~Safe.~
When I picked up her gloveI let Fate decide it.So great was my love,When I picked up her glove;'Twas as soft as a doveAnd her hand was inside it.When I picked up her gloveI let Fate decide it.
W.Columbia Spectator.
~Her Winsome Smile.~
Her winsome smile! It beams on meFrom 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 seeHer 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 wellThe sunset glories blent.
Oh, happy morn! The trysting oakHung o'er the orchard gate.I waited for her in the shade—-I had quite long to wait,For with the coachman she elopedAnd left me to my fate.
Yale Record.
~Phyllis's Slippers.~
Before the firelight's genial glowShe sits, and dreams of waltzes sweet,Nor heeds the curious gleams that showGrandmamma's slippers on her feet.
Ah, happy slippers, thus to holdSo rare a burden! It were meetThat you should be of beaten goldTo clasp so close such dainty feet.
H. A. RICHMOND.The Tech.
~Vindication.~
Pray, why do maidens ever stand beneathThe 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 beTo 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 satTo see her go?Did I believe when she insisted thatShe 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 ayes, chérie,And throw your arms around me:A lack of maiden modestyWould 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,Butdon'tconfess 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 eyeShe 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 myGood ace she trumps, I merely sighAnd grant the points to the enemy,When Gladys plays.
FERRIS GREENSLET.Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
~At the Club.~
When a pretty maiden passesBy the window down the Street,Cards and billiards lose their sweet;Conversation on old brassesLanguishes; up go the glasses:"Nice complexion!" "Dainty feet!"When a pretty maiden passesBy 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 assesWhen a pretty maiden passesBy 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 oneDescribes such a haven from life's mad whirl.There must be a—wait till my song is done.This issuchan 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 aboveSuch 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 foundDan 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 IRemembered him from days gone by,And, stepping up, I whispered this:"My boy, compound for me a kiss."His face grew thoughtful, then the rogueLisped out: "Well,thisis most in vogue:An acorn-cup of sugar first,Sprinkle quite well with bubbles burst,Then add a pinch of down that liesAll 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 miteUntil I add the appetite."Whereat, ere I could turn to start,I saw—Ifeltthe flashing dart.
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.Olla Podrida.
~Sub-Mistletoe.~
We two stood nearThe chandelier,With mistletoe upon it.A lovely girl,My head awhirl,Her wrap—I'll help her don it.
A button caught;I surely oughtTo 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 tressFrom 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 dareTry to escape her gentle snare.And, if I really must confess,I own I trust her lips far lessThan her blue eyes beyond compare.Shesayeth"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 lowIs 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 dreamsOf some shadows on the wallFifty years ago,—that's all?
ANNIE KNOWLTON PILLSBURY.Mount Holyoke.
~Bread and Wine.~
All day work in the shops,The weary treadOf 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 throughWas of you, of you.
This I learned from the flowers,Dear heart,In the dewy morning hoursApart,And they sware it, too,That all their sweetness the summer throughWas for you, for you.
This I learned from the leaves,Dear heart,On stilly, starry evesApart,Though their words were few,That all their sighing the summer throughWas for you, for you.
This I learned from the stars,Dear heart,—From the Seven Sisters, and Mars,ApartIn the boundless blue,—That their light the lingering summer throughWas 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 canoeOn the dusky, silent stream,Dearest, see! The sunset-gleamFires 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 maidFor 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.~
Down in the glenBy the trysting tree,Somebody's sister is waiting for me.Under the stars,In the dewy grassWaiting for me—the poor little lass!
And I sit aloneIn my cozy den,A much better place than that clammy glen,And I think of her tearsAs she waits in vainTill it seems almost cruel to give her such pain.
Down in the glenBy 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 faithfulAs 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 graceAs daintily you roll your cigarette;You smoke it with a pretty puckered faceThat 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 nightBeside the fire, that warm and brightWas mirrored in her hazel eyes;Methought a gleam from ParadiseOutshone 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 delightWe 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 holidayWhen 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 soughtI 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 chairWith gracious salutation,He vowed she was divinely fairAnd told his adoration.
But now, alas, poor GrandfatherWould stand but sorry chancesOf passionately telling herHis bosom's sweetest fancies.
For since a wheel My Lady rides,The bravest, gayest courtierWould lose her, if he weren't besidesA 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 uponA stony heart?
