"Yet while I muse, it seems quite plainThat as I am I can't complain,For Tom and Jack—they both confess—Adore me. So I rather guessI'd wish I were a girl again,Were I a man!"
W.C. NICHOLS.Harvard Lampoon.
~"Three's a Crowd."~
Crisp and hard lay the snow beneath,The frosty air made young blood tingle.As we glided over the polished roadTo the sleigh-bells' merriest jingle.
We were warmly wrapped to our chins in rugs,Fur-proof against winter's biting weather,There was room in the sleigh for only two,But—three of us sleighed together.
The moon from the clear, cold sky aboveFlooded the snow with a golden glory,And I whispered—for how could I refrain?—The old, old, world-famous story.
Must have seemed quite a crowd, you say,With three in the sleigh? Well youarestupid!Three's a pleastanter company far, than two,When the person who crowds you is Cupid!
Vassar Miscellany.
~On Bills.~
At the first of the month I grow morbid and sad;As I gaze on that pile I believeIn the saying that never was potent before—"'Tis more blessed to give than receive."
Lehigh Burr.
~A Senior's Plea.~
"Dear Father: Once you said, 'My son,To manhood you have grown;Make others trust you, trust yourself,And learn to stand alone!'
"Now, father, soon I graduate,And those who long have shownHow well they trust me, want their pay,And I can stand a loan."
JOHN CURTIS UNDERWOOD.Trinity Tablet.
~After the Game.~
They played at cards on the yellow sand.When the fields and the trees were green,She thought that the trump was in her hand,He thought that he held the queen.But winter has come, and they both have strayedAway from the throbbing wave—He finds 'twas only the deuce she played,She finds that he played the knave.
Columbia Spectator.
~Old Days.~
Sing a song of old days,Old days and true,True days and bold days,Deeds to dare and do.
Quarter-staff and bucklesTrip, turn and tread—Tapped upon the knuckles,Rapped upon the head.
Pouch and pocket-fillings,Knavery and worse—Oh, the crowns and shillingsIn the miser's purse!
Tumbled into limbo,Picking thro' the locks,Fast with arms akimbo,Stewing in the stocks.
Pretty maids a-laughing—Here's to rosy lips,Port and sherry quaffingWhile the pottle drips.
Quaffing port and sherry,Jolly roaring blades,Making gay and merryWith the giddy maids.
Red blood and revel,Murder, love, and fraud,—Dancing to the devil,Laughing to the Lord.
Bright gold and yellow,Meek maids and bold,Old wine and mellow—Wine and maids and gold.
Light life and long life,Brisk life and brave;Strong life and wrong life,Great to the grave.
Sing a song of old days,Sing them back again;Kill the canny, cold days,Let us live like men.
Harvard Advocate.
~A Reward of Merit.~
The father asked: "How have you doneIn mastering ancient lore?""I did so well," replied the son,"They gave me an encore;The Faculty like me and hold me so dear,They make me repeat my Freshman year."
Trinity Tablet.
~A Fin de Siecle Girl.~
She studies Henrik Ibsen "to cultivate her mind,"And reads Shakespeare and Browning through and through;Meanwhile she knits her brows—it is the only kindOf fancy work this modern maid can do.
Concordiensis.
~Her Reason.~
Once a learned Boston maidenWas besought for one sweet kiss;"Only one," he softly pleaded,But the maid's reply was this:
"I am quite surprised you ask it,When you know physicians sayThat for spreading dire contagionKissing is the surest way.
"Though I own that what you ask meWould be pure, unbounded bliss,Yet, from hygienic reasons,I cannot allow a kiss."
JAMES P. SAWYER.Yale Record.
~The Cruel Maid.~
One summer night, in twilight dim,A fellow wooed a maiden prim.Around her waist, with, some alarm,The naughty man had put his arm.
Her dimpled hand he stroked awhile,Then murmured low, with loving smile,"Could e'er so soft a thing be found,If all the world were searched around?"
With laughing eyes and flaming cheeks,The maid replied, "'Tis just two weeksSince I found out that you, my pet,Have something that is softer yet!"
"That I? I have? Oh, can it be?You darling, now Idolove thee!"Oh, Vanitas! No sooner said,She put her hand upon his head.
A. BRADLEY.Columbia Spectator.
~A Football Tragedy.~
She clung to him, the game was o'er.Content was in her soul;"Dear heart, I'm very happy nowThat you have come back whole."
