not I am I.

I watch it from my window ledge Below me, at its play— It makes an end of foolish things, And thinks the sad ones gay.

And there above I sit, alone, Behind my curtains long, And I but peep, and mock a bit, And sing a bit of song.

EDITH THEODORA AMES. Smith College Monthly.

To a Friend.

Your eyes are—but I cannot tell Just what's the color of your eyes, I only know therein doth dwell A something that can sympathize, When selfish love would fail to see The depths revealed alone to me.

JOHN GOWDY. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

Love and Death.

Love and death is all of poets' singing, What sounds else can stir the heavenly breath? What save these can set the lyre-strings ringing: Love and death? What things else in maiden spirit springing? What words else in all the preacher saith? What thoughts else in God, the world forthbringing?

In the moon's pulse and the sea's slow swinging, Death that draws, and love that sighs beneath: Yea, life's wine is mingled; sweet, and stinging,— Love and death.

GEORGIANA GODDARD KING. Bryn Mawr Lantern.

Opportunity.

I know not what the future holds— But this I know, Youth is a guest, who on his way Too soon will go.

Once gone we call to deafened ears. All prayers are vain! For tears of blood, he will not come Back once again.

Then spread the board of Life, with wine And roses drest, Drink deep and long, greet Joy and Love While Youth is guest!

ARTHUR KETCHUM. Williams Literary Monthly,

To Austin Dobson.

Not unto you the gods gave wings, To scale the far Olympic height, But made content with simpler things, Your Pegasus takes lower flight.

Yet while into oblivion float Those vaster songs, sublimely grand— All men are listening to your note, And as they listen, understand.

Sing on, then, while the heart of youth In glad accordance answ'ring thrills, And life and love have still their truth, As spring has still its daffodils.

ARTHUR KETCHUM. Williams Literary Monthly.

With a Copy of Keats.

Like listless lullabies of sail-swept seas Heard from still coves, and dulcet-soft as these, Such is the echo of his perfect song, It lives, it lingers long!

We love him more than all his wonder tales, Sweeter his own song than his nightingale's; No voice speaks, in the century that has fled, So deathless from the dead!

How many stately epics have been tossed Rudely against Time's shore, and wrecked and lost, While Keats, the dreaming boy, floats down Time's sea His lyric argosy!

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

George Du Maurier.

"Ah, if we knew; if we only knew for certain."

"Ah, if we only knew!" he said, The master—now laid cold and dead— Under the sweetest song joy sang This, like a burden, ever rang—

"Ah, if we only knew!" can we, Now death shows him the certainty, Now he has won his peace thro' pain, Wish him back to the doubt again?

Nay, pass! thou great prince Gentle Heart! Crowned with the deathless days of Art— To that far country—old, yet ever new— The land where all the dreams are true.

ARTHUR KETCHUM. Williams Literary Monthly.

Lizy Ann.

"My darter?" Yes, that's Lizy Ann Ez full o' grit ez any man 'T you ever see! She does the chores Days when I can't git out-o'-doors 'Account o' this 'ere rheumatiz, And sees to everything there is To see to here about the place, And never makes a rueful face At housework, like some women do, But does it well—and cheerful, too.

There's mother—she's been bedrid now This twenty year. And you'll allow It takes a grist o' care and waitin' To tend on her. But I'm a-statin' But jest the facts when this I say: There's never been a single day That gal has left her mother's side Except for meetin', or to ride Through mud and mire, through rain or snow, To market when I couldn't go.

"She's thirty-five or so?" Yes, more Than that. She's mighty nigh twoscore. But what's the odds? She's sweet and mild To me and mother as a child. There doesn't breathe a better than Our eldest darter, Lizy Ann!

"Had offers?" Wal, I reckon; though She ne'er told me nor mother so. I mind one chap—a likely man— Who seemed clean gone on Lizy Ann, And yet she let the feller slide, And he's sence found another bride.

The roses in her cheeks is gone, And left 'em kinder pale and wan. Her mates is married, dead, or strayed To other places. Youth nor maid No longer comes to see her. Yet You'll hear no murmur of regret. "My life's a part o' heaven's own plan," She often says. Thet's Lizy Ann.

EDGAR F. DAVIS. Bowdoin Quill.

Be Thou a Bird, My Soul.

Be thou a bird, my soul, and mount and soar Out of thy wilderness, Till earth grows less and less, Heaven, more and more.

Be thou a bird, and mount, and soar, and sing, Till all the earth shall be Vibrant with ecstasy Beneath thy wing.

Be thou a bird, and trust, the autumn come, That through the pathless air Thou shalt find otherwhere Unerring, home.

