Cap and Gown | Page 5

"yes," but fate answered "no:"?Some one listened and told it all,?And the horses might wait by the garden wall,?But none came to answer him, years ago.
So, standing, fresh as the rose on her breast,?Smiling down on me here below,?Never a care on her brow impressed,?Never the dream of a thought confessed?Of all the weariness and the woe,?Hearts would break were time not so slow.?Swept are life's chambers; comes the new guest.?Old love, or new love--which was the best??For this was her grandmother years ago.
Southern Collegian.
~The Convert.~
I wrote lots of trash about Cupid,?And the telling bewitchment of curls,?And that men were excessively stupid?To be madly devoted to girls.?I remarked that true love was unstable,?As compared with position or pelf,?'Till one day I met you, little Mabel,?And learned what it felt like, myself!
Don't read all the things I have written?When I knew that my heart was my own,?But since I confess I am smitten,?Read these little verses alone.?And sincerely I trust I'll be able?To convince you, you sly little elf,?To grant me your heart, little Mabel,?And learn what it feels like yourself!
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.?Columbia Literary Monthly.
~A Thief's Apology.~
I stole a kiss!--What could I do??Before the door we stood, we two,?About to say a plain good-by;?She seemed so innocent and shy,?But what she thought, I thought I knew.
Ah, swift the blissful moments flew,?And when at last I said adieu?(Perhaps you think me bold), but I--
I stole a kiss.
The tale is told; perhaps it's true,?Perhaps it was a deed to rue;?But when that look came in her eye?I thought she wished to have me try--?I don't know how 'twould been with you--
_I_ stole a kiss.
ROBERT PORTER ST. JOHN.?Amherst Literary Monthly.
~A Ballad of Dorothy.~
It's "Dorothy! Where's Dorothy?"?From morn to even fall,?There's not a lad on Cowslip Farm?Who joins not in the call.?It's Dolly here and Dolly there,?Where can the maiden be??No wench in all the countryside's?So fine as Dorothy.
With tucked-up gown and shining pail,?Before the day is bright,?Down dewy lanes she singing goes?Among the hawthorns white.?Perchance her roses need her care,?She tends them faithfully.?There's not a rose in all the world?As fresh and sweet as she!
With morning sunshine in her hair?A-churning Dolly stands:?Oh, happy chum, I envy it,?Held close between her hands;?And when the crescent moon hangs bright?Athwart the soft night sky,?Down shady paths we strolling go,?Just Dorothy and I.
As true of heart as sweet of face,?With gay and girlish air,?The painted belles of citydom?Are not a whit as fair.?Come Michaelmas the parish chimes?Will ring out merrily.?Who is the bride I lead to church??Why, who but Dorothy?
ARTHUR KETCHUM.?Williams Literary Monthly.
~A Cup and Saucer Episode.~
'Twas only coffee, yet we both drank deep,?I won't deny I felt intoxication;?For just to see those roguish moon-eyes peep?Over the cup, I plunged in dissipation.
She raised her cup, and I raised also mine;?She gave a look, as if "Now are you ready?"?Our eyes met o'er the rims--it seemed like wine,?So sweet, divine, bewitching, almost "heady."
So cup on cup! The salad, too, was good.?I had of that far more than my fair rations.?Yet served it merely as an interlude?Between the music of the cup flirtations.
And then to have her say 'twas all my fault!?I fairly blushed, and gazed down at my cup.?I noticed, though, she had not called the halt?Until the pot was empty, every sup.
BERT ROSS.?Harvard Advocate.
~Faint Heart Ne'er Won Fair Lady.~
"The burn runs swiftly, my dainty lass,?And its foam-wreathed stones are mossy,?An I carry ye ower to yonder shore?Ye will na think me saucy?"
"I thank ye, sir, but a Scottish lass?Recks not of a little wetting.?Will ye stand aside, sir? I can na bide, sir.?The sun o' the gloamin's setting."
"Yet stay, my pretty, the stepping-stones?Are a bridge o' my are hands' making.?An ye pay no toll I maun be so bold--?The sweeter a kiss for taking."
"Farewell, ye braw young Highlander.?Tho' first ye sought to mask it:?Unceevil 'tis to steal a kiss.?But muckle waur to ask it."
CHARLES POTTER HINE.?Yale Literary Magazine.
~A Foreign Tongue.~
When lovers talk, they talk a foreign tongue,?Their words are not like ours,?But full of meanings like the throb of flowers?Yet in the earth, unborn. I think the snow?Feels the mysterious passage and the flow?Of inarticulate streams that surge below.?And it is easy learning for the young;?When lovers talk, they talk a foreign tongue.
ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH.?Smith College Monthly.
~Ye Gold-Headed Cane.~
It stands in the corner yet, stately and tall,?With a top that once shone like the sun.?It whispers of muster-field, playhouse, and ball,?Of gallantries, courtship, and fun.?It is hardly the stick for the dude of to-day,?He would swear it was deucedly plain,?But the halos of memory crown its decay--?My grandfather's gold-headed cane.
It could tell how a face in a circling calash?Grew red as the poppies she wore,?When a dandy stepped up with a swagger and dash.?And escorted her home to her door.?How the beaux cried with jealousy, "Jove! what a