Ah, though her mirth and jollitiesShe puts aside,The silent laughter of her eyesShe 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 redAnd 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.~
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 devoutIn this repentant season,And to the world and all its waysHas vowed a pious treason.
Sweet little saint, so shy, demure!—Though long I've tried to win herI fear that I'm not in it withSome other lucky sinner.
For when I begged she'd trust her heartTo 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 bedightWith ruffles blue, and I, oh, luckless wight,Must send to her—she said, exchange is fair—My college pin in gold. Her cushion's whereWith half-closed eyes I lie. Is't not arightI 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 delightPaid 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 glitteringbeau 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 nightWhen first he came and sat beside the little girl in white.
JULIET W. TOMPKINS.Vassar Miscellany.
~Mendicants.~
"Foot-sore, weary, o'er the hillsTo your friendly door I come.I'm a mother; in my breastI 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 brightSits the mother crooning low;Ah! an arrow's silver gleam,Flashes of a golden bow!Soft she sways a dimpled childWinged 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 peepMidst curling mists of smoke, now blownInto a frame that doth enthroneA 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 flownWith 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 delightThat I had wished the merry nightInto eternity might swell.
* * * *
Terpsichore ne'er danced so well!Can all the Graces in thee dwell?My soul was raised to such a heightTo 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 artThou seemest strange to modern eyes,Yet in thy broad-backed cavern-heartThe softest music hidden lies.
Whene'er thy strings with gentle handI lightly sweep in deep-bassed chords,There comes a breath of foreign landsThat seems to sing soft Spanish words.
Was Caballero's passion deepE'er sung to thy rich-chorded bass?Didst ever break señora's sleepBy music 'neath her window-case?
Somewhere—sometime, a song was sungBy lover bold or maiden fair,So sweet, thou hid'st it deep amongThy 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.
L. C. STONE.Amherst Literary Monthly.
[Illustration: A BROWN GIRL.]
~Tantalizing.~
Her rosy cheeks are pressed to mine,Her gleaming hair lies on my shoulder,Her arms are clasped about my neck,And yet my arms do not enfold her.
Her throbbing heart beats loud and fast,Her wistful eyes are gently pleading.Her blushing lips are pursed to kiss,And yet my lips are all unheeding.
I coldly loose her clinging arms,And roughly from my side I shove her.It's amateur theatricals,And I must play the tyrant lover.
HENRY MORGAN STONE.Brunonian
~Phantasy.~
Her beaming eyes of deepest blueEnthralled all who to Yale were true.Her crimson lips, too, conquests made:Fair Harvard's sons their homage paid,And many a suitor came to wooPetite Elaine.
I begged a kiss awhile ago;The crimson lips, 'tis true, said "No,"But in her eyes turned up to meI read the answer differently—The crimson never had a show,Yale won again.
Yale Record.
~Rosebuds.~
She plucked a rosebud by the wallAnd placed it in his outstretched hands;It was love's token, that was all,And he rode off to foreign lands.
He kept the rosebud in his breast,And when the battle charge was led,They found him slain among the rest,The rosebud stained a deeper red.
But she, beside the wall that day,A rosebud gave to other hands;Nor thought of that one borne awayBy him who rode to foreign lands.
Bowdoin Orient.
~Bashful Johnny.~
Young bashful Johnny loved sweet May,And went to court her every day,But his tongue could never swearHe loved her true.It seems to me, had I been there,I'd vowed my love—now wouldn't you?
Sweet May would sit by Johnny's sideAnd all her thoughts to him confide,Yet take her hand he'd never dare—So near his, too.It seems to me, had I been there,I'd clasped it tight—now wouldn't you?
And May's red lips seemed to inviteSweet kisses, but so bold a flightHe thought—yet wondered if she'd care—Would never do.It seems to me, had I been there,I would have kissed her—now wouldn't you?
GEORGE G. GILLETTE.Williams Literary Monthly.
~Cupid's Blunder.~
Poor Cupid froze his wings one day,When winds were cold and skies were gray,And clouds with snow were laden.A little maid was passing by;She caught the rogue,—he could not fly,—O naughty little maiden!
She sent him off with sharpen'd dart,To steal for her a certain heart;But, oh, the mishap stupid!Since Cupid's blind, and cannot see.He went astray, and came to me.O naughty little Cupid!
