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, cherie,
  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!