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.
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