So that is why my heart is gone,And I am dreary and forlorn,With tears my eyes are laden.She does not want my heart—ah, no!I did not wish to have it go;O Cupid, and O maiden!
GERTRUDE JONES.Wellesley Magazine.
~As Toll.~
Lovely Mabel, were you dreaming?Glad the day you said to me,Dancing eyes so brightly beaming,"Give my love to dear Marie!"What a strange exhilarationTo be bearer of your heart,What a wonderful temptationFor a part.
For I have not tried to find herSince you sent your love by me;Day by day I think I'm blinder,—Fruitless search, as you might see.I wonder, if in sending,If you choose your slave by chance,What that twinkle was portendingIn your glance?
Tell me, when I bear the treasure,Would you very angry beShould I keep a trifling measureThat was hardly meant for me?
For it's common in commissionsSome percentage of the wholeTo extract from you patricians.Just for toll.
JOHN BARKER.Williams Literary Monthly.
~Chansonette.~
Dimpled cheeks and scarlet lips,Pink and dainty finger-tips,Glowing blushes, fragrant sighs,Looks dove-sweet from starry eyes,These do show this saying true—Maidens all were meant to woo!
Guerdon dear shall be his meedWho will be Love's thrall in deed:Strollings 'neath a mellow moon,Whispers soft as rain in June,Kisses, maybe, one or two—Maidens all were meant to woo!
WILL L. GRAVES.Makio.
~Triolet.~
He kissed me 'neath the mistletoe!Of course I said it wasn't fairTo take advantage of me so,And kiss me 'neath the mistletoe,—But then, 'twas only Jack, you know,And so I really didn't care!He kissed me 'neath the mistletoe,Although I said ft wasn't fair!
GERTRUDE CRAVEN.Smith College Monthly.
~Song.~
The April sun smiles bright above,The skies are deep and blue,I walk among the growing fieldsAnd dream, sweetheart, of you.And as I go, from out the woodA mocking-bird calls clear,"Sweetheart, sweetheart," and I turn,Half hoping thou art here.
Alas! the sunlight floods the earth,Yet all is dark to me;The flowers may gaily bud and bloom,The earth be fair to see;And "sweetheart, sweetheart," evermoreThe mocking-bird may sing,But in a fairer land thine eyesAre opening to the spring.
R.L. EATON.Morningside.
~The Effigy.~
And so she smiles!—Nor frown nor poutThat look divine can put to rout.
I would, my love, thou wert halfSo constant as thy photograph!
P.P.S.Parthenon.
~Sotto Voce.~
Sing we of the summer,Of the old, old days,Of the reed songs and the murmurOf the waterways.Let thy song be merry, ever mine be sad;Let thy sigh be airy, even ofttimes glad;For then comes a sadness I cannot explain,Like the deep-plunged echo of a sea's refrain;And it dooms the sweetnessOf her winsome waysTo the dead completenessOf the old, old days.
Sing, Oh! then with joyance,Thou, my mandolin;Drown each dread annoyanceDeep, thy soul within;Whisper ever lowly of her glad, true eyes;Sing her name, love, slowly, thou can'st sympathize;Teach my heart, my wilful heart, the faith of peace,Promising her constancy with time's increase.Bar, Oh! break the sadnessOf the doubter's sin;Sing eternal gladness,Thou, my mandolin.
HAROLD MARTIN BOWMAN.Inlander.
~On Tying Daphne's Shoe.~
Tying her shoe, I knelt at Daphne's feet;My fumbling fingers found such service sweet,And lingered o'er the task till, when I rose,Cupid had bound me captive in her bows.
J. STUART BRYAN.Virginia University Magazine.
~Chappie's Lament.~
I walked one day with PhyllithOvah in Bothton town,I in me long Pwinth Albert,She in a new Worth gown,
I talked that day with Phyllith,Ovah in Bothton town,Of things intenth and thoulful,Begged her me love to cwown.
I pawted that day fwom PhyllithOvah in Bothton town;She'd be a bwothah to me, she said,But wouldn't be Mitheth Bwown.
FERRIS GREENSLET.Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
~Marigold.~
I love confinement in thy bonds,I love thy little stock to hold,Thy very scent,Aye, marigold!
I'll love confinement of thy bonds,I'll love thy little stocks to hold,Thy every cent,Imarry gold!
HENRY SAFFORD CANDEE.Trinity Tablet.
