Scarlette leaves & heapinge binne;
Cyder, ye cool Tankard in;
  Autumn’s come.  Righte jollylye
    Then I drinke to
      Dorothy.

When ye Northe Wynde sweeps ye snowe
& Icyclles hange all belowe,
  Then, for soothe, Olde Winter, he
    Letts me dance with
      Dorothy!

ARTHUR CHENEY TRAIN.
Harvard Advocate.

The Prof.’s Little Girl.

She comes to the Quad when her Ladyship pleases,
  And loiters at will in the sun and the shade;
As free from the burden of work as the breezes
  That play with the bamboo is this little maid. 
The tongues of the bells, as they beat out the morning,
  Like mad in their echoing cases may whirl
Till they weary of calling her,—­all their sharp warning
  Is lost on the ear of the prof’s little girl.

With a scarred-over heart that is old in the knowledge
  Of all the manoeuvres and snares of the Hall,
Grown wary of traps in its four years at college,
  And able at last to keep clear of them all,—­
Oh, what am I doing away from my classes
  With a little blue eye and a brown little curl? 
Ah me! fast again, and each precious hour passes
  In slavery sweet to the prof’s little girl.

She makes me a horse, and I mind her direction,
  Though it takes me o’er many a Faculty green;
I’m pledged to the cause of her pussy’s protection
  From ghouls of the Lab and the horrors they mean;
I pose as the sire of a draggled rag dolly
  Who owns the astonishing title of Pearl;—­
And I have forgotten that all this is folly,
  So potent the charm of the prof’s little girl!

  Yet, spite of each sacrifice made to impress her,
She smiles on my rival.  Oh, vengeance I’d gain! 
  But he wears the same name as my major professor,
And so in his graces I have to remain;
  And when she trots off with this juvenile lover,
Leaving me and the cat and the doll in a whirl,
  It’s pitiful truly for us to discover
The signs of her sex in the prof’s little girl.

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD.
Four-Leaved Clover.

Gertrude.

Fair Gertrude lives at Farmington,
Perhaps you’ve seen her there;
Her eyes delight in laughing light,
Let gods describe her hair;
Her figure—­well, grave Juno ne’er
Had half the supple grace
Of Gertrude fair of Farmington—­
Perhaps you know that place?

Beneath her lips there gleam two rows
Of greed-inspiring pearls;
Such rows of teeth the gods bequeath
To but their choicest girls. 
For other things at Farmington
I do not care a rap,
Although it is a lovely place—­
I’ve seen it (on the map).

I would the gods had given me
Some mild poetic skill;
In Gertrude’s praise I’d sing for days,
And volumes I could fill. 
Perhaps you think I love this maid—­
In sooth perhaps I do;
Well, If I did, I’d tell her—­
But, by Jove, I’d not tell you.