HENRY B. EDDY.
Harvard Advocate.

When Gladys Plays.

When Gladys plays in gladsome glee,
  All men and gods might wish to see. 
With flushing cheek and flashing eye
  She strokes the ball or lobs it high,
With cuts of great variety.

The ball hides in some blooming tree,
And sorely tries poor patient me;
  But I swear not, oh, no! not I,
    When Gladys plays.

When whist with all propriety,
As Foster, Hoyle, or Pole decree,
  We play together, although my
  Good ace she trumps, I merely sigh
And grant the points to the enemy,
  When Gladys plays.

FERRIS GREENSLET.
Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

At the Club.

When a pretty maiden passes
    By the window down the Street,
  Cards and billiards lose their sweet;
Conversation on old brasses
Languishes; up go the glasses: 
  “Nice complexion!” “Dainty feet!”
When a pretty maiden passes
  By the window down the street

Smith forgets the “toiling masses,”
  Robinson, the fall in wheat;
  All the club is indiscreet. 
Ah, the wisest men are asses
When a pretty maiden passes
  By the window down the street!

RICHARD HOVEY.
Dartmouth Lyrics.

Friends.

The wintry sky may be chill and drear,
  And the wind go sighing in mournful strain,
Or it may be the spring of the waking year,
  When flowers and birds return again. 
Be it March or May, it matters not,
  Snow or violets on the ground,
I know a little bewitching spot,
  Where it is fair the whole year round.

A low tea-table set out for two,
  A divan with cushions piled on high,
Dresden tea-cups of pink and blue,
  A fat little kettle simmering nigh,
In winter a fire that cracks and roars,
  In summer a window where breezes play. 
What if it hails or snows or pours,
  In that little spot it is always May.

A girl—­of course, you will say, when one
  Describes such a haven from life’s mad whirl. 
There must be a—­wait till my song is done. 
  This is such an entrancing girl! 
Cheeks as fresh as a summer rose,
  Eyes that change like the changing sea,
Lips where a smile first comes, then goes. 
  And, oh! but she makes delicious tea.

So we sit and talk while the kettle sings,
  And. life seems better at least to me,
The fleeting hours have golden wings,
  When in that little spot I’m drinking tea. 
Love?  Ah, no, we are far above
  Such folly.  Our time we can better spend. 
This world is brimming with loveless love,
  But ’tis rarely enough one finds a friend.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
Columbia Spectator.

Another Complaint Against Cupid.