A.G.C. Kansas University Weekly.

God's Acre.

Oh, so pure the white syringas! Oh, so sweet the lilac bloom In the Arboretum growing Near a granite tomb! By the arching pepper-branches Let us tender silence keep; We have come into God's Acre, Where the children sleep.

In the trees the quail are calling To the rabbits at their play, While the little birds, unknowing, Sing their lives away; In the night-time through the branches Wistfully the young stars peep, But, with all these playmates round them, Still the children sleep.

Once within that leafy shelter Some one hid herself, to rest, With another little dreamer Folded to her breast; And a sense of consolation Stealeth unto them that weep, While that mother-heart lies sleeping Where the children sleep.

Year by year the Christmas berries Redden in the quiet air,— Year by year the vineyard changes, Buds and ripens there; We give place to other faces, But the years' relentless sweep Cometh not into God's Acre, Where the children sleep.

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. Four-Leaved Clover.

Unique.

His presence makes the Spring to blush. He shines in ample Summer's glow, He kindles Autumn's burning-bush, And flings the Winter's fleece of snow.

Hamilton Literary Monthly.

A Letter.

"Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul!" The Chambered Nautilus.

* * * * *

Self, Soul & Co., Architects:

Dear Sirs; I find Your "ad." in the Nautilus quite to my mind. Pray build me a mansion (for plans see below) More stately and lofty than this that I know. Dig deep the foundations in reason and truth; I want no pavilion—a fortress forsooth, Secure against windstorms of doctrine and doubt; In style—Emersonian—inside and out. It should, sir, be double, with rooms on each side, For justice and mercy, for meekness and pride; For heating and lighting, it only requires Faith's old-fashioned candles, and Love's open fires. Write me minimum charges in struggle and stress, And extras in suffering. Yours truly,

C.S. Kalends.

The Record of a Life.

He lived and died, and all is passed away That bound him to his so-soon-darkened day. He is forgotten in time's sweeping tide; This is his history: He lived—and died!

HENRY DAVID GRAY. Madisonensis.

Who Knows?

If when the day has been sped with laughter, Mirth and song as the light wind blows, A sob and a sigh come quickly after— Who knows?

If eyes that smile till the day's completeness Droop a little at evening's close, And tears cloud over their tender sweetness— Who knows?

If lips that laugh while the sun be shining, Curved as fair as the leaf of a rose, Quiver with grief at day's declining— Who knows?

If the heart that seems to know no aching While the fair, gold sunlight gleams and glows, Under the stars be bitterly breaking— Who knows?

JESSIE V. KERR. Kalends.

Inconstancy.

I sighed as the soul of April fled, And a tear on my cheek Told of the love I had borne the dead— And I signed the cross, and bowed my head— And was sad for a week.

With a carol and catch the May came in With her wonderful way— And I saucily chucked her under the chin, And tuned me the strings of my violin— And was glad for a day.

FRANCIS CHARLES MCDONALD. Nassau Literary Monthly.

Yesterday.

Thou art to me like all the days— They ebb and flow with punctual tides, Leave driftwood—wreckage on the sands, Perhaps a shell besides; Swift, incommunicable, vast, They poise—then perish in the past.

And yet I have not all forgot Those years when every day seemed long, A separate age of joys and play, Of wonder-tales and song; I marvel, Yesterday, to know Thou still art childhood's Long Ago!

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. Harvard Advocate.

The Last Word.

Life is a boat that is drifting, Riding high, rocking low, While the tide turns. Love is the sands that are shifting In and out, to and fro, While the tide turns,

Let the boat drift, no oar to lift, Clear sky above, calm sea below, Till the tide turns. Dream on the shore, wander it o'er; Gold gleam the sands 'neath the sun's glow. Till the tide turns.

Time enough, love, to be lifting 'Gainst the waves, then, thy oar When the tide turns. Dreams are sweet, love, e'er the shifting Shows how false is the shore, When the tide turns.

ELIZABETH SANDERSON. University of California Magazine.



"_Whence all these verses?" you ask me. Would that I knew! "How came they written?"—You task me, Who can tell, who! Stripping a butterfly's pinions To learn how they grew; Wasting a violet's dominions To search for the dew; Spoiling the odor, the juices, The flavor, the hue; Rifling the haunts of the Muses, For secrets and clue!

All one can say is: "Sir Quibbler, Once on a time, Songs in the heart of the scribbler Sang into rhyme; Latin lost all its enchantment; Logic was worse; Joy claimed its rights; the result is Just 'college verse_.'"

THE END