~An Idyl of the Strap.~
She spoke to me, her voice was lowAnd sweet,With hidden thought I could not knowReplete.She cast on me a lingering lookThat all my inmost being shook,And, as our glances mixed, she tookMy seat.
Red and Blue.
~The Jim-Jam King of the Jou-Jous.~
Translated from the Arabic.
Far off in the waste of desert sand,The Jim-jam rules in the Jou-jou land:He sits on a throne of red-hot rocks,And moccasin snakes are his curling locks;And the Jou-jous have the conniption fitsIn the far-off land where the Jim-jam sits—If things are nowadays as things were then.Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!
The country's so dry in Jou-jou landYou could wet it down with Sahara sand,And over its boundaries the airIs hotter than 'tis—no matter where:A camel drops down completely tannedWhen he crosses the line into Jou-jou land—If things are nowadays as things were then.Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!
A traveller once got stuck in the sandOn the fiery edge of Jou-jou land;The Jou-jous they confiscated him,And the Jim-jam tore him limb from limb;But, dying, he said: "If eaten I am,I'll disagree with this Dam-jim-jam!He'll think his stomach's a Hoodoo's den!"Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!
Then the Jim-jam felt so bad inside,It just about humbled his royal pride.He decided to physic himself with sand,And throw up his job in the Jou-jou land.He descended his throne of red-hot rocks,And hired a barber to cut his locks:The barber died of the got-'em-again,Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!
And now let every good MussulmanGet all the good from this tale he can.If you wander off on a Jamboree,Across the stretch of the desert sea,Look out that right at the height of your boozeYou don't get caught by the Jou-jou-jous!You may, for the Jim-jam's at it again.Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!
ALARIC BERTRAND START.Tuftonian.
~Love up to Date.~
I know she loves me, though with scornShe treats my adoration;I know she loves me, though my suitShe checks with strong negation.
And this I know, with proof as sureAs though her lips had said it:Her heart I have before my eyes,And there I've plainly read it.
For cathode rays have stolen throughThis maiden so deceiving;And thus her heart I've photographed,And seeing is believing.
S. L. HOWARD.The Tech.
~Miss Milly O'Naire.~
She is not young and fair,Nor has she golden hair,Nor a dimple in each cheek,If that is what you seek;Hers is a gift more rare,Miss Milly O'Naire.
She has not laughing eyes,Blue as the summer skies,Nor lips of cherry red,On kisses to be fed;No, it's not for these I care,Miss Milly O'Naire.
She is not wondrous wise,Seeks not for learning's prize.'Tis true she knows no Greek,And her English grammar's weak,But why should I despair,Miss Milly O'Naire.
So woo and win her I will,For there's my tailor's bill,And creditors by the score;But they'll trouble me no more,For she has a million to spare,Miss Millionaire.
WILLARD GROSVENOR BLEYER.The Badger.
~A Shy Little Maid.~
A love-lorn lad wooed a coy maid once,All of a summer's day he plead;Oft he spoke of the bonds of love—the dunce!And she shyly shook her head.
When from his heart hope had almost fled,He spoke of bonds he had in town.Still the shy little maiden shook her head—But she shook itup and down.
Trinity Tablet.
~My Mistake.~
I met her on a Pullman car,In section number nine;Each eye shone like a morning star,With radiance divine.So when I placed my bags and trapsIn section number ten,She looked so tempting 'mid her wrapsI sought her face again.
She glanced at me with roguish pose,Yet innocent of guile,Then colored like a blushing rose,And tried to hide a smile;The sweet confusion but enhancedHer dainty tint of pink,And quite by accident she chancedThe nearest eye to wink.
When she refused my proffered cardWith scorn and proud disdain,I tried my best, and pleaded hardMy error to explain.She listened to my mumblings crude,Then tossed her nose on high;"I think," she said, "you'd wink, if you'dA cinder in your eye."
E. P. G.The Tech.
~Sic Semper.~
I sent her a spoon,She is married to-day;The wedding's at noon.I sent her a spoon—And she loved me in June!But that's always their way.I sent her a spoon,She is married to-day.
WILL L. GRAVES.Makio.
~A Modern Instance.~
Her little hand in his he took,All hot and quivering it was;And noted how her eyes did lookBright as a lucent sapphire does.
