Chapter 3

An airy little sprite In a billowy flood of lace, Which flutters in its flight In the galop's tripping grace. And, oh, the broken hearts Which follow the rapturous whirl! Oh, the Redfern gown, and the arts Of the annual summer girl!

EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER. _Dartmouth Literary Monthly._

~Love's Token.~

The frost and snow of mistletoe, The warmth of holly berry, These I combine, O lady mine, To make thy yule-tide merry. And shouldst thou learn, sweet, to return My love, nor deem it folly, Twined in thy hair the snow fruit wear, And on thy breast the holly.

ALICE R. TAGGART. _Vassar Miscellany_.

~A Passing Song.~

Ah, only love I have ever known, Ah, only love I shall ever know, The careless hours of youth have flown And the light-hearted past to the winds is thrown, And faster and faster the hours go.

To your heart and mine there's a secret lying While the spring's breath thrills in the air of May, While life seems ever to be defying The flight of time and the thought of dying, And the great world runs on its careless way.

Yet one dear thought in my heart is resting As I face the path I must tread ere long, When wearied with life's unending questing, Its tawdry joys and its idle jesting, I shall pass to the midst of the missing throng.

That here I have known your heart's dear thrilling, Your helping hand and your watchful eye, My life with your tender love fulfilling. I know but this, and am strangely willing To learn your love and in learning--die.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL. _Columbia Spectator_.

~Safe.~

When I picked up her glove I let Fate decide it. So great was my love, When I picked up her glove; 'Twas as soft as a dove _And her hand was inside it._ When I picked up her glove I let Fate decide it.

W. _Columbia Spectator._

~Her Winsome Smile.~

Her winsome smile! It beams on me From 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 see Her 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 well The sunset glories blent.

Oh, happy morn! The trysting oak Hung o'er the orchard gate. I waited for her in the shade--- I had quite long to wait, For with the coachman she eloped And left me to my fate.

_Yale Record._

~Phyllis's Slippers.~

Before the firelight's genial glow She sits, and dreams of waltzes sweet, Nor heeds the curious gleams that show Grandmamma's slippers on her feet.

Ah, happy slippers, thus to hold So rare a burden! It were meet That you should be of beaten gold To clasp so close such dainty feet.

H. A. RICHMOND. _The Tech_.

~Vindication.~

Pray, why do maidens ever stand beneath The 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 be To 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 sat To see her go? Did I believe when she insisted that She 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 a _yes, chérie_, And throw your arms around me: A lack of maiden modesty Would 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, But _don't_ confess 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 eye She 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 my Good ace she trumps, I merely sigh And grant the points to the enemy, When Gladys plays.

FERRIS GREENSLET. _Wesleyan Literary Monthly._

~At the Club.~

When a pretty maiden passes By the window down the Street, Cards and billiards lose their sweet; Conversation on old brasses Languishes; up go the glasses: "Nice complexion!" "Dainty feet!" When a pretty maiden passes By 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 asses When a pretty maiden passes By 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 one Describes such a haven from life's mad whirl. There must be a--wait till my song is done. This is _such_ an 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 above Such 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 found Dan 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 I Remembered him from days gone by, And, stepping up, I whispered this: "My boy, compound for me a kiss." His face grew thoughtful, then the rogue Lisped out: "Well, _this_ is most in vogue: An acorn-cup of sugar first, Sprinkle quite well with bubbles burst, Then add a pinch of down that lies All 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 mite Until I add the appetite." Whereat, ere I could turn to start, I saw--I _felt_ the flashing dart.

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. _Olla Podrida._

~Sub-Mistletoe.~

We two stood near The chandelier, With mistletoe upon it. A lovely girl, My head awhirl, Her wrap--I'll help her don it.

A button caught; I surely ought To 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 tress From 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 dare Try to escape her gentle snare. And, if I really must confess, I own I trust her lips far less Than her blue eyes beyond compare. She _sayeth_ "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 low Is 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 dreams Of some shadows on the wall Fifty years ago,--that's all?