With gentle hand he smoothed her curls,And tried to keep a laugh back;"My dear, your joy is premature,For I am onlyhalf-back."
University of Chicago Weekly.
~It Was.~
He seized her in the dark and kissed her,And for a moment bliss was his;"Oh, my! I thought it was my sister!"He cried. She laughed and said, "It is."
Yale Record.
~A Summer Campaign.~
I've travelled from the coast of MaineTo Jersey's balmy shore.Nor have my efforts been in vain,For maids I've won galore.
In mountain climbs I spent my breath,On lakes and rivers, too;I flirted here with coy Beth,And there with lovely Sue.
No tournament, no sail, nor hop,Without me was complete;Nor from love-making did I stop,Till all were at my feet.
The summer's gone upon the run,Maids utter sighs in billows;I've broken sixteen hearts and wonJust sixteen sofa pillows.
J. H. SCRANTON.Yale Record.
~From June to June.~
Two lovers 'mong the weedy brakeWere rowing—happy pair!They drifted far upon the lakeTo get the sun and air.
A year has fled. Again they float;But one is now the pair,And three are riding in the boat—They bring theirsonandheir.
NORMAN STAUNTON DIKE.Brunonian.
~At the North Avenue Fire.~
The boy stood in the burning block,Whence all but him had fled;He smashed the china on a rock,But saved the feather bed.
A.M. WHITE, JR.Harvard Lampoon.
~I Love my Love.~
Every one thinks some face fairerThan all others in the land,Thinks this one alone is perfect,Vows to her his heart and hand.
Then he sings in loudest praisesOf her wealth of golden hair,Of her lips like ripest cherries,She alone divinely fair.
But there's one that's quite forgotten,One whose charms they fail to see;Yet in my abject devotionFairest of the fair is she.
There's not one half so entrancingOr so makes my poor heart thrill—It is Martha Washington's pictureOn a bright one dollar bill.
J. P. SAWYER.Yale Record.
~The Diva.~
Gone are her bird-notes, thin she sings, and flat,Enough to craze Concone or Scarlatti.Where once she made our hearts go pit-a-pat,To-day, alas, they only pity Patti.
S.F. BATCHELDER.Harvard Lampoon.
Mathematical.
In Vassar's halls a tutor young,'Tis said, once met his fate;He taught her in the CalculusTo differentiate.
They're married now—at meal-times oftDiscord invades their state;For he has found that she with himWould 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 streetHe outdid a Turkish Pasha, who stood treat;He gave Shanghai girls the jumps,And their cheeks stuck out like mumpsAt 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 paddedLucile.
F.Harvard Lampoon.
~On the Weather.~
The sultry stillness of a summer's dayOppresses every sense. The droning beesAlone the silence break, and restless playThe 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 foreverWith 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 forgivenIf 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 wayShe looked out to the west, and said:"Itisa 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 slateConcealed 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 causesdolor cordis.So, if you'd like, for this disease,A remedy specific,Prepare an antitoxine, please,By methods scientific.Inoculate another heartWith 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 calibreIs 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 yetWas 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 smileShe sent so bold;At last she laughed, then after whileShe cooed aloud in friendly style,"I'mfree 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 einebloomer."
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.~
"Areyoua 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 studyingme!Now,whathave I said that is funny?And oh,willyou 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 aresimplyinane;The verses and jokes—they would softenAn average Vassar girl's brain.Of course they are killingly comic;I laugh, but I feel like aloon!"And thus, with a fierceness atomic,She censures the HARVARD LAMPOON.
"But then they arebright, I don't doubt them,Andveryartistic,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 rowsOf ribbon, tied with charming bows.The crown is wreathed in dainty green,And from their leaves there peep betweenSome 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 seenHer leghorn hat.
I wonder why it droops and flowsAbout her face; howe'er she pose,It always serves her as a screen;I cannot guess, and yet I weenIt keeps the freckles from her nose,Her leghorn hat.
Yale Record.
~Equivocal.~
On the wealthy Larica's worn features I wroteIn rhyme some extravagant praise.The verses were spurned (and I'm in the same boat),For I called them "SomeLineson 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 outWhy I should mournful be,I'll tell you that I'm filled with doubtWhich 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 thepremière danseuseof 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 youIn 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 fieldsIn the hay-day of your youth."