Within her dainty little wristHer pulse throbbed quick, as if her heartBeat love's glad summons to be kissed,Heart's first reveille since life's start,
Her oval cheeks were flushed with rose;Her red lips parted for such breathAs hot from tropic spice lands blows;Enough 'twas to have warmed old Death!
He gazed at her; he spoke—and sheStuck out at him a small tongue's tip:The family doctor old was he,And she—he said she hadla grippe.
Red and Blue.
~The Echo from the 17th.~
Who builds de railroads and canals,But furriners?Who helps across de street de gals,But furriners?
Who in de caucus has der say,Who does de votin' 'lection day,And who discovered U.S.A.,But furriners?
FRANK TOURTELLOT EASTON.Brunonian.
~Ballade of Laura's Fan.~
It was never imported from FranceWith a dainty Parisian frou-frou,Nor upon it do bull-fighters prance,As only the Spaniards can do.It was stencilled by no one knows who,YetI'dgive all my coupons and rentsFor that one precious keepsake from you—The fan that cost $0.63.
On the staircase we sat out a dance,Or twenty, for all that I knew;At times on the bliss of my tranceThe breath of the roses stole through.But redder than rose-petals grewYour cheeks, at my swift compliments;So the softest of breezes it blew—The fan that cost $0.63.
It all seemed like a fairy romance,Below us the laughter and mu-Sic, while now and again, such a glanceAs is given on earth but to fewFrom the depths of your eyes, fond and true,Set me dreaming of all their contents,Till I woke,—something hid them, from view,—The fan that cost $0.63!
My queen, for your favor I sue;If your heart through my pleading relents,To your feelings pray send me one clue—The fan that cost $0.63.
Harvard Lampoon.
~Apparent.~
When I questioned young Smithson, a short time ago,Why no longer he courted Miss B.,He looked at me strangely, and smiled just a bit—"The reason's a parent!" cried he.
ALBERT ELLSWORTH THOMAS.Brunonian.
~The Call of Duty.~
At early morn, a valiant knight,On prancing charger, richly dight,With helm and lance and armor bright,Rose from his lordly halls:"Now, in this region, round about,There dwell three outlaws, strong and stout:If luck be mine, I'll find them out!For duty calls."
Friday, at three, another knight(Knowing that ladies all delightIn music), shod with patents bright,Steers clear of Music Halls:"In Boston's Back Bay, round about,There dwell three matrons, plain and stout:If luck be mine, I'll find them out—For 'duty calls.'"
R. C. ROBBINS.Harvard Lampoon.
~A Paradox.~
'Tis a curious fact, but a fact very old;You can keep a fire hot by keeping it coaled.
HERBERT ERNEST DAY.Brunonian.
~St. Valentine's Eve.~
"I will write little Ethel some verses,The love that I bear her to tell;I've no money for tokens more costly,I'm sure these will do quite as well.
"How pleased she will be when she gets them!What a sweet little note I'll receiveIn acknowledgment of the versesI sent her St. Valentine's eve."
"What a miserable jumble of phrases!What chaotic verse do I see!I wonder what could have possessed himTo send these effusions to me!
"Never mind, though, I'm sure they'll be useful,And I think I know just about where."So she took them, and twisted, and placed themIn the newly made curls of her hair.
E.W. BURLINGAME.Yale Record.
~Evidence.~
Of all the lines that volumes fill,Since Aesop first his fables told,The wisest is the proverb old,That every Jack must have his Jill.
But when the crowd that nightly fillsThe down-town places, hillward goes,To hear them sing, one would supposeThat every Jack had several gills.
B.O.H.Cornell Magazine.
~The Widow's Mite.~
She was a widow stern and spry,And brimming with lots of fight;She married a little man five feet high,And he died from the widow's might.
Columbia Spectator.
~Lines to Her.~
There are other fellows nearer,—And some of them are dearer,—Of those sad thoughts my heart hasnotadoubt.
But I want to get in lineWith my little Valentine,So's not to let those fellowscutmeout.
CHARLES FLOYD McCLURE.Wisconsin Aegis.
~A Sensible Serenade.~
I sing beneath your lattice, love,A serenade in praise of you;The moon is getting rather high,My voice is, too, my voice is, too.
The lakelet in deep shadow lies,Where frogs make much hullabaloo,I think they sing a trifle hoarse,And I do, too, and I do, too.
