Cap and Gown | Page 7

beseechingly up,?Her lips just released from the kiss of her cup,?And Fred, I much fear,?From small sounds that I hear,?Is as bold as the rim of her cup,--and as near,--?And how can a bachelor be at his ease?With such sights and such sounds at our afternoon teas?
Shrewd maters watch Phyllis and Bessie and Fred,--?Each smile and each look and each toss of the head,--?And wonder and ponder and figure and scheme,?While fortune and fashion 'gainst love tip the beam.?For Bessie's dark locks?And Phyllis's smart frocks?Are but snares to entrap the society fox.?Pray, how can a bachelor be at his ease?With such artful devices at afternoon teas?
JOHN CLINTON ANTHONY.?Brown Magazine.
~O Mores!~
Cupid's bow is lying broken,?Fallen on the ground,?And his arrows all with blunted?Points are strewn around.?For to reach our modern hearts?Powerless are the blind god's darts,?From his rosy shoulders stripped;?Since, to pierce the breasts so cold,?Shafts must always be of gold,?Arrows must be diamond-tipped.
ALBERT ELLSWORTH THOMAS.?Brunonian.
~Which?~
Blonde or brunette? Shall Ethel fair,?My winter girl, with golden hair,?Or Maud, whose dark brown eyes bewitch,--?My summer girl,--now govern??Which?
Shall cold Bostonianism rule??Shall Love teach Browning in his school??Or shall coy glances, passion-rich,?Compel my fond allegiance??Which?
And yet the solving's really clear.?For winter's gone and summer's here.?I want no statue in a niche,?So Cupid says, "Let Maud be?'Which!'"
W.C. NICHOLS.?Harvard Lampoon.
~Then and Now.~
When first we met she was three feet high,?And three, I think, was her age as well,?A touch of the heaven was in her eye;?I cannot say she was very shy,?(As you'll see by her actions by and by),?But the way I behaved I blush to tell.
We met at a party, on the stair;?She was decked in ribbons and silk galore,?She smiled with a most bewitching air,?And then, I'm afraid, I pulled her hair.?You know you can't expect savoir-faire?Of a cavalier of the age of four!
She only laughed with her subtle charm,?And took it more sweetly than you'd have believed,?But later she really took alarm--?When she wanted to kiss me I pinched her arm,?And she ran away to escape from harm;?At which, no doubt, I was much relieved.
She did not offer to kiss again;?I saw her go off with another beau.?She pretended to hold up her ten-inch train,?And whispered low to her new-found swain.?I was eating ice-cream with might and main,--?And that was some seventeen years ago.
I see her to-night on the winding stair,?She replies with a smile to my sober bow;?The palms lean lovingly toward her hair,?And her foot keeps time to a distant air.?I'm afraid she does not recall or care--?She does not offer to kiss me now!
Heigho! What a sad, what a sweet affair,?What a curious mixture life seems to be!?I am fast in the net of love, and there,?With another man on the winding stair,?Is the girl I love,--and I pulled her hair?When she wanted a kiss at the age of three!
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.?Columbia Spectator.
~A Toast.~
Clink, clink,?Fill up your glasses.?Drink, drink,?Drink to the lasses.?Eyes that are blue,?Lips that are sweet,?Hearts that are true,?Figures petite.?Clink, clink,?Fill up your glasses.?Drink, drink,?Drink to the lasses.?Drink, for there's nothing so sweet as a maid is;?Drink to the dearest of mortals, The Ladies.
HENRY MORGAN STONE.?Brunonian.
~A Bit of Lace.~
It lay upon a pillow white,?The framework of a beauteous sight?Wherein its mistress laid a bright?Ecstatic face,?And when each night it proudly bore?Her wavy wealth of "cheveux d'or"?It seemed a very Heaven for?The bit of lace.
But lace can from a pillow part?And by a touch, of cunning art?Adorn the casket of the heart,?Where every grace,?Half hidden by its witching fold,?Seeks to betray a charm untold--?How envies each admirer bold?The bit of lace!
Still maidens' mind and garments change,?And so there comes a new exchange;?The real Valenciennes finds a strange?New resting-place,?Where tiny feet and ankles hide,?And where but for a shoe untied?No human eye had e'er espied?The bit of lace.
A crowded street, a sudden scare,?A little rush, a lengthy tear,?A snowy skirt that needs repair,?Decides the case.?And what each morn her footman missed?Hung from a dainty, dimpled wrist,?And ardent lovers fondly kissed?The bit of lace.

This tale is incomplete, I know,?But where else could the traveller go??Ah, it was fifty years ago?All this took place.?And nodding, in her noonday nap,?Secure from every sad mishap,?I see in Grandma's dainty cap?The bit of lace.
Red and Blue.
~A Song to Her.~
A song to a maid with eyes like stars;?Lad, you can sing it.?Any old tune to trip the bars,?Any old voice to ring it;?Love will wend it away to her;?Love will mend it and pray to her;?Love with his love will wing it.
A song to a maid, a song of songs?Born in the singing?Ever, oh! ever to love belongs;?Ringing, ringing, ringing!?Holly berry, a winter theme,?Bursting cherry, a summer's dream,?Love on love's pinions winging.
Wrinkle.
~Circe.~
Merry smiles and entrancing eyes,?Words that are light as passing air.?Lips that never disown disguise,?Hearts that endeavor hearts to snare,?Tongues that know not the way