J. J. MACK, JR.Harvard Lampoon.
~On Afric's Golden Sands.~
A wild and warlike Zulu chiefWas he;His costume was as brief as briefCould be.He vowed that he would woo and winA maid,But she skipped out and left him inThe shade.At first she liked him; this was howShe ceased—He simplywouldn'twear his trou-Sers creased.
University Herald.
~Two Simple Little Ostriches.~
Now we can talk. Thank goodness, that old boreWho took me out is talking business o'erWith some one else. The roses were so sweet,You reckless fellow. It's such fun to meetLike ordinary friends, while no one knowsOur 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 roughTo make me do it at all, while you sat backAnd 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 byI'll give you three. Well, four.Will Congress tryTo introduce new silver laws?Don't laugh!I wish they could do something in behalfOf 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.
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 AmericaA 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 snowSweeps hissing thro' the firs,She simply murmurs soft and low,"Bhjushkst zwmstk rstk pbjunsk pjbrs."
University Herald.
~Deception.~
Among her curls with wanton gleeThe 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 seeShe tries, and most coquettishly,To stop the breeze's merry raceAmong her curls.
But all in vain, for now one weeSmall lock escapes, and is still free.And as I peer beneath the laceI see, stowed snugly in its place,A tiny switch put secretlyAmong 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 'emIn 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 wiseWhere runs the road 'neath gentle skies—How should his canine heart surmiseThat where the red-roofed towers riseThe 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 metThe 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 meetThe Ladye of the Lab!
And she hath ta'en him with a stringTo where the linnets never sing,Where stiff and still is everything,And there a heart lies quiveringWhen 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 insistThat they by us—Against our wills—Be kissed—kissed—kissed.
But when those girlsAre 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 swingsOn the lawn, at twilight's glow;Oh, what bliss sweet memory bringsOf 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 brightAt the Junior Promenade,But all the glories of starlit nightWere bated before the splendid sightOf that merry throng—and my lady in white,At the Junior Promenade.
Oh, she was tall and wondrous fairAt 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 divineAt 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 sownAt 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 chaperoneAt the Junior Promenade.
CAREY CULBERTSON.Syllabus.
~El Dorado.~
'Twas a youthful would-be poet,Gazing with enraptured airThrough the starlight, when a comradeFound 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 nothingCrowded out for want of space!"
GRANT SHOWERMAN.Wisconsin Aegis.
~The Conversion.~
She told him surely 'twas not rightTo 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, andShe 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 thinkIt 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, andI stammered, "I—think—so."
She cast at me a pitying glance,Then in the house we went;The balance of that evening wasIn conversation spent.
* * * * *
Since then she's always been polite,And cordial, too, you know;But from that time I realizeI'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 withoutHe 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 cameFrom classic Cambridge down,And Eli's lovers of the gameForsook their leafy town,And met on neutral ground to claimThe 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 grandmammaAnd prehistoric grandpapaLooked just like you.
How any one could ever seeRelationship 'twixt you and meI 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 poorThat doesn't work both ways, I'm sureAs I can be,That ages hence, if earth endures,Some distant relative of yoursWill look like me.
HENRY RUTGERS CONGER.Williams Literary Monthly.
~Hymns Ancient And Modern.~
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 mouldTh' immortal gods have east her.
And I am proud her slave to be,And deem it high felicityTo die, if she should will it so.Ye fates! to-night propitious be,For I approach divinity:My life depends on "Yes" or "No."
Stunning girl,Out of sight.Guess I'll popTuesday 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 theseKept 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 theseA 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 batherStepped 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 lightThat 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 whatAmerican Beautiescost."
T.G.P.Cornell Era.
~A Kiss.~
"A kiss it is a poeme faire."—Old Song.
A kiss is not like the poems at allWhich 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 handWith deckle edge and shape unique;Margins four inches wide, at least,And straggling o'er the page a lineOr two (no more), of beautiful printIn type advertised as "our own design."You pay a price exorbitantThis cherished morsel to procure;You get a gem of the bookman's artAnd 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 togetherVaidly try to blow by dose.
J. P. WELSH.Harvard Lampoon.
~The Way of It.~
A little learning, scattered o'erA frolic of four years or more.Then—Presto, change!—and you createThe sober college graduate!
Yale Record.