ANNIE KNOWLTON PILLSBURY. _Mount Holyoke_.

~Bread and Wine.~

All day work in the shops, The weary tread Of 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 through Was of you, of you.

This I learned from the flowers, Dear heart, In the dewy morning hours Apart, And they sware it, too, That all their sweetness the summer through Was for you, for you.

This I learned from the leaves, Dear heart, On stilly, starry eves Apart, Though their words were few, That all their sighing the summer through Was for you, for you.

This I learned from the stars, Dear heart,-- From the Seven Sisters, and Mars, Apart In the boundless blue,-- That their light the lingering summer through Was 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 canoe On the dusky, silent stream, Dearest, see! The sunset-gleam Fires 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 maid For 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.~

HE:

Down in the glen By the trysting tree, Somebody's sister is waiting for me. Under the stars, In the dewy grass Waiting for me--the poor little lass!

And I sit alone In my cozy den, A much better place than that clammy glen, And I think of her tears As she waits in vain Till it seems almost cruel to give her such pain.

SHE:

Down in the glen By 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 faithful As 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 grace As daintily you roll your cigarette; You smoke it with a pretty puckered face That 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 night Beside the fire, that warm and bright Was mirrored in her hazel eyes; Methought a gleam from Paradise Outshone 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 delight We 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 holiday When 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 sought I 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 chair With gracious salutation, He vowed she was divinely fair And told his adoration.

But now, alas, poor Grandfather Would stand but sorry chances Of passionately telling her His bosom's sweetest fancies.

For since a wheel My Lady rides, The bravest, gayest courtier Would lose her, if he weren't besides A 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 upon A stony heart?

Ah, though her mirth and jollities She puts aside, The silent laughter of her eyes She 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 red And 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.~

(A-WAITIN' FER JINNIE.)

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 devout In this repentant season, And to the world and all its ways Has vowed a pious treason.

Sweet little saint, so shy, demure!-- Though long I've tried to win her I fear that I'm not in it with Some other lucky sinner.

For when I begged she'd trust her heart To 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 bedight With ruffles blue, and I, oh, luckless wight, Must send to her--she said, exchange is fair-- My college pin in gold. Her cushion's where With half-closed eyes I lie. Is't not aright I 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 delight Paid 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 glittering _beau 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 night When first he came and sat beside the little girl in white.

JULIET W. TOMPKINS. _Vassar Miscellany_.

~Mendicants.~

"Foot-sore, weary, o'er the hills To your friendly door I come. I'm a mother; in my breast I 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 bright Sits the mother crooning low; Ah! an arrow's silver gleam, Flashes of a golden bow! Soft she sways a dimpled child Winged 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 peep Midst curling mists of smoke, now blown Into a frame that doth enthrone A 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 flown With 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 delight That I had wished the merry night Into eternity might swell.

* * * *

Terpsichore ne'er danced so well! Can all the Graces in thee dwell? My soul was raised to such a height To 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 art Thou seemest strange to modern eyes, Yet in thy broad-backed cavern-heart The softest music hidden lies.

Whene'er thy strings with gentle hand I lightly sweep in deep-bassed chords, There comes a breath of foreign lands That seems to sing soft Spanish words.

Was Caballero's passion deep E'er sung to thy rich-chorded bass? Didst ever break señora's sleep By music 'neath her window-case?

Somewhere--sometime, a song was sung By lover bold or maiden fair, So sweet, thou hid'st it deep among Thy 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_.

~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 blue Enthralled 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 woo Petite Elaine.

I begged a kiss awhile ago; The crimson lips, 'tis true, said "No," But in her eyes turned up to me I read the answer differently-- The crimson never had a show, Yale won again.

_Yale Record._

~Rosebuds.~

She plucked a rosebud by the wall And 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 away By him who rode to foreign lands.

_Bowdoin Orient._

~Bashful Johnny.~