S.F.P.
Campus.

Ballade of Justification.

A jingle of bells and a crunch of snow,
  Skies that are clear as the month of May,
Winds that merrily, briskly blow,
  A pretty girl and a cozy sleigh,
  Eyes that are bright and laughter gay,
All that favors Dan Cupid’s art;
  I was but twenty.  What can you say
If I confess I lost my heart?

What if I answered in whispers low,
  Begged that she would not say me nay,
Asked if my love she did not know,
  What if I did?  Who blames me, pray? 
  Suppose she blushed.  ’Tis the proper way
For lovely maidens to play their part. 
  Does it seem too much for a blush to pay
If I confess I lost my heart?

What if I drove extremely slow,
  Was there not cause enough to stay? 
Such opportunities do not grow
  Right in one’s pathway every day;
  Cupid I dared not disobey,
If he saw fit to cast his dart;
  Is it a thing to cause dismay
If I confess I lost my heart?

ENVOY.

What if I kissed her?  Jealous they
  Who scoff at buyers in true love’s mart. 
Who can my sound good sense gainsay
  If I confess I lost my heart?

GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
Columbia Spectator.

Perdita.

’Twas only a tiny, withered rose,
  But it once belonged to Grace. 
The goody didn’t know that, I suppose—­
’Twas only a tiny, withered rose,
No longer sweet to the eye or nose,
  So she tossed it out from the Dresden vase.—­
’Twas only a tiny, withered rose,
  But it once belonged to Grace.

Harvard Advocate.

Strategy.

Some, Cupid kills with arrows,
Some, with traps;
But this spring the little rascal
Found, perhaps,
That he needed both to slay me;
So he laid a cunning snare
On the hillside, and he hid it
In a lot of maidenhair;
And I doubt not he is laughing
At the joke,
For he made his arrows out of
Poison-oak.

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD.
Sequoia.

Canoe Song.

Dip!  Dip!  Softly slip
Down the river shining wide,
Dim and far the dark banks are;
Life is love and naught beside. 
Onward, drifting with the tide.

Drip, drip, from paddle tip
Myriad ripples swirl and swoon;
Shiv’ring ’mid the ruddy stars,
Mirrored in the deep lagoon,
Faintly floats the mummied moon.

Soft, soft, high aloft,—­
Ever thus till time is done,—­
Worlds will die; may thou and I
Glide beneath a gentler sun,
Young as now and ever one.

E. FRERE CHAMPNEY.
Harvard Advocate.

A Rambling Rhyme of Dorothy.

When ye Crocuss shews his heade
  & ye Wyndes of Marche have flede,
Springe doth come, and happylye
  Then I thinke of
    Dorothy.

Haycockes fragrante in ye sun
Give me reste when taskes are done: 
  Summer’s here, & merrylye
    Then I dreame of
      Dorothy.