_
~My Pipe is Out.~
My pipe is out; the hour is late,
And sitting lonely by the grate
Sweet thoughts that led their circling train
In puffs cerulean 'round my brain
Have flown, and left me to my fate.
No more the form of lovely Kate
Floats in the smoke-rings I create;
And this the cause of all my pain,
My pipe is out.
How can my pen the woes relate
That on these happy moments wait?
With eager eyes I look again
Within 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 true
To Yale--she said.
And as she spoke a dainty flush
Gave token of her pride;
He thought the crimson of her blush
Her 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 know
My blood is blue!"
_Yale Record._
~To an "Instructor."~
Treat not with such wanton disdain
The title of which you're possessor,
Nor sorrow, because you remain
Instructor instead of "Professor.
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