The blossoms on the pumpkin vineAre weeping diamond tears of dew;'Tis warm, the flowers are wilting fast,My linen, too, my linen, too.
All motionless the cedars stand,With silent moonbeams glancing through,The very air is drowsy, love,And I am, too, and I am, too.
Oh, could I soar on loving wings,And at your window gently woo!But then your lattice you would bolt,So I'll bolt, too, so I'll bolt, too.
L.M.L.Columbia Spectator.
~Love's Secret.~
Well I know she is not handsome,She can neither sing nor dance,But I strangely am attractedBy each careless nod and glanceOf my Madeline.
Quite a philanthropic feelingIs my love, so true and rare,For she's burdened with great riches;In which burden I would shareWith my Madeline.
From such heavy care to shield her,Each and every purpose tends.I will help to clip the coupons,And I'll draw the dividendsOf my Madeline.
ROBERT PECK BATES.Trinity Tablet.
~Pity 'tis, 'tis True.~
I sat me down at leisure;The ready waiter flew,My order took suavely,And shouted, "Oyster stew!"
The steaming dish was waiting,The ready waiter flew,Then, rose I up in anger,And left,—'twas "oysters two!"
HERBERT WELCH.Wesleyan Argus.
~Broken Chains.~
He was tired of being shackled;She was faithless, that was plain;So his lawyer filed the papers,And the papers filed his chain.
EUGENE A. COX.Vanderbilt Observer.
~Gory Gambols.~
I love my adversary's leg to kick,To frisk upon his features with my feet,Or bunt him in the stomach till he's sick—All this is sweet.
I smile to hear his collar bone collapse,Accompanied by his expiring screech;To crack his ribs is happiness, perhaps,Beyond all reach.
I laugh aloud when, in the scrimmage wild,I smash the thigh bone of some lusty boy,And see him borne off, helpless as a child—That, that is joy.
My sturdy heel into his spine I jam,To beat his mouth until he pouts at fate,To punch him sternly in the diaphragmIs rapture great.
Than to perceive his manly blood run redNo greater joy can unto me be given;But at one kick to kick him down stone-dead—That, that is heaven,
Lehigh Burr.
~The Man without a Country.~
The "man without a country" was in such a sorry plight,There wasn't any place on land where he might pass the night,But if you'd like to see a man as badly off as he,Who hasn't any place at all to stay on land or sea,Who has no spot he may enjoy to any great extent,Just wait until you see some time the man without a cent.
H.F.H.Amherst Literary Monthly.
~She Shook Her Head.~
"May I kiss you, dear," a youth once cried,Although scarce hoping what he said;But the maiden turned away her eyesAnd slowly, sadly, shook her head.
"But would you mind," he still went on,"Now would you really care," he said,"If I should kiss you?" and againShe turned aside—and shook her head.
J.P. SAWYER.Yale Record.
~Priscilla.~
Priscilla in the garret loft
Of rare old silks and velvets softA heap espying,—Forgotten hues of a by-gone day!—The little maid in deft arrayCarefully folds and lays awayWith envious sighing.
Did they some rustic beauty grace,A comely form and winsome face.With footsteps flying?Or does she sigh because a brideThey once adorned; now cast aside,Left in the garret there to hide,The dust defying?
Perchance her great-grandmother woreThem hundred years ago and more—Priscilla's crying!"Come little maid, why this despair?What makes those big tears standing there?""Ah, sir! because they will not bearAnother dyeing."
Yale Record.
~Hard to Beat.~
Last night I held a little handSo dainty and so neat,Methought my heart would burst with joy,So wildly did it beat.No other hand into my soulCould greater solace bring,Than that I held last night, which wasFour aces and a king.
WILLIAM A. THOMPSON.Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
[Illustration: "THAT SWEET GIRL GRADUATE."]
~That Sweet Girl Graduate.~
So stately and so dignifiedShe looks in cap and gown,I hardly dare to speak to her,This grad. of great renown.
I scarcely can believe my eyes!It surely can't be sheWho always seemed so very shy,So very coy to me!
But suddenly the spell departs,And I give thanks to Fate;For anxiously she asks me ifHer mortar-board's on straight.
Harvard Lampoon.
~Faint Heart.~
My lady fairHer golden hairLets fall a-down her shoulder.I'd steal a tress,—She's no redress,—Were I a little bolder.