~Comfort.~
With pipe and book, an old armchair,A glowing hearth, what need I careFor 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 flameWith 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 compareWith 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 growsDelightfully 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 eyesAway from a nobler sight!
The hills are red with the western sun,The twilight comes like a dream;But until the practice work is doneI 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 chapWhose 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 philosophyThat time does not exist,That 'tis but a film of fancy,A little mental mist.
And space—why, space is nothingMore than mere mode of thought,A sort of mental telescopeOur feeble minds have wrought.
Well, if that's true, Respected Sirs,I'll breakfast at my ease,And think myself in chapelJust 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 toA 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 meA subject for a daily theme."
C.H.Columbia Literary Monthly.
~"Give Me the Town."~
Give me the town; let others goWhere 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,Thehumantide 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.
[Illustration: A BRYN MAWR GIRL.]
~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 whyI 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 sighI 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 fewWho sing or play the mandolin.
I am not any social star,But then—within my certain knowledge,Like me, unknown to fame, there areSome fifteen hundred men in college.
S.M. WILLIAMS.Harvard Lampoon.
~When Witherspoon was President.~
Their manners had a formal castA century or more ago,Their bow was suited, as they passedTo 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 classedAt 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 showWhen Witherspoon was president.
But when the trumpet's warring blastHad 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 grateSweet thoughts that led their circling trainIn puffs cerulean 'round my brainHave flown, and left me to my fate.
No more the form of lovely KateFloats in the smoke-rings I create;And this the cause of all my pain,My pipe is out.
How can my pen the woes relateThat on these happy moments wait?With eager eyes I look againWithin 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 trueTo Yale—she said.
And as she spoke a dainty flushGave token of her pride;He thought the crimson of her blushHer 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 knowMy blood is blue!"
Yale Record.
~To an "Instructor."~
Treat not with such wanton disdainThe title of which you're possessor,Nor sorrow, because you remainInstructor instead of "Professor."
Content you should be to be knownAs one of enlightenment's ductors,Rememb'ring how oft we bemoanProfessors 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 roamComes from running on a steep side hill to drive the heifers home.
The funny tales he'll have to tell of cows that get astrayWill all be sure to help him in a purely social way;And all the strength that he's acquired from milking them each tripWill come in mighty handy when he tries to learn the grip.
For father will go barefoot, and mother dear will scrubThe 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 speedOf him who's late for chapel?
Trinity Tablet.
~A Senior Schedule.~
We're a-studying of LiteratureAs hard as e'er we can;We dote on RevolutionsAnd the Brotherhood of Man.
We're returning to the PeopleWith a truly Lyric Cry;And for Democratic SpiritWe'd lay us down and die.
We're a-reading of PhilosophyTo find out why we be,And a-learning that External WorldsLie wholly in the Me.
We don't believe in Matter,And of Mind we're not quite sure;We're inclined to think UncertaintiesMost likely to endure.
We're a-studying GeologyOf Pre-historic Times,Before the Tides of Primal SeaGot 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 PicturesMade by People what are dead;And we criticize CathedralsWith a Ruskin at our head.
We're a-growing awful learnèd,—There's lots more of the kind,—But we do not mind confessingThat 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 chargedsuccessively;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 onhim,His clothes were torn, his nose cap gone, and streaks of black and brownon 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 flagseffectively;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 wineSymbols a love-kiss softly given,And rising upward is a signThat 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 slimAnd 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 namedMy Valentine and kept the season thrice;The jolly saint himself is to be blamedIf 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 verseAnd 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 maidAt college with me, and in woodland waysAnd quiet music-rooms my court I paid.But, with, my Junior dignity, I choseMy 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 knowThat life means more than your light sentiment.And yet, this once, your day shall have from meSome of the old observance, though I scoff;My thesis waits,—my Valentine shall beThe old-maid sister of my major prof.
CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD.Sequoia.
~The Banjo Fiend.~
There is a fellow across the wayWho 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 dayOn 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 fellA 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 wrongTo 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 keepWithin our hearts and ever treasure there!"
Then, with one pang for wasted hours, I gaveAnother 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 attentionThat I have barely time to mentionThat I am well, and add that ILack 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 versesWith 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 sayBut I never can spell it.
S.W. CHAMBERLAIN.Vassar Miscellany.
[Illustration: "THE IDEAL CO-ED"]
~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 describeIs 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,