From her sweet lipA bee might sip,Sweeter than rose-leaf's savor.A kiss I'd take,—No cry she'd make,—Were I a little braver.
Her neat, trim waistJust suits my taste;Close in my arms I'd fold her,And clasp her tight,—She'd feel no fright,—Were I a little bolder.
She's waiting now'Till I find howTo ask of her a favor.She'll be my wife,—I'd stake my life,—When I'm a little braver.
HARLAN COLBY PEARSON.Dartmouth Literary Monthly.
~A Spring Lament.~
The spring is come; warm breezes blow;It doesn't make me happy, tho';—For seasons' changes only bringTo me the pain of orderingAnother suit. Style changes so!
This hat I'll hardly dare to showNear "Easter bonnets;" it's too low;I fear I must be purchasing;The spring is come.
I'm glad to have the winter go;I don't like ice, I don't like snow.Green fields, bright flowers, and birds to sing,Of course I like that sort of thing;But still—it makes me blue to knowThe spring is come.
LOUIS JONES MAGEE.Wesleyan Argus.
~A Street-Car Romance.~
I write to offer you my heart,O maiden, whom I do not know.Pray do not think me prematureIn making known my feelings so,For I have loved you steadfastly,O damsel of the unknown name,And all last night and half to-dayMy passion has been in a flame.
'Twas not your face, though that is fair,Nor yet your voice bewitched me so:(I heard you ask the motor-manHow long before the car would go.)I saw you on the car that wentFrom Harvard Square on Tuesday noon;I don't believe that you saw me,For you were reading theLampoon.
And this is why I write to you:To say that I am wholly thine,I love you, for that first-page joke,—The one you laughed at,—that was mine.
W. AMES.Harvard Lampoon.
~Applied Mathematics.~
"My daughter," and his voice was stern,"You must set this matter right;What time did the Sophomore leave,Who sent in his card last night?"
"His work was pressing, father dear,And his love for it was great;He took his leave and went awayBefore a quarter of eight."
Then a twinkle came to her bright blue eye,And her dimple deeper grew."'Tis surely no sin to tell him that,For a quarter of eight is two."
Lehigh Burr.
~The District Telegraph Boy.~
Hear the clatter of those feet;See him coming up the streetOn the trot!He is going to the Greens;No, he's going to the Dean's,Is he not?
See the uniform of blue,And the shiny letters, too,On his cap.I imagine he is quiteAn intelligent and brightLittle chap.
What a careless tune he hums,And how innocently comesHurrying.Ah, how little does he knowOf the happiness or woeHe can bring!
Now he brings a hopeless sigh.Now a sparkle to the eye,Now a tear.More of griefs, I think, than joys—Why! the fateful little boy'sComing here!
Goodness, how he pulls the bell!He has some bad news to tell,I'm afraid.Oh, I hope it's not for me!Alice, sign for it, and seeIf it's paid.
It is surely not from Will,For his morning smoke is stillIn the air.Has poor uncle breathed his last?Has his weary spirit passedFrom all care?
Then poor auntie is bereft,And that sunny home is leftFatherless.Or old cousin Ed and May'Ve gone and had another ba-By, I guess.
What if John has lost, poor man,Little Clementine or Nan,Or his wife!Oh, the hopefulness, the fears!Oh, the rapture! Oh, the tears!Of this life!
I don't like the thing a bit;I don't dare to open it;How I shake!Why, It's from that man of mine:"Will bring partner home to dine;Get a steak."
LOUIS JONES MAGEE.Wesleyan Argus.
~Relapse.~
I study Evolution,And hear the teacher tellHow we have all developedFrom an isolated cell;And in the examinationSome fellows make it plainTheir principles will bring themTo the starting-point again.
CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD.Sequoia.
~Yale, A.D. 2000.~
Far from the ball-room's crowded throngThese two had strolled apart,While he with fervor whispered ofHer image in his heart.
And that he might detain it thereForever from that day,Our Co-ed shyly gave to himA Yale lock long and gray.
Yale Record.
~In Maiden Meditation.~
"Were I a man," quoth Mistress Jane,"Ah, would I were!—I'd drink champagneAnd smoke—be dashing in my dress—And let my roving eyes expressA love I never entertain.
"With rose lips near, I'd not refrainFrom kissing. I would e'er maintainThat woman's 'No' is often 'Yes,'Were I a man.